§ Homolinguistic translation: Take a poem (someone else’s or your own) and translate/rewrite/revise it by substituting word for word, phrase for phrase, line for line, or “free” translation as response to each phrase or sentence. Or do several versions of the “same” poem. Or: translate the poem into another, or several other, literary styles.
I conjure this nightfallen scene’s desert:
some other, breathing, looms,
aside from my watch’s steady heartache
and the pallid notebook beneath still hands.
Beyond the pane, not one piercing light;
a thing, much closer,
but hidden, draped in blackened velvet,
slips into my own yearning solitude:
ragged, tense as surrounding sandstone,
a coyote sniffs brush, breeze;
a keen nose spurs hungry step,
step, stepstep, quickening steps that
trail a far-off rabbit’s twitching path.
A pause to cry—sharp, lonely
arias to wind, sky, and moon;
white throat catching a beam
that rides the notes for miles,
breaking through dark, silence.
A flash of movement, left, catches
eye and breath, hair and muscle,
til, with sudden release, a spring up
and down, jaws clenched round his faltering trophy.
The sunken blackness lingering; hands tick,
flutter across the newly marked page.
by Ted Hughes
I imagine this midnight moment’s forest:
Something else is alive
Beside the clock’s loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.
Through the window I see no star:
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:
Cold, delicately as the dark snow,
A fox’s nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now
Sets heat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come
Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Coming about its own business
Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.