In Kiev by Yunna Morits

Why do I fly to that town,
With its blue cathedral on a hill?
I knock at the red doors
And feel lips on my throat.

I’m becoming myself entirely,
I am fed, like a bird, from the hand.
And on that rectangular rug
Firmly I take my stand.

Happy is he whose trade it is,
Lovingly in a crystal shower,
To cleanse my eyes, my mouth, my ears
Of all that drifted on the wind.

I dream my blouse becomes
Like powdered snow upon my back.
And before I leave, I dream
Of a dog staring straight at me.

By Ю́нна Петро́вна Мо́риц
(Yunna Petrovna Morits (Moritz)
Translated by Daniel Weissbort

Additional information: Morits was born in Kiev.

I couldn’t find the original Russian version for comparison so if anyone can link it or copy/paste it in the comments it would be very much appreciated.

The Way Of It by R. S. Thomas

With her fingers she turns paint

into flowers, with her body

flowers into a rememberance

of herself. She is at work

always, mending the garment

of our marriage, foraging

like a bird for something

for us to eat. If there are thorns

in my life, it is she who

will press her breast to them and sing.

 

Her words, when she would scold,

are too sharp. She is busy

after for hours rubbing smiles

into the wounds. I saw her,

when young, and spread the panoply

of my feathers instinctively

to engage her. She was not deceived,

but accepted me as a girl

will under a thin moon

in love’s absence as someone

she could build a home with

for her imagined child.

 

by R. S. Thomas

from  The Way of It (1977)