Thursday morning, May 12,2005
Poetry is a part, a relation, a private conversation,
a registry and theory of our lives—all these things combined.
It's most real at the moment of composition when the elation,
the suffering and the satisfaction combine to form one vital thing: the poem.
It's almost something holy.Sometimes though, this phantom you feel
but pushed away won't leave you alone, comes back and haunts you,
then disappears into thin air again. You get a glimpse.Just a glimpse.
And know it's real.Know it's real.That's the thing—
Life is these unreasonable antinomies that we feel.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This one goes to my list! Thanks