Isn't the poet, in his/her peculiar primacy, a rebel of circumstances? Doesn't the higher nature, that greater calling, allow some room for choice?
A poet isn't just a translator of artistic words. He is a sword but, sometimes, he is not afraid to become a little kitten left out in the cold. So, here is fear and pain.
All of this has gotten me thinking not only about language and its intricacies but about existing translated poetic work, from English to other languages, and vice versa. What makes a good translation?
...a refugee camp is a safe place from war and persecution. But it is also a place of dependency on international organizations, of unemployment and frustrations, of misery and stigmatization.
