Blanco is somewhat anaemic these days, as a consequence of drug therapy whose other side effects are listed as lethargy, fatigue, depression, anxiety, and . . . rage. That’s right, Le rage. So, to save the venting of my swollen spleen, allow me to regale you instead with a quite uncharacteristically mellow poem from the collection I am currently translating by Joaquín O. Giannuzzi, an Argentinian poet of wonderfully dark and understated talents, which will be published in the autumn by CB Editions.
Horses put up with
the weight of history
until the invention of
the internal combustion engine.
Now, whenever they are born
they stumble and tarry before the light
believing they have burst in
on the wrong world.
I like ‘tarry’ especially – and the Franz Marc painting. Better than ‘whinnying green stable’ any day.
Reblogged this on Bee Pert and commented:
By coincidence, me and a few of my housemates watched Spielberg’s ‘War Horse’ last night, a film which had me blubbing nearly all the way through (although any film which combines animals and warfare is pretty much guaranteed to do that). It’s a total cheesefest – a swelling score, oversaturated landscapes (the sunset at the end of the film is just ridiculous) and tonnes of exposition shovelled into the dialogue – but it’s worth a watch (even if only for Benedict Cumberbatch’s moustache) Anyway, my tutor blogged this poem about horses today, and it just seemed like an odd coincidence.