No Fear Shakespeare

There is a set of books called No Fear Shakespeare 

Which translate Shakespeare into modern prose -

On facing pages. Meaning is made clear!

But does it mean the same? Well, it seems close. 

Elizabethan grammar could be strange,

His mythical allusions are obscure,

His vocab runs outside the normal range,

Perhaps it’s more than most folks can endure. 

Even the English majors glance at notes

While reading Henry, Hamlet, and King Lear. 

Sometimes the experts rip each other’s throats 

In thickets where the text is far from clear. 

But if, perchance, you start to catch the drift,

Abundant are the treasures there to sift.

Not For The Faint Of Heart

Translation is an art

That’s not for the faint of heart. 

And it turns extra scary,

When the text is literary,

And when it’s (shudder) poetic,

The peril is pathetic. 

The problem is the words

Were pointedly picked to be heard,

To be savored, almost sung. 

But the sounds vary crazily

From tongue to tongue. 

As a first shot you can lazily 

Give AI a try,

But somehow it never quite

Gets texture or flavor right.

Translator Accused

Translator, traitor!
They say.
And some will add
That even though the English isn’t bad,
The original Italian blows it away.
“Traduttore, traditore.”
Which does little for me,
But then again I’m not from Italy,
So I’m in a poor position to disagree.
English is the language that’s truly mine,
So translator/traitor will have to do just fine!

Inheritance

I hear my father’s and my mother’s voices
Inside my head. And when I face hard choices
I do not find they give the same advice.
My mother sweetly leaned toward the nice,
My father strongly leaned toward the tough.
Yes, underneath his trial lawyer’s gruff
Exterior he had a softer side.
And behind my mother’s sweetness could be spied
A steely resolution. But it’s plain
That these two voices never will attain
Agreement as to what would be the best
Course of action. Beating in my chest,
My mother’s heart inclines in one direction,
While in my brain’s more analytical section,
My father’s eyes chart out alternative ways
To navigate what may be a hazardous maze.
How these two ever made a life together
Puzzles me at times. Regardless, whether
Or not they always saw things eye to eye,
They worked things out, and somehow they got by,
And left me here to try to work things out
Between their dueling legacies, which shout
Incompatible notions to my ear.
Of course, I’m old, and I have gotten clear
On most of this, but still, sometimes I hear
The two of them, and when I must decide,
I hope my judgment has been fortified
By the debate that’s going on inside.

The Book of Job

The Book of Job opens up with the Devil
Making a bet with God,
Which is odd,
But sort of explains the presence of evil.
Job complains
Of his boils and pains
And his life getting generally worse,
Being careful
While giving God this earful
Not to break out in a curse,
Always ready to praise
His mysterious ways
But just asking why -
Just wanting a cause -
That an upright man who followed the laws
Should be so beset.
And what does Job get?
An explanation?
Not so much.
He does get chided for being so out of touch
As to demand to understand
When he doesn’t know
What makes the universe go -
Wasn’t there for the creation.
But because he keeps a civil tongue in his head,
He eventually gets new children instead
To replace the ones that are dead,
And prospers again.
He never does get told about Satan’s bet.
My mind rebels against this tale, and yet…
And yet I come back to it when
I see someone good, to whom
There has been a visitation of doom,
And I think to myself it’s a myth
But there’s something herewith,
Something true
About what to do,
Namely to stand upright,
When forced to suffer through,
And not take random blame
And not grab at straws to explain
And not curse the universe
With a prayer for flame.

Children

I certainly have heard it argued sincerely
That having children is not itself rewarding.
I must admit I find this argument frightful,
Believing as I do that they’re delightful.
Tastes vary of course. You may find children merely
Annoying tenants that you’re stuck with boarding.

I’ve heard it argued that their earliest years
Are times to be endured, not much enjoyed.
I scratch my head. What infants have they known?
Our hearts may quiver when we see their tears,
But that’s a sign our hearts are well employed
At vital work. We feel it. It is shown.

I’ve heard it argued all the fun comes after
A child is grown, but have you heard their laughter?
Their little voices ringing out like bells,
Dispelling gloom, bestowing benediction,
Becoming over time a glad addiction,
Rejuvenating spirits like nothing else.

Trials of Skill

Trials of skill are never truly easy,
But that’s the way the gifted make them seem.
I watch a tightrope walker, I get queasy,
While he does flips and splits I wouldn’t dream
Of doing - even on a cushioned floor.
Of course the key is practice, practice, practice,
And then perhaps a little practice more.
The skater, showing off her triple axels, Fell many times while mastering that landing.
It doesn’t mean just anyone can do it -
When contemplating talent that’s outstanding,
It often seems there’s something inborn to it.
But all the powers you receive at birth,
Will prove at last to be of paltry worth
Unless you find a purpose to pursue.
Gifts blossom best when love of task is true.