Language isn't
the only gate you think
leads to the garden.
You have to try to enter
the mind of the one whose work
you're translating.
It might be easier to bribe
the watchman, but where
is the charm in that?
Before it existed as riddle,
the poem beat against the stones
at the foot of the cliff.
Or it hung among particles
caught in the beam of a lighthouse,
sweeping across the channel.
The sound of air passing
through the mouth is a variant
of a form that can't be seen.
The chest rises and falls. The water
recedes. Sometimes you can walk so far
without encountering a ripple.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
