And I second Peggy's thank you.
Thank you to Peggy, and thank you to the Poetry Center staff,
for this warm welcome.
And thank you to you all for coming.
So I wanted to--
raise this, of course.
[LAUGHTER]
I wanted-- given the times, I wanted
to open with a political poem.
But because my husband at the last moment
decided to come with me, and he is my co-translator,
I thought I would share with you--
we would share with you just a couple of our translations
of Nicole Brossard who is a Quebecois queer poet.
She is elliptically political.
So, cherie, would you?
OK, [INAUDIBLE]
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]
So we'll be able to-- usually, I say, pardon my French,
and then read French, but--
Pardon my French.
OK.
Vivre avec leurs fous de Dieu
Cette fois-ci, je compte les mains, les pieds, les langues,
les tuniques et les cailloux, les têtes, les barbes,
les calottes, les voiles, les chales.
Je ne compte pas les vertiges, les ablutions, les miracles,
les coups de fouet dans les haut-parleurs,
des dizaines de crachats de mots,
un feu si grand qu'il faut de l'eau sur le front,
les pieds, je compte les yeux, les doigts,
je compte jusqu'à la poussière, je compte jusqu'à l'enfance.
So this is from a series.
Each poem is about cities.
"Cities With Their Fools for God."
"This time, I count the hands, the feet, the tongues,
the tunics, the pebbles, the heads, the beards, the skull
caps, the veils, the scarves.
I do not count the vertigos, the ablutions, the miracles,
the whiplashes.
In the loudspeaker-- the dozens of spat-out words.
Such a big fire that water must be splashed on brows, on feet.
I count the eyes, the fingers, I count until the dust.
I count until childhood."