“For My House is Huge” ~ Postcards from Paradise

Praud © 2011 Milan Malovrh

It Was Winter

Winter came as it does in this valley.

After eight dry months rain fell

And the mountains, straw-colored, turned green for a while.

In the canyons where gray laurels

Graft their stony roots to granite,

Streams must have filled the dried-up creek beds.

Ocean winds churned the eucalyptus trees,

And under clouds torn by a crystal of towers

Prickly lights were glowing on the docks.

© 2011 Milan Malovrh

This is not a place where you sit under a cafe awning

On a marble piazza, watching the crowd,

Or play the flute at a window over a narrow street

While children’s sandals clatter in the vaulted entryway.

They heard of a land, empty and vast,

Bordered by mountains. So they went, leaving behind crosses

Of thorny wood and traces of campfires.

As it happened, they spent winter in the snow of a mountain pass,

And drew lots and boiled the bones of their companions;

©2011 Milan Malovrh

And so afterward a hot valley where indigo could be grown

Seemed beautiful to them. And beyond, where fog

Heaved into shoreline coves, the ocean labored.

Sleep: rocks and capes will lie down inside you,

War councils of motionless animals in a barren place,

Basilicas of reptiles, a frothy whiteness.

Sleep on your coat, while your horse nibbles grass

And an eagle gauges a precipice.

Duel © 2011 Milan Malovrh

When you wake up, you will have the parts of the world.

West, an empty conch of water and air.

East, always behind you, the voided memory of snow-covered fir.

And extending from your outspread arms

Nothing but bronze grasses, north and south.

At Night © 2011 Milan Malovrh

We are poor people, much afflicted.

We camped under various stars,

Where you dip water with a cup from a muddy river

And slice your bread with a pocketknife.

This is the place; accepted, not chosen.

We remembered that there were streets and houses where we came

    from,

Into the Dark© 2011 Milan Malovrh

So there had to be houses here, a saddler’s signboard,

A small veranda with a chair. But empty, a country where

The thunder beneath the rippled skin of the earth,

The breaking waves, a patrol of pelicans, nullified us.

As if our vases, brought here from another shore,

Were the dug-up spearheads of some lost tribe

Who fed on lizards and acorn flour.

©2011 Milan Malovrh

And here I am walking the eternal earth.

Tiny, leaning on a stick.

I pass a volcanic park, lie down at a spring,

Not knowing how to express what is always and everywhere:

© 2011 Milan Malovrh

The earth I cling to is so solid

Under my breast and belly that I feel grateful

For every pebble, and I don’t know whether

It is my pulse or the earth’s that I hear,

When the hems of invisible silk vestments pass over me,

Hands, wherever they have been, touch my arm,

Or small laughter, once, long ago over wine,

With lanterns in the magnolias, for my house is huge.

Berkeley, 1964

Czeslaw Milosz, "It Was Winter" from The Collected Poems: 1931-1987. Copyright © 1988 by Czeslaw Milosz

About the Photographer:

Milan Malovrh

Milan hails from a small town in Slovenia, Trzic.
Photography is his primary hobby  and during the last  forty years it has become a great passion. He loves seeing the world through his camera because it opens the eyes of others to things, that they don´t initially see on  first view.
He is grateful to all who appreciate and look at his pictures.

You may find more of his images of these amazing dream horses at http://elfot.1x.com/ and also at 1x.com

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For those who are facing the Struggles of Hurricane Irene,

May You always have a sense of Home, Protection and Shelter And the Knowledge that there is Grace in recovery and restoration even after the harshest of storms.

For More Lovely Postcards from Paradise, Please visit Recuerda Mi Corazon. It will be a breath of Fresh Air for you!

Note: All of Milan Malovrh’s images are copyrighted and posted here with photographer permission. They may not be used without that permission. Thank you.