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 Teodorescu

Fiona Sampson
 

Extazul

Piu-piul vine de la un sorecar –
zdrente in vant,
cirpit ce descrie un fir
perfect inclinat,

dulce si ascutit
drept
prin dupa-amiaza albastra -
asa cum un somon,
racorindu-se
              se lasa prada
imbratisarii iuti si curgerii
apei
o scufundare pe deplin aleasa
insa fara dorinta
ca si cum a trai este ceva direct
precum privirea asta –
              nu o panda dificila
ci un plonjon –
ochi si aripa
intr-un singur muschi
pulsand prin aer
pana ce ambele sunt infascate
de extaz:
un iepuras tipand
in stransoarea
             ghiarelor –
o creatura ce se lupta
sa ajunga la lumina.