Amsterdam Journal: editing poems for Mother Earth Journal 7/16

16 July Tuesday

I marvel at Paul's brain, the way he's able to write verse on short notice. For the Winston Kingdom intro, which is a small book that I'm to be included in, we mentioned we met there last night, but a band was booked. So did we.

We wandered into the red light district looking for a broojie or roll, which I never did find. He said. Look, I could have gone home and made you a sandwich by now. We settled for bread and coffee at the hostel and edited poems.

I was having trouble with choosing Kathy Pemberton's poems because they're inverse. Interestingly, he chose poems similar to what I had chosen and neither of us could find a poem by Ann Gartland that worked.

Yesterday I typeset 26 poems and did 4 and a 1/2 rough translation of Anna Torres's poems. I'm beginning to suspect Charles is very uneven with his translations. I did compare some of his translations with my rough ones and approximately 80% of the translation holds up and then he goes and does something lazy, or screwy.

 When I get to Enrique's poems. however, there were a few that escaped my red pen. Editors pen. Sloppy, sloppy language. For every typeset poem, I rejected another. These poems have been culled by Charles and Herman already. And while I checled most of the typeset ones, the ones that got past my security aren't terribly strong. There are some good ones. But mostly it's just run-of-the-mill poetry.

Again. Charles's taste is to uneven and we haven't a common denominator as to what is good. He is too caught up in politics, and chooses the message over the poem. I choose th poem over the message. And I worry about some of his Dutch translations as well. Paul's never seen one to compare and says what are you seeing translated seems good. Okay if it works in English, we will take it.

Earlier I had called up Paul asking him if he would look at those two files and help me choose the better one. Both of us had put in a long day's work translating and typesetting the poems. Oh Maureen, hi, he answered, genuinely glad to hear from me, though he sounded a bit surprised. I don't know why we talk, we see each other every few days. I'd have it every day if I could, for he makes me feel good.

On Saturday there was a shifting away from lust on both our parts, because it was was getting too dangerous. We're still in the Platonic mode but just barely there is a deeper intimacy in the way we sit and talk. The problem is we are forced into rushing things and once it happens the other side the intangible friendships take a bruising or are squelched, only to resurface later to play a pivotal part in the universe. The uneasiness that too soon follows.

Yes, we are running out of time, soon I will need to go home, and maybe we will never become lovers, and that's okay too. I didn't think it's only me imagining this deeper connection but he is so much younger than I, with his life experience. So I tend to appreciate what is rare from the previous experience and disappointments.

Midnight's the Witching hour in Amsterdam if one depends upon public transportation. The last tram was in as we walked to the center central-station. I quickly hugged him and turned to run and he wasn't expecting it and so it was a bit of a tangle of arms and bikes and legs. Without thinking I kissed him on the neck and ran to get my trolley, and then I was mortified, thinking now he'll spook for sure. Though we have a date at the library this afternoon, we'll see.

All the way home I was grinning, feeling a bit silly and embarrassed, the beer made me impetuous. But I hug and kiss most of my friends goodbye: Jan, Vince, Charles even Bertaijn and Annabel Torres whom I hardly know so I know him so much better than any of them. Except Vins and Jan. Oh well, I'm not going to worry about it. It's his problem if there is one. He called and said we're to meet at 4 PM in the library, and sounded fine. All that worry for nothing.