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Ivan Jelinek

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Pythia

Into the landscape beyond breath
send deeply for her with blown flutes?
With lazy strumming, with a wreath
bear him, bear it into the gates.

With the sharp edge of a grey tear
dropped, of slate feathers from a nest
to the tripod she walks, her hair
braided for God. A copper breast

a balustrade she stands transformed
a step where golden feet shall come.
She melts, and molten she is stormed:
see, lightning leans against her womb.

Chaste and anointed, hear her moan
for love as lips prepare a way.
With the sharp edge of gift the woman
speaks, bears the word-child. To this day.

Into the landscape beyond sound:
what, who is deeply born there? Tell:
the God of strings that hands have quickened
has spoken and is merciful.

[1961, KB and the author]

Translated by Keith BosleyIvan Jelinek

Page(s) 167-168

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