Discontinuous Poems

The frightful reality of things Is my everyday discovery. Each thing is what it is. How can I explain to anyone how much I rejoice over this, and find it enough? To be whole, it is enough to exist. I have written quite a number of poems And may write many more, of course. Each poem of mine explains it, Though all my poems are different, Because each thing that exists is always proclaiming it. Sometimes I busy myself with watching a stone, I don't begin thinking whether it feels. I don't force myself to call it my sister, But I enjoy it because of its being a stone, I enjoy it because it feels nothing, I enjoy it because it is not at all related to me. At times I also hear the wind blow by And find that merely to hear the wind blow makes it worth having been born. I don't know what others will think who read this; But I find it must be good because I think it without effort, And without the idea of others hearing me think, Because I think it without thoughts, Because I say it as my words say it. Once they called me a materialist poet And I admired myself because I never thought That I might be called by any name at all. I am not even a poet: I see. If what I write has any value, it is not I who am valuable. The value is there, in my verses. All this has nothing whatever to do with any will of mine. TRANSLATED BY EDOUARD RODITI