Poetry Dovetails Contradictions.

Paris Is A Wonderful City. I Can't Say I Belong To An Especially Anglophone Community.

Did You Love Well What Very Soon You Left? Come Home And Take Me In Your Arms And Take Away This Stomach Ache, Headache, Heartache. Never So Full, I Never Was Bereft So Utterly. The Winter Evenings Drift Dark To The Window. Not One Work Will Make You, Where You Are, Turn In Your Day, Or Wake From Your Night Toward Me. The Only Gift I Got To Keep Or Give Is What I've Cried, Floodgates Let Down To Mourning For The Dead Chances, For The End Of Being Young, For Everyone I Loved Who Really Died. I Drank Our One Year Out In Brine Instead Of Honey From The Seasons Of Your Tongue.

The Phenomenon Of University Creative Writing Programs Doesn't Exist In France. The Whole Idea Is Regarded As A Novelty, Or An Oddity.

When You Translate Poetry In Particular, You're Obliged To Look At How The Writer With Whom You're Working Puts Together Words, Sentences, Phrases, The Triple Tension Between The Line Of Verse, The Syntax And The Sentence.

Translation Is An Interestingly Different Way To Be Involved Both With Poetry And With The Language That I've Found Myself Living In Much Of The Time. I Think The Two Feed Each Other.