Why does a heart wear its eyes into hell like slivers of false sunshine
In poetry, I have, since very young, loved poetry in translation. The Chinese, the French, the Russians, Italians, Indians and early Celts: the formality of the translator's voice, their measured breath and anxiety moves me as it lingers over the original.
I was a go-go dancer at the Dom on East 10th Street in NYC. This was a glittering ballroom over Stanley's Bar. 1965.