FIONA SAMPSON

The Rapture

That pew pew’s a buzzard –
rags in wind,
its call throws down a line

of perfect pitch,
sweet and sharp,

plumb
through blue afternoon –
the way a salmon,
cooling itself,
               surrenders
to the rapid brace and flux
of water,

immersion wholly chosen
yet without desire,

as if to live were something straight
as this gaze –
                not hard hover
but dive –

eye and wing
one single muscle
beating through air

till both are snatched-up
in rapture:

leveret screaming
in the cup
             of claws –

a creature struggling
towards the light.

Ioana Amalia Nita

Fiona Sampson
 

Incantarea

Tipatul e cel al unui uliu -
zdrente in vant ,
strigatul lui atinge inaltimea
unei note perfecte,
dulce si acuta,
de plumb
in dupa-amiaza mohorata –
asa cum somonul,
racorindu-se,
             se lasa prada
in stransoarea suvoiului
de apa,
scufundare aleasa intru totul
si totusi fara dorinta,
de parca viata ar fi ceva precis
ca aceasta privire fixa –
            nu o planare brusca
ci scufundare –
ochi si aripa
un singur muschi
pana ce ambii sunt cuprinsi
de incantare:
un iepure tipand
in cusca
          ghearelor –
o creatura luptandu-se
catre lumina.