I cannot justify
why a single poem
speaks to me in
one language over another
but it does
choosing the flat American narrative
against the metaphysical French wave
a story of shock and awe
or those philosophical ponderings
All I know is when I'm done
the words sit on a fence like
crows against a landscape
until they heckle and jeckle me
into reading them aloud
and I read them as they are writ
in that godforsaken foreign language
droning on and on and on and on
until the whole room is numb
Then try to sweep it back to life
with rapid-fire translation
but it always fails flat because
there is none
and my heart is hit
with that hollow dart
and I again become
the dreaded stranger
of my lonely youth
4 commentaires:
With only one language, I find the voice in which the poem comes, the language, intriguing and exotic even. But you take the language of the poem in another direction, preferring, I think, French over American, and finding the poem in the latter and being unable to translate it back to 'the metaphysical French wave." Wow, a tightly woven poem that springs out at you from all sorts of directions.
wow, a comment, woohoo! :>>))) ty so much, brenda. i don't think i prefer either, really; they just come as they come. it's the translating of one's own poem that is, for me, nearly impossible. ty again, so nice to hear from you. xoxoox
Whaaa.... is that garble that got posted as 'a comment'? Oh, lol. What you must have thought!
I use a Chrome extension, Comment Save, so I still have it. :) Comment Save has saved some grief from those unposted lost comments...
With only one language, I find the voice in which the poem comes, the language, intriguing and exotic even. But you take the language of the poem in another direction, preferring, I think, French over American, and finding the poem in the latter and being unable to translate it back to 'the metaphysical French wave." Wow, a tightly woven poem that springs out at you from all sorts of directions.
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