Reid includes a large and diverse group of poets here — 57, if I count correctly. I got that figure by paging through the biographical section, which is called an “index,” but isn’t. There is no table of contents. The usual suspects appear — Jimenez, Lorca, Anonymous — but there are also some surprises, like Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
I don’t read Spanish, and in any case the Spanish originals aren’t included in this book, so I can’t address the linguistic accuracy of Reid’s translations, or compare the form of the translation with that of the original. The translations flow well enough, except when they’re interrupted by explanatory notes that should be moved to the foot of the page, as in Julio Herrera y Reissig’s “Home from the Fields.” Mostly, any one translation by itself seems fine, if a bit stereotypically “Spanish poetry.” Some are formally adventurous. But take them together, and they all sound as if they were written by the same person — probably beside a fountain at twilight, the air fragrant with blossoms and filled with the sounds of cicadas and plaintive guitars. Is there really that little difference, in the original, between the voices of Machado and Mistral?
The book includes black-and-white photos of cliched Spanish scenery which add little.
Note: I received this book free for review purposes, but received no other compensation for this review. Surprised?