Menu

Poetry

We have nothing, dear Lord.

Nothing has come to us,

Just this spare winter light.

Can we see our faces

There—still-wet, blurred-white

Pigment, as if, risen

From this our earth-prison,

Awaiting judgment’s word?

From the millstones of heaven

Snow-silence spills and spills.

Why must the shallow cup

Of this vale become so full?

 

Translated from the Russian by Philip Metres

All translated work in this issue is supported by a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts.


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

Access one piece of artwork every month for free! To experience the full archive, log in or subscribe.

Related Poetry

shot of the interior of a craggy cave, lit up with red and orange light.

Harrow

By

Geri Doran

The Visitation

By

Roger Williams

Forgiveness IV

By

Karen An-Hwei Lee

Apologia

By

Jill Alexander Essbaum

Pin It on Pinterest