As the twig is bent the tree inclines.

ma igatsen isegi tolmu oma toa põrandal, asju mis jäid kapiveerele, linde seinal ja karusid diivanil. ma jäin eile magama brendan kennelly raamatu familiar strangers kõrvale. kunagi eva tassis selle sama raamatu kõinastule ja mulle tegi nalja, et ta nii suurt raamatut üle lee ja läbi metsade ja matkaradade tassida tahtis. ja mul on meeles, kui me lesisime kolmekesi kiige juures, roheline tekk oli maas ja lugesime sealt raamatust lugusid ette. see oli too suvi. kennelly luuletused on midagi teistsugust. midagi sellist, mida ma tahaksin ise suuta edasi anda. aga võrdluseks tooks sellise näite: mulle väga meeldib bono lugu sellest, kuidas tema arvates radioheadi liikmed on sedavõrd andekad, et tema ise võiks unistada vaid sellest, et kannaks nähtamatut tuubat, mida bändi liikmeil tegelikult tarvis ei lähe. the man made of rain - mõelge selle peale.

Sacrifice

How it was lived through her
This giving of herself
That she never understood,

A sacrifice
A customary selflessness
A decimation and scattering of herself

To the four winds of the insatiate future.
Whatever men and women waited there
Were unknown to her

As the rain's lisping or belting secrets
At her windows
In the sleepless time.

And to what end?
To let some perfection steal through
Barely distinguishable days and nights of her life?

A device that helped her
Never to see herself?
A wish to imprint some version of herself

On the self of the unknown?
She listened to the rain,
To the rowdy wind,

To the gabble of unseen birds,
To the words those under
What she took to be her care,

And felt something like love
Bleeding from her,
Wounding, renewing, confusing,

Like the touch of her fingers on another's skin,
The contact and vacancy
Of the aftermath of pain.

Brendan Kennelly