Lost in Translation
It was once put to me by a work colleague that poetry - no more or less than other art forms - is all about self-indulgence. I beg to differ. Poetry - no more or less than other art forms - is all about finding out who we are; nor is it a definitive 'we' or first person persona for, as the metaphysical poet John Donne points out, 'No man is an island entire of itself...' (Meditation XVII)
Whatever, be it in reading prose or poetry, appraising a painting or a person, the chances are few if any will come to the same conclusion, and even greater are the chances of any one person reaching the right one; we are all made up of many parts. The arts - among which feedback regarding my own suggests poetry is often considered the poor relation - attempt to reach at least some of those parts, the sum of which makes us who we are.
There can be no perfect interpretation of mind-body-spirit, but we can at least try to lose as little as possible in translation, and allow for human error ...
of having been somewhere else,
mythical territories of time and space
just to find my way here?
When others ask if I have a ‘real’ goal
in life, I confess I’m never sure
out of time and space persuade me to try
the safer (better?) path
to tease me, dare me enter, have a go
at translating the ages-old hieroglyphics
lining Mother’s womb
for wrestling with the hieroglyphics
of my life and death than trust local graffiti
on doors kicked shut
Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2016
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