Poetry, translation, and projects in progress
A translated poem at an open mic is a loan of someone else's voice for about four minutes. Here is how I credit the original poet, make vocal choices that serve the translation, and stop treating the microphone like an apology booth.
A used copy of a translated poem is never just a book. It is a record of two readers — the one who bought it and the one who left marks in it. I keep collecting these margin notes, and they have changed how I think about translation, readers, and the strange intimacy of borrowed poetry.
Praising a translated poem for feeling 'raw' can sound generous, but too often it excuses English that would never survive as original work. A finished translation is not a betrayal of the source—it is the translator's job.
The bridge is the most common thing people say about literary translation, and one of the least useful. Here are three replacements — the tuning fork, the passport stamp, and the host's chair — that make the translator's choices visible, and change how we blurb, review, and teach translated poems in the US.
A translated poem looks like a small miracle on the page. Behind it is a spreadsheet: hours, fees, favors, and the quiet subsidies that keep literary translation moving. Here is my ledger, opened for inspection.
The first email was three sentences long and ended with a request I had never received from a living writer: please do not translate my work. What followed was a year of drafts, red ink, voice memos, and a slow lesson in what permission actually means.
Most translation training happens indoors, at a desk, between covers. But the richest classroom in any American city is the block you already walk every day—if you slow down enough to read it twice. Here's a notebook practice for treating storefront signage as a set of live translation prompts.
Every translated poem has at least two constituencies: readers who can check the source and readers who will only ever meet the poem in English. This essay looks at practical ways to serve both without turning the poem into a annotated bilingual edition, using examples from Chinese poetry and a candid look at where the balance tips.
A bilingual poetry book is not two books stapled together. It is a single reading machine, and the gutter, margins, line breaks, and type choices are part of the translation. Here is what book designers and self-publishing poets should get right before the proof stage.
Translating a living poet begins long before the first draft. Here is the conversation I try to have first, including a model letter, the boundaries worth clarifying, and the red flags that can turn trust into a contract negotiation.
Dedications in translated poetry are not decorative. They name the people who made the work possible and quietly tell you what kind of responsibility the translator felt. I read them first, and here is why you might too.
A correction email can ruin your week or improve your book. Here is the process I use now: verify fast, thank in public, fix at the right scale, and treat the errata sheet as part of the translation's life, not a stain on it.
A translation night can be warm, social, and welcoming to people who do not speak the source language. This host's checklist covers paired poems, a workable sequence, plain program notes, permissions, audio, and the small moves that keep an event from turning into a lecture.
Translated poetry still arrives in US bookstores with the translator half-hidden on the title page. That small omission shapes discovery, shelving, reviews, and the way readers understand who made the English poem. Here is a practical case for putting translators on the cover, spine, and retailer metadata.
A tour through six versions of poems that crossed into English and came back changed. Some are errors, some are liberties, and all of them show how US readers inherit poetry through somebody else's choices.
An argument for publishing drafts, variant lines, and abandoned attempts alongside finished poems. Done carefully, an open translation notebook gives US readers a way into the process without stealing anything from the poem.
Earlier this year I split a poem into sixteen cards and sent each line down a different chain of readers. The final composite was not a translation so much as a group portrait—and the mistakes were the most honest part.
A personal mixtape of ten first lines from translated poems—not a ranking, not a canon, just the openings that make me reread, recite, and want to try my own hand at the next line.
Seamless translation is a lovely promise, but it is often a lie of omission. Drawing on Chinese-English poetry, this essay argues that translators' notes, footnotes, and marginalia are creative and ethical parts of the reading experience, not interruptions to be sanded away.
A poem read aloud in two languages is never just two versions of the same text. This guide walks through what breath, pause, pacing, and room sound can teach translators and listeners, with a practical recording checklist and a listener's map for first encounters.