Neil Young - PRAIRIE WIND 2005 (review)


The range of the wind is strong; nothing stops
Its persistence on the prairie, not even
Exotic barns or silos in demise.
The beautiful vegetable garden grinds its colours in metope.

The sheet tears itself away, catches up the other shrouds
In the turbulent sky. I’m looking for my dream
Where these funny clouds go unremittingly
In my eyes towards flourishing estuaries.

Rolling in the grasses, my dreams turn
Into facts! And I lose the balance of the thundering
Life. I have no need for my survival
To nestle in the Archives that move.

I duplicate myself to rule. The requirement
Is my feat. The perfection is a bow
That only its Master can bend; that is noticed
With the simple movement of one finger that arranges itself.

The straight roller levelled the week well.
So the seed coupled with this prosperous ground
Spreads prospect. If a friend finds
Nostalgia, he makes a mistake about the field.

I roll endlessly - putting flowers in my hair -
Like a song in nightclub at the hippie times.
I fasten the moon scratched with utopianism -
Or with impure odes shouted by highly-strung persons.

The moon is like a secular guitar.
It shows the scratches made by the nails of the time
And by the memory of distinguished springs
That illuminated much more than one hectare.

It is natural that the cream, which marked
Our lips, comes back to decorate this ball -
Covered with a spangled cape - which comes charging down
Before going back in its musky box.

The imperfect tense is accursed for some late kings.
Such a celestial ancestor rolling a pink storm,
I extol The Loner in my white edition,
Because he drowns effigies and borrowing.


Denis Between The Rusty Words.
(Saturday November 5, 2005)
© IDDN 2005

My original poem is into verse