Excerpt from

Librettos for Eros

And came home with beggar ticks in his pubis
And the light syrup stink of urine in his jeans,
Godawful b.o., sat on the bed unlaced his redwings
And lay back on brown blood stains in the unmade
Sheets and the ferruginous odor of her period, saying
Holy holy holy, I do not feel kindly
To the copperhead in the copple-stones and the brown
Recluse making its nest in my underwear,

Forrest Gander's Home page

Forrest Gander at Academy of American Poets

Forrest Gander at Poetry Foundation

The Rumpus Interview with Forrest Gander
Texture, impression, feeling, meaning: to sliver away any of these aspects in a translation is to diminish the work—and that’s not only a literary failure but an ethical one. It’s a very mysterious process, translation. The translator must disappear into the original, must absorb the music of another’s mind. And then the translator must return full force, with everything she has ever learned about the art itself—about poetry if it is poetry she is translating. In its iterative obliterations and reincarnations, it’s much more a spiritual than a transcriptional activity.

>br> Rattlesnakes, and poem