The Lost Garden December 16, 2011Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, New Orleans, Poetry, The Narrative, Toulouse Street.
When in doubt and the words run out: poetry. It’s been that kind of a weird week anyway, somewhere between Borges and Cortazar, while trying to finish Murakami’s 1Q84, which is a way to say through a looking glass darkly.
Adam Cast Forth
By Jorge Luis Borges
Was there a Garden or was the Garden a dream?
Amid the fleeting light, I have slowed myself and queried,
Almost for consolation, if the bygone period
Over which this Adam, wretched now, once reigned supreme,
Might not have been just a magical illusion
Of that God I dreamed. Already it’s imprecise
In my memory, the clear Paradise,
But I know it exists, in flower and profusion,
Although not for me. My punishment for life
Is the stubborn earth with the incestuous strife
Of Cains and Abels and their brood; I await no pardon.
Yet, it’s much to have loved, to have known true joy,
To have had — if only for just one day —
The experience of touching the living Garden.