Number 94: Eugene Field "Apple Pie and Cheese"

Apple-Pie and Cheese

Full many a sinful notion
Conceived of foreign powers
Has come across the ocean
To harm this land of ours;
And heresies called fashions
Have modesty effaced,
And baleful, morbid passions
Corrupt our native taste.
O tempora! O mores!
What profanations these
That seek to dim the glories
Of apple-pie and cheese!

I'm glad my education
Enables me to stand
Against the vile temptation
Held out on every hand;
Eschewing all the tittles
With vanity replete,
I'm loyal to the victuals
Our grandsires used to eat!
I'm glad I've got three willing boys
To hang around and tease
Their mother for the filling joys
Of apple-pie and cheese!

Your flavored creams and ices
And your dainty angel-food
Are mighty fine devices
To regale the dainty dude;
Your terrapin and oysters,
With wine to wash 'em down,
Are just the thing for roisters
When painting of the town;
No flippant, sugared notion
Shall my appetite appease,
Or bate my soul's devotion
To apple-pie and cheese!

The pie my Julia makes me
(God bless her Yankee ways!)
On memory's pinions takes me
To dear Green Mountain days;
And seems like I see Mother
Lean on the window-sill,
A-handin' me and brother
What she knows 'll keep us still;
And these feelings are so grateful,
Says I, "Julia, if you please,
I'll take another plateful
Of that apple-pie and cheese!"

And cheese! No alien it, sir,
That's brought across the sea,--
No Dutch antique, nor Switzer,
Nor glutinous de Brie;
There's nothing I abhor so
As mawmets of this ilk--
Give me the harmless morceau
That's made of true-blue milk!
No matter what conditions
Dyspeptic come to feaze,
The best of all physicians
Is apple-pie and cheese!

Though ribalds may decry 'em,
For these twin boons we stand,
Partaking thrice per diem
Of their fulness out of hand;
No enervating fashion
Shall cheat us of our right
To gratify our passion
With a mouthful at a bite!
We'll cut it square or bias,
Or any way we please,
And faith shall justify us
When we carve our pie and cheese!

De gustibus, 't is stated,
Non disputandum est.
Which meaneth, when translated,
That all is for the best.
So let the foolish choose 'em
The vapid sweets of sin,
I will not disabuse 'em
Of the heresy they're in;
But I, when I undress me
Each night, upon my knees
Will ask the Lord to bless me
With apple-pie and cheese!

--Eugene Field

Hap Notes: Happy Pi Day (March 14 is always Pi Day- 3.14- get it?) It's good to celebrate one of the mathematically strangest numbers and so we will today with a poem about pie, of which it is a lot easier to think of poems on the subject. Plus, I love this poem.

I don't know how typically American it is to eat apple pie with cheese but I know it to be a regular habit of country folk which is sort of what Field is talking about- it's a "plain folks" treat. My dad insisted upon a piece of Wisconsin Cheddar on his apple pie and so did my mother's father; without the cheese, they would turn up their noses at the pie. (I'll point out here that eating cheese at the end of a meal was originally an upper class thing to do from Roman times on but the apple pie with cheese was mostly a farmer's delight.)

Eugene Field (1850-1895) was a brilliant humorist and newspaper columnist who wrote children's verse and I know I've often mentioned how irritatingly condescending the label "children's poetry" can be. In Field's case, while it's true he wrote primarily children's verse (remember "Wynken, Blynken and Nod"?), he was a bright man who wrote and edited for a variety of newspapers including the St. Joseph Gazette (in Missouri), the Kansas City Times, the Denver Tribune and the Chicago Daily News. He wrote a good dozen or so poetry books, most of which you can find here: www.gutenberg.org/browse/authors/f#a238 thanks to the folks at Project Gutenberg.

Many of Field's poems had illustrations by the well-known artist Maxfield Parrish (one of the illustrations is pictured here under the photo of Field. (Note the color of the sky- it is to this very day still called "Parrish Blue"- he mixed his own luminous colors and had a variety of layering and glazing techniques.)

In the poem, "Julia" is his wife (the Fields had eight children) and "morceau" is French for a piece or a small bit. "Te Gustibus non disputandem est" literally means "one can't argue with someone's taste" and is usually translated as "there's no accounting for taste." A "pinion" is a way of saying "wing"; his memory flies back to a time when he was younger. "Oh tempora! Oh mores!" is a famous line from Cicero (106 BC-42 BC) deploring the corruption of the times in which he lived and means "Oh the times! Oh the customs!" (Field wrote a rousing and humorous poem extolling the virtues of learning Latin and Greek in the public schools when they were starting to be dropped from school curricula. Now, of course, they are almost completely gone to which I would say "Oh tempora! Oh mores!")

Here's an interesting Field quote: "Human thought is like a monstrous pendulum; it keeps swinging from one extreme to the other.”

Number 93: Robert Frost "Out, Out..."

Out, Out--

The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood, Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it. And from there those that lifted eyes could count Five mountain ranges one behind the other Under the sunset far into Vermont. And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled, As it ran light, or had to bear a load. And nothing happened: day was all but done. Call it a day, I wish they might have said To please the boy by giving him the half hour That a boy counts so much when saved from work. His sister stood beside them in her apron To tell them "Supper." At the word, the saw, As if to prove saws knew what supper meant, Leaped out at the boy's hand, or seemed to leap— He must have given the hand. However it was, Neither refused the meeting. But the hand! The boy's first outcry was a rueful laugh, As he swung toward them holding up the hand Half in appeal, but half as if to keep The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all— Since he was old enough to know, big boy Doing a man's work, though a child at heart— He saw all spoiled. "Don't let him cut my hand off— The doctor, when he comes. Don't let him, sister!" So. But the hand was gone already. The doctor put him in the dark of ether. He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath. And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright. No one believed. They listened at his heart. Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it. No more to build on there. And they, since they Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs. -- Robert Frost Hap Notes: I'm sad to say this poem is probably based on a true story about the son of one of Frost's neighbors. The boy was cutting wood, was cut by the saw, bled profusely, went into shock and died, The incident is true but, of course, Frost gives it a different viewpoint to contemplate. The poem has a similar tone to yesterday's Auden poem, does it not? Frost's title comes from Shakespeare's play Macbeth. Here's a bit of it: To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time ; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. This particular passage in Shakespeare has inspired a great many titles for plays and poems, probably most notably Faulkner's book "The Sound and the Fury" where the first parts of the book are narrated by three brothers, one of whom is mentally impaired. However, the character in the book one thinks of as an "idiot" is up for interpretation. Exposing a bit of Frost's salty, sly humor, think for a moment on who is telling us this tale. Frost, however, is masterful at narration. He gives us particulars that make the scene vivid- the saw leaping at the hand ("as if to prove saws knew what supper meant"). How many times have people recreated the scene of an accident with "If only"- if only the boy had been given some time to play instead of having to do a "man's work." You don't need any help with this poem, I don't think. Just remember that Frost isn't saying something particularly harsh about the boy's family at the end of the poem- he's saying something about the living and the dead. Here's where we first mentioned Frost: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2010/12/number-7-robert-frost-design_14.html

Number 92: W.H.Auden: "Musee des Beaux Arts"

Musee des Beaux Arts

About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters; how well, they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

-- W. H. Auden

Hap Notes: Okay, Auden is talking about a lot of stuff here so let's take it one at a time. The poet is talking about "the old masters" of painting (classical artists who worked before 1800- examples would be Botticelli, Tintoretto, Da Vinci, Rubens, Rembrandt etc.) of whom Breughel, the artist he is mentioning, is one. Auden is specifically referencing Breughel's painting "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus" in this poem which is reproduced in its entirety on the masthead of the blog today.

The painting features the fall of Icarus- you may remember the Greek myth, if not, here's the salient points referenced in the painting and the poem: Icaraus and his dad, Daedalus, are imprisoned on the island of Crete. Daedalus makes two pairs of wax wings with feathers so that they can fly out of prison (remember, I said it was a myth). Icarus uses the wings and flies too close to the sun, the wax melts and he falls into the water and drowns in the Aegean Sea. This story is the origin of the cliche' about flying too close to the sun when talking about someone who has gotten too confident.

If you notice in the Brueghel painting, first and foremost is a guy plowing. There are a couple of ships , a man herding sheep and goats, mountains and a town. In the right hand corner, near the big ship we see a pair of legs and the shadow of a wing. That's Icarus. See him?

Now what is Brueghel and Auden telling us about tragedy and life? Well, first off, life goes blithely on as tragedy hits others. Most people can relate to this idea. Have you ever had a loved one in the hospital or, even sadder, die? You are wrecked with sadness but the rest of the world goes on about its business oblivious to you and your family's pain. Auden is saying that the old masters- particularly Brueghal- painted this truth. When you see pictures of the birth of Jesus (done by the old masters) there are often observers who are less than interested- donkeys, children, a fella looking at the ground. In these paintings people often are going on about their lives while something miraculous or strange or tragic is happening in the background. The focal point could actually be the guy plowing in the foreground- not the kid falling into the sea. It's hard to see the tragedy of the fallen boy- just as we are often oblivious to tragedy when observing everyday life.

So, perhaps what the poet is saying is that tragedy is all a matter of perspective in the grand scheme and cycle of life. You may see someone else's tragedy and never even notice it. Its impact is minimal to those who do not understand what is going on. The men in the ship see a boy falling out of the sky- and sail on- they have business to do.

Now that you know the details- you can brew on the poem yourself. What do you think Auden is saying- even about the arts? Remember the title of the poem "Musee des Beaux Arts" is referencing a museum. In December 1938, while visiting Brussels, W.H. Auden went to the Musées Royaux des Beaux-Arts de Belgique, and saw this painting. The title, though, means "Museum of Fine Arts." Is he making a comment about art and artists as well as about the suffering of others?

We have already talked about Auden here: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/01/number-50-wh-auden-more-loving-one.html

Number 91: Tony Hoagland "Memory As a Hearing Aid"

Memory As a Hearing Aid

Somewhere, someone is asking a question,
and I stand squinting at the classroom
with one hand cupped behind my ear,
trying to figure out where that voice is coming from.

I might be already an old man,
attempting to recall the night
his hearing got misplaced,
front-row-center at a battle of the bands,

where a lot of leather-clad, second-rate musicians,
amped up to dinosaur proportions,
test drove their equipment through our ears.
Each time the drummer threw a tantrum,

the guitarist whirled and sprayed us with machine-gun riffs,
as if they wished that they could knock us
quite literally dead.
We called that fun in 1970,

when we weren’t sure our lives were worth surviving.
I’m here to tell you that they were,
and many of us did, despite ourselves,
though the road from there to here

is paved with dead brain cells,
parents shocked to silence,
and squad cars painting the whole neighborhood
the quaking tint and texture of red jelly.

Friends, we should have postmarks on our foreheads
to show where we have been;
we should have pointed ears, or polka-dotted skin
to show what we were thinking

when we hot-rodded over God’s front lawn,
and Death kept blinking.
But here I stand, an average-looking man
staring at a room

where someone blond in braids
with a beautiful belief in answers
is still asking questions.

Through the silence in my dead ear,
I can almost hear the future whisper
to the past: it says that this is not a test
and everybody passes.

--Tony Hoagland

Hap Notes: I love Tony Hoagland's poetry but I really posted this for my jury duty friends to show them the power of poetry with everyday speech. This is not to say Hoagland's word pictures are not well wrought, thoughtful and original. I'm just saying that folks can read Hoagland without making a great deal of preparations in order to be "inspired" by poetry.

Some poetry is worded in ways that seem obscure or complex and sometimes there is a very good reason for that. The poet often wants to slow the reader and himself down for deeper concentration. Of course, sometimes the poet is just a blowhard performing verbal gymnastics which often appeal to people who think poetry has to be hard. To change a phrase used by one of my favorite pitchers of all time, Ferguson Jenkins (born 1942- first Cubs pitcher to win a Cy Young Award): "Poetry is easy. Life is hard."

Poetry should have a flow and Hoagland has a natural cadence that is deceptively easy to read. He plants his images with depths you may gloss over or explore at your leisure but you are sure to get something from his poem after an initial reading. This is huge. He communicates with the poem and then leaves you with food for thought. You can dig deeper into the poem if you like, but he certainly allows you to leave with a well worded thoughtful surface message.

In the poem, a moment of reflecting on a certain amount of hearing loss as he teaches a class brings the poet around to his younger days ( when his age was similar to the student asking the question) and he thinks a bit on the cycle of life. What do you think the last stanza means? What does it mean to your life?

We do things in our youth that flirt with death and bring us (those of us who are still alive and reading) to where we are now. Life isn't a test, it's a cycle in which everyone has a place in youth and age. And don't forget to think on the title of the poem.

Here's where we talked about Hoagland before if you want a refresher- also a great poem: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/02/number-78-tony-hoagland-i-have-news-for.html

Number 90: Robert Frost "Fragmentary Blue"

Fragmentary Blue

Why make so much of fragmentary blue
In here and there a bird, or butterfly,
Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye,
When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue?

Since earth is earth, perhaps, not heaven (as yet)--
Though some savants make earth include the sky;
And blue so far above us comes so high,
It only gives our wish for blue a whet.

--Robert Frost

Hap Notes: I have to apologize for the two-day gap. I'm on jury duty and still trying to do my writing work and trying to keep up with the dishes (there are so many of them in the sink I have heard them murmuring about starting their own government). I don't mean to complain about jury duty- it's one of the great honors and rights of being a voting citizen in America. I'm mostly whining about my lack of time management skills.

Let's go to the poem. Essential to the understanding of this poem is what one feels when looking at the sky. What does the vast open blue sky make you feel? Is the beauty something you love and perhaps covet as a distinct part of your personal appreciation? Does the vault of heaven make you think of God or nature and the power, lushness and mystery of life? Is is just a very pretty color? Frost is saying something about human desire- is it that we always want more? Do we dream of the heaven we were taught exists after death? What is it that you think of when you see a beautiful blue sky? What does it stand for when you see it?

Now you may say, it's just the sky- it's just a collection of molecules that bend the light into the blue spectrum. So is THAT what you think of each time you see the blue of the sky? Is there something free and liberating about that blue "air" overhead- something that makes you think there's more to life than just existence on the ground?

Frost is asking why it is that when we (maybe you, maybe not you) look at a patch of blue color on a bird's wing or bit of blue on a butterfly or when you see an extraordinarily blue flower or eye, we make much of it- we see it as wonderful. He's asking why do we think it's so special when the sky above us, which is so vast, is a darn big lot of blue. It seems as though life has an abundance of the color -- even though we cannot get too close to it... even though it's, maybe, illusion.

Is it better to own a piece of blue or have the sky, which we share with everyone? Is that little flash of blue on a bird's wing more precious because the blue of the sky is so far away? Does the sky whet our appetite for a closer communion with it? It's a tiny poem with a big question; what is so special about blue if we see it almost every day overhead? Why do little bits of the color attract us? He's using the sky as an example of that ineffable, unattainable "stuff" we want whether it's freedom, beauty, communion with God, or a "one-ness" with nature. It's a small, but interesting observation, isn't it?

Frost leaves it up to your perception of blue as to what it symbolizes to you when you see the sky. But almost everyone has a some sort of feeling whether it is longing or satisfaction when they gaze at the sky out of their window at work, or standing at the edge of a lake, or climbing a mountain or just hanging around outside. What is that feeling?

And just what does he mean when he says "Since earth is earth"? Is he talking about the ground or is he maybe talking about the people and what they are like? When he says it's not heaven "as yet" that's Frost coming out and winking at you a bit. Will earth ever be heaven?

We've done Frost before and here's where the first one is if you want to refresh your memory about him: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2010/12/number-7-robert-frost-design_14.html.

Number 89: William Blake "The Tyger"

THE TYGER (from Songs Of Experience)

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

-- William Blake

Hap Notes: I thought Blake's (1757-1827) tiger would be an interesting contrast to yesterday's Borges poem although Blake's poem has much more in common with Robert Frost's "Design" which we talked about here: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2010/12/number-7-robert-frost-design_14.html with the big difference being that Blake does not see an innocent creature but a darkly frightening one.

It certainly sounds like Blake is implying a more sinister "creator" for the tiger. Is this more or less frightening than Frost's implication that there is nothing?

Blake is one of those artists everybody said was nuts when he was alive but then got "discovered" by the next generation. He's been influencing poets, painters and rock stars ever since.

We'll talk more about Blake tomorrow but for now you can find more Blake here: www.poetry-archive.com/b/blake_william.html

Number 88: Jorge Luis Borges "The Other Tiger"

The Other Tiger

A tiger comes to mind. The twilight here
Exalts the vast and busy Library
And seems to set the bookshelves back in gloom;
Innocent, ruthless, bloodstained, sleek
It wanders through its forest and its day
Printing a track along the muddy banks
Of sluggish streams whose names it does not know
(In its world there are no names or past
Or time to come, only the vivid now)
And makes its way across wild distances
Sniffing the braided labyrinth of smells
And in the wind picking the smell of dawn
And tantalizing scent of grazing deer;
Among the bamboo's slanting stripes I glimpse
The tiger's stripes and sense the bony frame
Under the splendid, quivering cover of skin.
Curving oceans and the planet's wastes keep us
Apart in vain; from here in a house far off
In South America I dream of you,
Track you, O tiger of the Ganges' banks.

It strikes me now as evening fills my soul
That the tiger addressed in my poem
Is a shadowy beast, a tiger of symbols
And scraps picked up at random out of books,
A string of labored tropes that have no life,
And not the fated tiger, the deadly jewel
That under sun or stars or changing moon
Goes on in Bengal or Sumatra fulfilling
Its rounds of love and indolence and death.
To the tiger of symbols I hold opposed
The one that's real, the one whose blood runs hot
As it cuts down a herd of buffaloes,
And that today, this August third, nineteen
Fifty-nine, throws its shadow on the grass;
But by the act of giving it a name,
By trying to fix the limits of its world,
It becomes a fiction not a living beast,
Not a tiger out roaming the wilds of earth.

We'll hunt for a third tiger now, but like
The others this one too will be a form
Of what I dream, a structure of words, and not
The flesh and one tiger that beyond all myths
Paces the earth. I know these things quite well,
Yet nonetheless some force keeps driving me
In this vague, unreasonable, and ancient quest,
And I go on pursuing through the hours
Another tiger, the beast not found in verse.

---Jorge Luis Borges
(Translated by John Updike)

The Other Tiger

I think of a tiger. The fading light enhances
the vast complexities of the Library
and seems to set the bookshelves at a distance;
powerful, innocent, bloodstained, and new-made,
it will prowl through its jungle and its morning
and leave its footprint on the muddy edge
of a river with a name unknown to it
(in its world, there are no names, nor past, nor future,
only the sureness of the present moment)
and it will cross the wilderness of distance
and sniff out in the woven labyrinth
of smells the smell peculiar to morning
and the scent on the air of deer, delectable.
Behind the lattice of bamboo, I notice
its stripes, and I sense its skeleton
under the magnificence of the quivering skin.
In vain the convex oceans and the deserts
spread themselves across the earth between us;
from this one house in a far-off seaport
in South America, I dream you, follow you,
oh tiger on the fringes of the Ganges.

Evening spreads in my spirit and I keep thinking
that the tiger I am calling up in my poem
is a tiger made of symbols and of shadows,
a set of literary images,
scraps remembered from encyclopedias,
and not the deadly tiger, the fateful jewel
that in the sun or the deceptive moonlight
follows its paths, in Bengal or Sumatra,
of love, of indolence, of dying.
Against the tiger of symbols I have set
the real one, the hot-blooded one
that savages a herd of buffalo,
and today, the third of August, ’59,
its patient shadow moves across the plain,
but yet, the act of naming it, of guessing
what is its nature and its circumstance
creates a fiction, not a living creature,
not one of those that prowl on the earth.

Let us look for a third tiger. This one
will be a form in my dream like all the others,
a system, an arrangement of human language,
and not the flesh-and-bone tiger
that, out of reach of all mythologies,
paces the earth. I know all this; yet something
drives me to this ancient, perverse adventure,
foolish and vague, yet still I keep on looking
throughout the evening for the other tiger,
the other tiger, the one not in this poem.

--Jorge Luis Borges
Translated by Alastair Reid

The Other Tiger

I think of a tiger. The gloom here makes

The vast and busy Library seem lofty

And pushes the shelves back;

Strong, innocent, covered with blood and new,

It will move through its forest and its morning

And will print its tracks on the muddy

Margins of a river whose name it does not know

(In its world there are no names nor past

Nor time to come, only the fixed moment)

And will overleap barbarous distances

And will scent out of the plaited maze

Of all the scents the scent of dawn

And the delighting scent of deer.

Between the stripes of the bamboo I decipher

Its stripes and have the feel of the bony structure

That quivers under the glowing skin.

In vain do the curving seas intervene

And the deserts of the planet;

From this house in a far-off port

In South America, I pursue and dream you,

O tiger on the Ganges’ banks.


In my soul the afternoon grows wider and I reflect

That the tiger invoked in my verse

Is a ghost of a tiger, a symbol,

A series of literary tropes

And memories from the encyclopaedia

And not the deadly tiger, the fateful jewel

That, under the sun or the varying moon,

In Sumatra or Bengal goes on fulfilling

Its rounds of love, of idleness and death.

To the symbolic tiger I have opposed

The real thing, with its warm blood,

That decimates the tribe of buffaloes

And today, the third of August, ’59,

Stretches on the grass a deliberate

Shadow, but already the fact of naming it

And conjecturing its circumstances

Makes it a figment of art and no creature

Living among those that walk the earth.

We shall seek a third tiger. This

Will be like those others a shape

Of my dreaming, a system of words

A man makes and not the vertebrate tiger

That, beyond the mythologies,

Is treading the earth. I know well enough

That something lays on me this quest

Undefined, senseless and ancient, and I go on

Seeking through the afternoon time

The other tiger, that which is not in verse.

--Jorge Luis Borges
translated by Harold Morland

Hap Notes: Ah, the problems/joys of translation is displayed in all its glory here. I hope to let the poet (and the translators) do all the talking today. Come on, it's nice to have a day when I am more or less silent, isn't it? The Bible that we all read has been translated from Hebrew/Aramaic to Latin to English- think there may be some differences in the texts? Don't get daunted by this Borges project... just read and enjoy. Which translation do you like? (If you're asking- I think they all have merit, actually. See how hard it is to translate, though?)

Here's what I will say, and then, I'll give you some helpful quotes from the author: I do love Pablo Neruda but I think the most brilliant writer of the 20th century may have been Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986) who wrestled with the ideas of perception, dimension and the senses-things that are vital to the 21st century human being. (His name is pronounced Horhay Lweess Borhays- more or less... close enough.) Here's something that could help- have someone read one translation and you read another- line by line. It would be better if there were three to do it. Or, barring that, copy and paste the poems side by side...)

Here are a few quotes to help you as you figure out which translation means the most to you, with first, a prose selection from the same book:

Dreamtigers

In my infancy I adored tigers with fervor: not the egg-coloured tigers of the floating-islands of Paraná, or the Amazonian confusion, but the royal Asiatic tiger, with stripes, which can only be confronted by men of war, on a tower mounted on an elephant. I used to linger endlessly before one of the cages in the Zoological gardens; I appreciated the vast encyclopedias and the books of natural history, for the splendour of their tigers. (I have total recall of these figures: I who cannot recall, without error, the face or smile of a woman.) Infancy passed, and the tigers, and my passion for them faded, but they are always still in my dreams. In subconscious sleep, or the chaos which generally follows, it's like this: I sleep, and am distracted by some sort of dream, and immediately I know that it is a dream. At such times I think: This is a dream, a purely voluntary diversion, and now that I have unlimited power I am going to evoke a tiger.

O, incompetence! My dreams are never able to engender the fierce things longed for. The tiger appears, indeed, but desiccated, or enfeebled, or with irregular variations of form, or of an inadmissible size, or completely fugitive, or similar to a dog or bird. ( Borges translated by James Duvall)

"Time is the substance I am made of. Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire. The world, unfortunately, is real; I, unfortunately, am Borges."

"Writing is nothing more than a guided dream."