The Scottish sun, shocked by having its usual cloudy underpinnings stripped away, shone feverishly, embarrassed by its nakedness.
Although I didn't understand all the words in Anna Crowe's poem about longing for her Scottish home (e.g. "burn" refers to a "small stream; a brook"), I loved it immediately:
I have lost my bearings
by Anna Crowe
A fox barks and the door creaks
as though the wood
remembered the tree it once was.
I write this at a kitchen table
in the city, a plane passing
every minute, day and night.
It is time to go north. I want
to listen to silence and unpick its voices:
the wind that surges through pines...
read the rest here
Ms. Crowe also translates poems. One poem I will remember is a translation of Joan Margarit's Professor Bonaventura Bassegoda -- I wish I could link to it, but you will need to go to Tugs in the Fog to see it. That whole page is worth exploring. (The ending of A Secret History of Rhubarb is also a favorite...there are many to be had.)
Check it Out has the Poetry Friday round-up. Thanks, Jone!