Alpine Summer

Today we talked about the German Romantic poets in class. We argued the value of translated poetry more than anything. I see little merit in such poetry, personally, but that could be because I know about agonizing over single syllables in a poem. The poets might have created something beautiful, but all we read in translation is their sentiment. Poetry is not about sentiments, it's about words. Words and sounds and the feeling from them, not necessarily even the feeling the poet is trying to portray. Translated poetry should have the translator's name first, because it's really them that creates the art. It's hard enough to write a poem in meter and / or form, but to try to mimic what someone said in another language and make it theirs' instead of my own is an idea completely outside of me.

For example, one of today's foremost translations of "Beowulf" was done by Seamus Heaney. Heaney is a brilliant artist with many of his own works to his name. However, I can't help but think an Irishman's translation of an ancient text might be a little different than someone else's. English has both the advantage and disadvantage of being spoken all over the world: the dialect and vocabulary of someone speaking Australian English is incredibly different than someone in America. So, though we speak the same language, they are far from being "the same". This is a great thing because we are afforded different vantage points on the same words but, at the same time . . . could the same English translations of texts being fitting for us?

Luke says he never thinks about things like this, but I spend a lot of time thinking about language and how it affects how we act and think. Maybe that's why I agonize over individual sounds in my poetry, maybe it's just my synesthesia talking. Words hold such power; they are both an arsenal of weapons as well as the bricks and mortar with which to build a fortress.

Does this mean I'm becoming a linguist?