Noting in my gay exploits of last night (or this morning, if you will) that translators can turn mundane phrases into something poetic--or impenetrably opaque--and therefore beautiful, I wondered what translators would do to poetry, a thing already twisted and abstract. I've thus taken the joyous liberty of filtering A Havler Production through various translations, to produce the following:
Lost to desperate stuff
I was suddenly terminated on the number.
And it is here, though not poetry.
And we can hap'ly rest assured with the relief that we've not denigrated poetry through this revision, for the above piece of work has it quite right: this is not poetry. Not anymore. We cannot claim it to be lesser than the original, for this is, I think, a whole other animal. Not poetry, but something...uh, else. We're not quite sure what, but doubtless it is in its own right nigh on as charming. Apples and oranges, hon.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
Not poetry? I vehemently disagree. Because it is open to several (thousand?) interpretations and has line breaks in odd places, it can be nothing but poetry. What else would you call it?
Also, I resent that you called the child of our minds "twisted". ;)
Post a Comment