Translation is entirely mysterious. Increasingly I have felt that the art of writing is itself translating, or more like translating than it is like anything else. What is the other text, the original? I have no answer. I suppose it is the source, the deep sea where ideas swim, and one catches them in nets of words and swings them shining into the boat…where in this metaphor they die and get canned and eaten in sandwiches.
I Can’t Make You Love Me/Nick of Time - Bon Iver
Have you ever seen a human heart? It looks like a fist, wrapped in blood.
A cold moon rises over glittering cages & you fasten the lock on each silver door. The sparrows are nesting & I begin to count the buttons on your black wool coat. My eyes adrift along its luminous satin inlay. Now the night has opened like a box of exotic blue canaries & I am brushing feathers from my long dark sleeves. You smile as the song rises, hesitant, in my cool white throat –
Kristina Marie Darling
“This is no dark custom” Gertrude Stein
Some days you wake up and find god in your shoes and you don’t know who put it there. Or the little gold clocks in your irises, or the long stems of sun on your desk. So you just dress in coffee and beautiful rags and be glad of it, ashes and all. And you hum to yourself some ridiculous tune that sounds like a handkerchief stuffed in your mouth. Which means that you won’t get a single thing done, oh no not today, but your papers don’t mind. They lie around like wanton brides and admire you anyway. Fat apples blossom in baskets left on your table; wine turns into wine. And the windows, my god the windows have gathered absurd amounts of sky. If the shoe fits, the foot must be mine. Someone who loves you dreamed double last night.
from LATE, BOA Editions, Ltd. 2003.