Because that's what it's like, writing poems. It's this equality of love and loathing that churns out something that's never quite finished.
I think that's why I love the poem below so much. I took a translation course my final semester of grad school and translated this poem from Polish (with the help of some very talented Polish-speakers). Though the author intended it to be about translating poetry, I feel it translates well (pardon me there--I had to do it) to the writing of poetry as well.
On Translating Poetry
By Zbigniew herbert
Translated From the Polish
Like a drunken bumblebee
he sits on a flower
until its slender stem droops
he bobbles into its ordered petals
like the pages of a dictionary
he struggles toward the center
where scent and sweetness live
and although he is weak
and lacks taste
he seeks
until his head bumps
the sunny pistil
He’s already at the end
it’s too difficult to pierce
through the flower’s cup
to reach the roots
so he struts off proudly
and loudly buzzes:
I was in the middle
Nonetheless
to those who don’t believe
he shows his nose
dusted with pollen
1 comment:
I like this poem.
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