ORIGINAL

Knowing from what language I was translated

Would be of some use, I think. It is obvious

I am not the original; words from different eras

Jangle against each other in sentences which

May be disconcertingly short or instead,

Gasping for air, straggle on interminably.

Then there are my obscure references;

Did I really mean to compare the sun’s course

To a broken-backed snake? If so, why?

Was I thinking of Alexander Pope’s

The Art of Sinking in Poetry? Again, why?

If nothing else, the inept use of idiom

And the embarrassing attempts at modern slang

Make it all too clear that much has been lost

And replaced by the first thing the translator

Found to hand – broken bits of glass,

Poorly-stuffed animals, memories of a girl

He meant to talk to in 1974.

                                                At times I wonder

If there was an original or if – it happens –

I was born in translation.