What draws you to specific sites? And, for that matter, to translation? 
I’m interested in how a poem operates in three dimensions, in physical acts, in the world at large. The specific sites I’m drawn to—an abandoned slate quarry; a storm-damaged woodlot; the Great Salt Lake; a drystone shelter, or a borie, in France—have all offered opportunities for inquiry into the elemental sources of language, which is at the heart of my work. I suppose that’s what draws me to translation as well.

Jen Bervin interviews Jody Gladding about her collection of “translations” from nature.

What draws you to specific sites? And, for that matter, to translation?

I’m interested in how a poem operates in three dimensions, in physical acts, in the world at large. The specific sites I’m drawn to—an abandoned slate quarry; a storm-damaged woodlot; the Great Salt Lake; a drystone shelter, or a borie, in France—have all offered opportunities for inquiry into the elemental sources of language, which is at the heart of my work. I suppose that’s what draws me to translation as well.

Jen Bervin interviews Jody Gladding about her collection of “translations” from nature.

So there you have it: two things & I can’t bring them together & they are wrenching me apart. These two feelings, this knowledge of a world so awful, this sense of a life so extraordinary - how am I to resolve them?

Richard Flanagan, Gould’s Book of Fish

He believed books had an aura that protected him, that without one beside him he would die. He happily slept without women. He never slept without a book.

Richard Flanagan, The Narrow Road to the Deep North