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.

Dana Constantinescu

Fiona Sampson
 

Exaltarea

Zumzetul acela e un sorecar–
cu zdrentele in vant,
strigatul sau contureaza o linie
de o inaltime perfecta,
dulce si ascutita,
verticala
prin dupa-amiaza albastra –
ca un somon,
ce se racoreste,
cedeaza
bratului iute si fluxului
de apa,
o imersune pe deplin aleasa
fara dorinta totusi,
de parca sa traiesti ar fi ceva drept
precum aceasta contemplare–
fara sa planeze intens
ci se scufunda –
ochi si aripa
un singur muschi
zbatandu-se prin aer
pana cand amandoi sunt cuprinsi
de exaltare:
iepurasi care tipa
in ceasca
de gheare –
o faptura ce se zbate
inspre lumina.