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.

Mihaela Nita

Fiona Sampson
 

La Prada

Piuitul acela este al soimului –
cant in bataia vantului,
strigatul sau

de o tonalitate perfecta,
dulce si ascutita,

drept
prin dupa-amiaza albastra –
asa cum somonul,
racorindu-se,
             se lasa in voia
stransorii iuti a
apei,

scufundare pe deplin aleasa
si totusi fara nazuinta,

ca si cand a trai ar fi la fel de simplu
precum privirea aceasta pironita –
             nu o planare ferma
ci un plonjon –

ochi si aripa
un singur muschi
ce razbate aerul

pana ce ambele sunt insfacate
la prada:

soldanul tipa
in prinsoarea
            ghearelor –
o creatura ce se zbate
spre lumina.