A number of translations from a pleiade [Politicians love this word, I know; but then, so do I] of favourite poets, including Mallarmé, Valéry, Antonio Machado, Decio Pignatari, Huidobro, Juana Inez de la Cruz, Octavio Paz, Rumi, Marcos Konder Reis, Sousandrade, herein join my own modest incursions into the art of Eliot, Donne, Keats, Pope, Hopkins, Coleridge, Poe, Yeats, Auden plus other eminent, brilliant poets. As one might expect, I deplore the sentimental, artificial approach to verse-making. I rather liken poetry to prototype candidness, or, to quote myself, Lucky is he who has the chance to observe / The rueful flight of the splendiferous condor / Ah! to be nothing else than the soul s soul… / I wonder: are abysses truths, or tricks? I see it as the job of any kind of artist to help release his creative stamina, and poetry can be effective for that purpose. Who first called it a speaking picture with the end to teach and delight? Philip Sidney [in Defence of Poesy]. Yehudah Amichai called poetry a filibuster against despair. Ted Hughes called it a journey into the inner universe, and an exploration of the genuine self . Poetry is a slow yet powerful way of reaching our feelings and emotions, our main subconscious, driving forces of energy. I ve been taught that emotions are dangerous, they can distort judgement, they cannot be relied upon whenever one has decisions to make, and they have little to do with truth. I do acknowledge myself, therefore, as part of the natural world, subject to the unseen, non-sonorous, yet often beneficial and harmonious spiritual forces of the cosmos. [J.G. Correa]