Gain

The existence of the poem
Created by translation
Is literature at its

Strangest, as close it gets
To reproduction by sex—
Here’s a new being neither

Original nor native
To its own embodiment,
The language it exists as,

But not the source poem, either,
Not exactly a hybrid,
Since there weren’t two parent poems,

But with multiple parent
Authors and verse traditions.
Come to think of it, a poem

In translation is as close
To poetry’s essentials—
Strangeness in its own language,

Intertwined, blurry descent
Of old and current sources,
A conflict of elements—

As any first-language poem,
Maybe more so—poetry
Stripped right down to the nitty,

The cumbersome assemblage,
The effort at heavier
Than air acceleration

To become something soaring,
In which sense poetry is
What’s exposed in translation.