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.
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