a day in my life
i’m moving ahead full of compromise unpunished imposture
i’m missing i miss myself i miss the vigor of grammar
i can’t get enough of talking about myself
luckily no one’s listening
i’m like a smeary snapshot
the road goes on and on it’s tough going everyone’s breathing carefully
watching warily something’s going to happen
i might smash the mirror its shape would explode this premonition’s suffocating
between me and myself lies the entire history of a dead language
i’m still speaking syllable by syllable i’m poisoned blood that water can’t wash away
i crawl on i shout
my home’s so far away i’ve lots of time i write poetry on the bus
maybe my books will come out while i’m standing clutching the handhold
for me they cut down the woods
my offspring will have nowhere to hide
nowhere for sunday outings
they’ll grill garlic sausages in the library
the ecological balance is going to hell because of me
i’d better start writing palimpsest-poems or learning to crochet
my former friends have children and all kinds of monthly bills
i have wrinkles deadlines and a typewriter
and they say i don’t know what i want i don’t know why
every poem is an organ removed and the surgeon’s drunk
a beautiful spring day. on the field.
i lost then laughed then cried
then i stood up punched my fist into the wall slammed
every door behind me raked the dead leaves
threw away the rags straightened out my desk
turned the radio on stared at the ceiling—war
was about to break out in the gulf the dog begged for food
everyone had something to do the phone rang—it was
the wrong moment it was evening the next day
i was supposed to return some books to the library
pay my taxes i had plenty of reasons—
it was my best friend “i don’t want to live this way any longer.
why should i.” “don’t be a coward. life’s beautiful. in two days
you’ll get paid. so what if she left. we’re not designed
for happiness. we have different parameters.” “you’re right.
call you again.” he hung up i stared at the ceiling
i was a hypocrite i closed my eyes
my room smelled good the hemlock had blossomed
about leaving
as if suddenly it were evening and very cold
you can’t find your way back
(a boring book a film you’ve seen before
the temptation to find parallels with what happens to you
discussions about responsibility and lack of it
you light another cigarette to make your presence felt
you strive to take part something inside you
prevents you from speaking from justifying yourself you react
slowly as when on the street someone asks you
the time little clouds of smoke weave
recent happy events wonderful events)
the sensation that you’re being led by the hand
a state of artificially-induced wakefulness
umbrellas neon lights cab drivers drunks
you dig for another coin a terrible mood
for big words and definitive gestures
to leave to stay
as if suddenly it were evening
but at the other end of the line morning
Elena Nistor graduated from the English Department of the University of Bucharest, and she is a lecturer at the Bucharest University of Agronomic Sciences and Veterinary Medicine. She is currently a PhD student, working on a thesis on contemporary British women poets and a member of the Centre for the Translation and Interpretation of the Contemporary Text, University of Bucharest and the translation project poetry pRO in the U.K.
Adam J. Sorkin's recent books of translation include Ruxandra Cesereanu’s Crusader-Woman, translated mainly with Cesereanu (Black Widow Press, 2008) and Mariana Marin’s The Factory of the Past, translated with Daniela Hurezanu (Toad Press, 2008); two 2007 books, Magda Cârneci’s București: O colecție de mirosuri / A Collection of Smells, translated with Alina Cârâc—photographs by Dan Hayon (Romanian Cultural Institute Publishing House), and Radu Andriescu’s The Catalan Within, translated with the poet (Longleaf Press); and three 2006 books including Magda Cârneci’s Chaosmos, translated with Cârneci (White Pine Press) and Mariana Marin’s Paper Children, with various collaborators (Ugly Duckling Presse). He was awarded the 2005 Translation Prize of The Poetry Society (U.K.) for Marin Sorescu’s The Bridge, translated with Lidia Vianu (Bloodaxe Books, 2004), and was Regional Editor for Romania and Moldova of the recent New European Poets (Graywolf, 2008).
