Henry likes C Milosz, Mayhew doesn't. it's the matter of translation. I feel like I miss too much when I read English writing itself. translation is a danger and tangle. I wonder how Dickinson or Whitman could be translated. or Olson. translation is invention, or, for the crappy translaters of Neruda, say, translation is a mixture of herbs, tinctures and omigawd. hello, here is your pelican.