The first time I saw my American poems translated I just stopped and studied the hieroglyphics on the page, tiny scribbles of black ink saying twice what was said before. Then I knew I would not leave this world without loving some of it . . . nothing reduced to a single truth . . . all of one blood, our words, music and lives coming together. It was not that the stars had fallen down— It was more that we didn't need the lamp which had gone out. How separate we are in the dark after the poem is gone. by kate_styles_69

The first time I saw my American poems translated I just stopped and studied the hieroglyphics on the page, tiny scribbles of black ink saying twice what was said before. Then I knew I would not leave this world without loving some of it . . . nothing reduced to a single truth . . . all of one blood, our words, music and lives coming together. It was not that the stars had fallen down— It was more that we didn't need the lamp which had gone out. How separate we are in the dark after the poem is gone. by kate_styles_69

Friday, January 30, 2015

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