I came to poetry the way most people come to anything that saves them: sideways, without knowing that’s what was happening. I was young, and I didn’t think in straight lines, and the world kept asking me to. Poetry was the first place that didn’t. It met me in the associative, image-driven, non-sequential place where my mind actually lived, and it asked nothing of me except attention. That felt, at the time, like a gift so specific it was almost suspicious. It still does. Especially on the weeks when my body is giving me trouble, when the news is intolerable, when the usual methods of coping have run dry. I come back to poems not because they fix anything—they don’t—but because they confirm that the interior weather I’m living through has a name, has been named before, by someone writing in Vienna or El Salvador or the Congo, in a language I don’t even speak, years or decades or centuries before I needed it. Poems About Life: Necessary, Although Complicated There is a reason people reach for poetry when something breaks open in them. Not a self-help book, not a podcast, but a poem. Often one they half-remember, one they haven’t thought about in years, suddenly insisted upon by something the day has done to them. This is not an accident. Poetry has always known that pain and beauty are not opposites. It has always known they are, in fact, the same material under different pressure. This is what makes poems about life genuinely complicated. They don’t offer the clean separation that other art forms can. A novel can move you toward catharsis in how the arc bends, the tension resolves, you close the book and breathe out. A poem doesn’t work that way. It holds the beautiful and the devastating in the same image, refuses to let you choose between them, and leaves you with both lodged somewhere in your chest. Akhmatova writing a lament so devastatingly beautiful it becomes its own kind of joy. Alegría placing a poem called “Happiness” inside a collection called Sorrow and meaning both of those things, fully, at once. The pain doesn’t redeem the beauty, and the beauty doesn’t soften the pain. Coexisting, the way they do in actual life, where grief and gratitude arrive on the same afternoon and refuse to take turns. To read poetry honestly is to accept that this is the deal. You cannot strip the difficulty out and keep the loveliness. A poet looked at something true and unbearable and found, somehow, the exact words for it, and the exactness is the beauty. The wound and the salve are the same thing. That is the relationship. It does not simplify. This is also why poetry is necessary, not merely decorative. In a moment when everything from the news, the noise, the sheer velocity of what we’re asked to process conspires toward numbness, a poem insists on feeling the thing fully. Just: here is a true thing, held still, long enough for you to recognize it and know you are not alone in it. Why Translation? Why Now? There’s a belief, common enough to be almost invisible, that poets who want to be read should also want to be marketed. That visibility and craft are two sides of the same ambition. But poets shouldn’t be expected to be marketers and the more that poetry publishing bends toward the logic of promotion and marketability, the more the poetry itself tends to suffer for it. The result is a paradox: a world richer in excellent translated poetry than ever before, and a readership largely unaware it exists. Countless presses are doing extraordinary work translating contemporary voices from the Congo, Peru, Sweden, Korea, Austria, Italy and most of them simply don’t have the reach to tell the world about themselves. These are not failures of quality. They are failures of infrastructure. This is why the act of reading translated poetry aloud matters beyond the literary. It is a small act of repair. Life Arrives Before Meaning Poems about life rarely begin with answers. They begin with fragments. When I sit down to read poetry—especially poetry in translation—I am not looking for a thesis about existence. I am looking for recognition: the sudden feeling that another human mind has experienced something adjacent to my own life and managed to place it carefully into language. From this session of reading poems, the reason I keep returning to these poems from across the world: “Just giving people an opportunity to listen to poems from around the world is going to continue to broaden our horizons and introduce ourselves to new language possibilities as well as refreshing kind of new ways of thinking.” Poems about life are rarely unified or orderly. They arrive from Austria, Russia, Peru, Korea, El Salvador, Italy, Congo, Sweden. They come through translators and presses that often receive very little attention. And yet they carry the same quiet question: what does it feel like to be alive? The American poet and critic Edward Hirsch argues that reading poetry requires collaboration between writer and reader: “the reader must imaginatively collaborate with a poem to give voice to it.” That collaboration is precisely where poems about life begin. Poetry Mirrors the Mind One of the first poets I read in that session was the Austrian experimental writer Friederike Mayröcker, whose poems move like thought itself. Her writing rarely proceeds logically. Instead, it leaps between images and impressions. Listening to her work can feel disorienting until one realizes that the poem is not trying to narrate life—it is trying to think life. As I explained during the reading: “Very hard to follow the poems as a logical act, but very pleasant… to listen to the poems just as like a series of words.” Life rarely arrives as a coherent narrative. The mind moves between associations: flowers, memories, voices, fragments of music, glimpses of landscape. Mayröcker’s poems capture that movement with startling honesty. I have often felt that poetry works for me because my own thinking rarely unfolds linearly. I admitted as much during the reading: “I’ve never really been someone who thinks particularly linearly in the world.” Poetry meets the mind in images rather than arguments. Poems as Companions in Difficulty Another reason poems about life matter is that they appear precisely when life becomes difficult. During that same reading session, I spoke candidly about why I had chosen certain poems: “My last week was full of various debilitations due to my own chronic illness… sometimes it’s just nice to read poems that are very, very closely paralleling the strife and tribulations of your own life.” This is one of poetry’s oldest functions. The writer Roger Housden notes that poetry remains powerful because it expresses “the deepest of human emotions: joy, sorrow, grief, hope, love, and longing.” I don’t know if I agree about this plateau-like elevation, but I’m glad some out there believe this. When we read Anna Akhmatova writing about loss or Claribel Alegría writing about grief, we encounter experiences that feel simultaneously ancient and immediate. During the reading, I described the reassurance that poetry can provide: “Poetry is kind of born to give that form of reassurance… suffering itself is not something… new… there are millions upon millions of entries and ways in which suffering has been documented throughout time.” Poetry reminds us that our lives participate in a long human continuity of feeling. The Chaos of a Living Mind Friederike Mayröcker — Austria Translated by Jonathan Larson A poet who worked into her nineties, Mayröcker is one of the most captivating voices in experimental European literature and one of the least known to English readers. Her work defies summary precisely because it defies logic: immediate observation crashes into contextless image, diary bleeds into lyric, and the self fractures into pronouns that slide between “I” and “1” without warning. Her poems are very hard to follow as a logical act. But they are extraordinarily pleasant to listen to as a cascade of language in which meaning accumulates laterally rather than linearly, through accumulation and sensation rather than argument. She may be the truest practitioner of stream of consciousness working in poetry today, doing real justice to that phrase in a way that would have astonished even James Joyce. In Mayröcker’s work, life surfaces as snowdrops in the Vienna woods, as a fly assessing whether it will be killed, as grief and longing and the body’s intimate weather. The self is always present and always dissolving. And there is something truthful about that: this is how the mind actually moves, if you let it. The Reassurance of Shared Suffering One reason people come back to poetry in difficult times is not because it offers answers, but because it confirms that the problem was never exclusively yours. The language of affliction may be new; the suffering itself never is. Somewhere in the archive of human expression, someone has already gone precisely where you are going. Anna Akhmatova — Russia Translated by D.M. Thomas From: Way of All the Earth Akhmatova needs little introduction in literary circles, yet even she benefits from being heard again — especially during weeks when illness or grief brings her lines back into focus. Her elegy for Mikhail Bulgakov, written for a man who died after hiding his own creative suffering behind wit and wine, is devastating in its precision. What makes it land is not sentiment but identification: the speaker herself has been torched, buried, half-crazed — and yet here she is, recalling someone full of will and fire. Silence as Permission Gastón Fernández — Peru Translated by KM Cascia From: Apparent Breviary (World Poetry Books) To encounter Fernández after Mayröcker’s overflow is to step from a crowded room into an empty courtyard. His poems are almost aggressively spare, numbered fragments th
