26 May 2013
12 March 2025
original included background image
The translation issue
(or why my hands are weak)
Shelley wandered through Italian forests with an open book.
Rooted in my Tasmanian forest home, I read Beowulf.
The ludicrous grip of the man and how
He holds his breath for days underwater.
Well, I’m impressed. I can’t grasp a word
In its den and wrestle it onto the land
Let alone rip shoulder from torso
And hang it in the hall of any century.
Then it hits me. I fear not the son but the mother,
The curse, the strength, the alien root
Of the other. There’s only one answer to this,
Grab her claw tightly and don’t let it go
Till I die. Or she does. Then I can rise
And gasp at the surface, breathe, be free.