POETRY IS A TRANSLATION FROM A LANGUAGE WE DON’T KNOW TO ONE WE MIGHT

Image result for girl trying to read in renaissance painting

From the unknown emerges what the known was meant to be.

A carefully scripted version of a perfect me.

Take my word for it, these words

Are as unfathomable as sea birds

Flying very fast across long seas.

My idea could be an idea of an idea that pleases,

But if the poet is irritated by any little thing,

The idea will be a flight without a wing,

A perfect arrow which parts the air,

Which you thought you saw: an idea of here. An idea of there.

How fast it traveled! Did you see

What it was? That could have been me.

Poetry is a translation from a language we don’t know to one we might.

I think you have seen those symbols when the symbol is a symbol of mourning in the night.

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