Friday, April 07, 2006

such as i was, such as i was

I previously mentioned Ionesco. It's always a pleasure to return to this poem. I found the translation from the French in an old Iowa Review on my shelves--the poem possesses that rereadability that Bloom (or was it Frost?) suggested determines a poem's worth.


At my wits' ends,
in a haze.

So out of it, I stuck
my right foot in a pot,

neither alert: so I stepped
out with my left.

I have been traipsing, though,
light as air, through the clouds.

If the stars should make me stumble
I would pick them up like apples.

I loved myself, such as
I was; such as I was.