It Is Only Sound That Remains

Why should I stop, why?
the birds have gone in search
of the blue direction.
the horizon is vertical, vertical
and movement fountain-like;
and at the limits of vision
shining planets spin.
the earth in elevation reaches repetition,
and air wells
changes into tunnels of connection;
and day is a vastness,
which does not fit into narrow mind
of newspaper worms.

why should I stop?
the road passes through the capillaries of life
, the quality of the environment
in the ship of the uterus of the moon
will kill the corrupt cells.
and in the chemical space after sunrise
there is only sound,
sound that will attract the particles of time.
why should I stop?

what can a swamp be?
what can a swamp be but the spawning ground
of corrupt insects?
swollen corpses scrawl the morgue's thoughts,
the unmanly one has hidden
his lack of manliness in blackness,
and the bug... ah,
when the bug talks,
why should I stop?
cooperation of lead letters is futile,
it will not save the lowly thought.
I am a descendant of the house of trees.
breathing stale air depresses me.
a bird which died advised me to
commit flight to memory.
the ultimate extent of powers is union,
joining with the bright principle of the sun
and pouring into the understanding of light.
it is natural for windmills to fall apart.

why should I stop?
I clasp to my breast
the unripe bunches of wheat
and breastfeed them

sound, sound, only sound,
the sound of the limpid wishes
of water to flow,
the sound of the falling of star light
on the wall of earth's femininity
the sound of the binding of meaning's sperm
and the expansion of the shared mind of love.
sound, sound, sound,
only sound remains.

in the land of dwarfs,
the criteria of comparison
have always traveled in the orbit of zero.
why should I stop?
I obey the four elements;
and the job of drawing up
the constitution of my heart
is not the business
of the local government of the blind.

what is the lengthy whimpering wildness
in animals sexual organs to me?
what to me is the worm's humble movement
In its fleshy vacuum?
the bleeding ancestry of flowers
has committed me to life.
are you familiar with the bleeding
ancestry of the flowers?

Forugh Farrokhzad

Michael Translared by C. Hillmann
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Nose Mountain lies in the foothills of northwestern Alberta, Canada, south of Grande Prairie. The historic Peace River Trail, which runs from Hinton into the northern Peace country, winds along the 5000 ft. high Nose Mtn. For many centuries, First Nations people and European settlers used the trail and before that it was used by migrating buffalo herds. Endangered species of wildlife such as woodland caribou and grizzly bear still survive along the ridges of Nose Mtn. Logging and oil exploration occur in this area as do tree planting and a growing tourist industry. The Alberta Forestry Department has operated a Fire Tower on Nose Mtn. since the early 1900's. To the southwest of Nose Mtn., the snow capped peaks of the great Rocky Mountain Divide can be seen.

2005 Wildlife Poetry Reading: On Sunday July 31, 2005 starting at noon featuring “Elegy for the Giant Tortoises” by Margaret Atwood. Organized by Grande Prairie writers and Vivian Demuth. This years theme is poetry about wildlife.

Past Reading on Nose Mountain: On Sunday July 28th starting at 11 am. at the end of the Nose Mtn. Fire Tower Road, organized by Vivian Demuth. Summer 2003 The Dam by Muriel Rukeyser

Sunday, August 1, 2004 at 12pm: Being Born in the Woods by Pablo Neruda

Vivian Demuth is a former park ranger who has climbed mountains in different countries. She is a naturalist/artist/writer whose work has appeared in the Canadian Alpine Journal, Long Shot, The Boreal Factor, and the Bumpershoot Festival. She works as a firelookout person and is the author of Breathing Nose Mountain, a collection of poetry.