Poetry is not solace, it is not a
song of joy and of sadness, it is not
a haven in the mouth of a blind
man, it is not a museum. Poetry is
not an almanac of meanings on
the shelf with the classics, nor is it
beauty that looms in a room with
mirrors and half-burned logs.
Poetry is not a sea, nor a
shipwreck, nor terra firma,
nor a map, nor a compass.
Translation from the Greek
Editorial note: From Time Stitches, translated by Peter Constantine (forthcoming in July 2022 from Deep Vellum).