I teeter between
the complexity of Walcott
and the simplicity of Clifton.
Both call my pen.
A portion of me feels no allegiance
to either; lecherous,
I feed on both;
I think only of my profit.
Another part of me
Is shot through with guilt.
These poets,
That man, that woman
Masters of their art—
I, pupil of their words;
I, imbiber of their styles,
Only ask for one thing:
Mercy for my page,
If these words I write be injurious.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Hakeem, having read your other offerings there is no need for the humbleness expressed here - Derek Walcott & Lucille Clifton are graced appropriately; they would approve. Rgds, Ivan