Live from Holy Cross: Catherine Fletcher reading poems by Indra
Catherine Fletcher- photo by Khatchik Turabian
HOME, AFTER A LONG ABSENCE
In my room, near the cypress grove
the dark is crowded up, pushed into the light,
while shadows creep up on my walls
and untranslatable murmurs rise,
I see another, earlier place
where the father of a lost boy calls,
and where the boy chooses to hide
to worship his enthusiasms alone.
Home. And once more I wear
the evergreen shadows that are infused
with incense like an exultation shared.
The heart of giants still holds a secret animus
whose truth I do not grasp,
although I am its heir.
MISTLETOE—a plant known for its medicinal value
Here in this grove of giant cypress
where the trees lean forward to press
the last drop of turquoise from the sky,
as they stand on the hill
I enter like a reaper of mistletoe
who cuts with a golden scythe
berries and vines he believes
will cure every human ill.
Like him I linger in the breath
of the sweet forest
on the edge of night
looking for an antidote, a faith
in the darkness of cypress, looking
for a harvest of undying light.
Both poems translated by Diana Der-Hovanessian
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