I am afraid it is.
To be precise it might not be Poetry, naybe translating poetry is the most dangerouse extreme sport a lazy bibliophil like me can get involved with.
First was the accident Lisa - the translator and I wittnesed.
And then on Friday Lisa, Nurit, Admiel and I sat together to go through the new translations of Admiel`s poems Lisa and I prepared.
We sit in the garden of this house, we decide to move the table closer to the entrance so we can reach the electricity sockets, we sit near the entrance. the weather is beautiful, a quite Friday afternoon in suburbia. Lisa reads out in her beautiful voice. it all sounds so pure and precise. we are checking out few words, looking for the King James Translatiosn. we are having a good time. And then a big noise. and something hits me. The window net from the 2nd floor, a big wide window, of the living room, something the size of a door, but much much ligher fell out from the track. luckily it hit the air conditing box first. otherwise. The women from upstairs comes to appologize she ask if we understand English we louagh, she appologizes. shhe sends her daughter with a tray og cookies, the daughter is excited to hear about the famouse guests. siiting as it is in thier back garden.
Off curse I first made sure my lap top wasn`t enjured. only half an hour later my right shoulder start hurting.
You see. poetry is for risk takers.