Poetry is what gets lost in translation.—Robert Frost.
Poetry is what is gained in translation.—Joseph Brodsky.

I MADE IT TO TORONTO AN HOUR EARLY for my first-ever poetry reading. I sat down at a small stage-side table at Clinton’s Tavern and placed three copies of my book on top. This was it, my shot at the Art Bar Poetry Series, a rite of passage for poets in Canada.

I was thumbing through my book trying to decide which poems to read when a small man walked in. He moved to the table farthest from mine and sat down.

Whenever I glanced up, I noticed him smiling at me. I valiantly tried to ignore him, but after about ten minutes, his smile walked over to my table. He asked me if I was a poet. 

“Yes.”

He introduced himself.  He held a book in his right hand with ...