1. Inspiration

It happens like this: a kind of lethargy,
In my ears the sound of a clock chiming,
Thunder fading in the distance.
Trapped, unrecognizable voices
Wail and cry out to me: the closing in 
Of some mysterious circle. 
But from this abyss of whispers and bells 
rises a single all-conquering sound,
Despite the forest’s surrounding
silence—hear grass growing,
Hear the wood troll walking with his sack. 
And listen! The sound of words,
Rhymes signaling their arrival,
And I begin to understand:
Lines simply taken down
Appear on pages white as snow.

2. 

I have no use for battlefield odes,
And the charms of an intricate elegy.
For me a poem must be impromptu—
Not a matter of tradition.

If you only knew what kind of trash
Poems shamelessly grow in:
Like weeds under the fence,
Like crabgrass, dandelions,

An angry shout, the smell of fresh tar,
Mysterious mildew on the wall—
And a poem begins sounding fervent, tender,
Making us all joyful.

3. The Muse

How can I live with this burden—
And yet she’s called The Muse.
“She’s with you in a meadow …,” they say.

They say, “Divine muttering!”
She’ll seize you worse than a fever
And then, for an entire year, nothing at all.

4. The Poet

You call this work, this breezy life:
Overhearing something
In music, then passing it off
Half-seriously as your own. 

Casting someone’s merry scherzo
Into lines of some sort,
Swearing it’s your own poor heart
That aches in a bright meadow.

Then eavesdropping on the woods,
On the seemingly mute pine,
While everywhere fog stands
Like a smoke screen.

I take right and left
Without the least pang of guilt:
A little from mischievous life,
All from night’s silence.