Last night I stopped to see a friend who has moved into a cabin overlooking the lake. We sat on the only chairs and looked past the piles of boxes at the glittery bridge and glittery cars and drank cheap wine. She said she was so worried about me, she was going to come to my house and see if there was a grave-sized bit of disturbed earth in the yard. Sometimes I resent the sun coming up and being all pretty and shit. Maybe I am a wee bit angry because I am working every day for 2 weeks. I know, I did it to myself. But I got to sit in Patti's weensy living room and shed some self-pitying tears. Cathartic.
Mid-American Review sent me a copy of their latest journal. I was thinking, "Did I get a poem in there and I forgot?" Nope. And I won't either. My poems are too different from what they publish. Can you tell me why translations get published, especially when the translation is...lame? There are a dozen poems in the journal from a Slovenian poet and the translations are limp and tired. Wait, maybe I am limp and tired. Anyway, let me know your thoughts about this. I bet good translations are effing hard to write.