To be a poet,
What a ridiculous profession!
To go around saying
What you feel and found,
What is painful, What's profound,
To be making sounds,
In perpetual true-confession.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Do we choose poetry, or does poetry choose us? I'm inclined to the latter. But what difference does its original impetus make when we are intensely engaged in it and cannot stop? The phrase PERPETUAL SELF-CONFESSION is so precise: some might think this is egoistic; it's not - it's altruistic! I'm reminded of the composer Wolfgang Rihm who said I WRITE WITH A PEN AND MY NAKED NERVES. Amen to that. This poem is truth-telling, pure and simple. You don't distract from this truth by joking about it or treating it lightly. You cast what Yeats called A COLD EYE so there can be no misunderstanding. You speak for all of us, Sandra.