(no subject)

[proximoception]

I decided to read Inferno in the 20-poet translation rather than Pinsky's. The separation between poets and dabblers is pretty clear in it. Richard Wilbur wins by miles.

I watched a vile, six-footed serpent dart
toward one of them, and then, with never a pause,
fasten itself to him with every part.

It clasped his belly with its middle claws,
its forefeet clutched his arms as in a vise,
and into either cheek it sank its jaws.

The hindmost feet it dug into his thighs,
and twixt them thrust its tail so limberly
that up his spine its clambering tip could rise.

Never did ivy cling so to a tree
as did that hideous creature bind and braid
its limbs and his in pure ferocity;

And then they stuck together, as if made
of melting wax, and mixed their colors; nor
did either now retain his former shade:

Just so, when paper burns, there runs before
the creeping flame a stain of darkish hue
that, though not black as yet, is white no more.

That's some sweet damned Inferno. Perfection, really--wasted on merely good French comedies, and his merely good own poems these last couple decades,