About the Author

From the book Kliazma and Yauza
From the book The Wild Rose
From the book Tristan and Isolde
From the book Old Songs  
From the book Gates. Windows. Arches
From the book Stanzas in the Manner of Alexander Pope
From the book Stellae and Inscriptions
From the book The Iambic Verses
The Chinese Travelogue
From An Unfinished Book
From the book The Evening Song
From the book Elegies
From the book The Beginning of a Book
From the book Old Songs
A woman’s lot is the spindle,
as on the gravestones of old,
and storyless nights in winter;
orphaned whem young, widowed when old,
and sick of herself, in the end.

A gold thread was falling from heaven:
down, down, never touching the ground.
Why should my heart be hurting?
A magic fish was darting
right from the depths of the ocean,
holding a ring set with pearl:
up, up, never reaching the shore.
Why should the storm in my breast be howling?

If I could cry – but I’ve nothing to cry with,
Cry pity for the beautiful earth.

Catriona Kelly
The Unfaithful Wife
Old Women
 A woman’s lot is the spindle...
Adam wept, but he was not forgiven...
The cold of the world...
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