JOHN MOLE

When did you start writing poetry?

When women played boys on the radio
which was wireless, and yo ho ho
roared the pirates with a bottle of rum
over rough waves to Hilversum,

when soap was a special agent
at a quarter to seven, and the traffic went
mightily round Eros with its freight
of film stars, pundits and heads of state,

when a song in the heart was two-way
family favourites, and the Sunday
joint served up with radio laughter’s
trimmings meant tinned fruit for afters,

when choice was whatever a housewife
fancied as she wiped the buttery knife
he’d left in the marmalade, and the morning
service passed by with a prayer on the wing,

when the news spoke perfect English
in a teacher’s voice, and the dish
ran off with the spoon, and God was there
to say Good night children everywhere,

when father came home on the dot
and his tea was ready, and whatever the pot
called the kettle was a secret vice
one never broadcast on the home service,

oh then it began to seem good sense
to turn down the volume, to search for a silence
that nobody but myself could hear,
and to lend to the rest only half an ear.

 

Cand ai inceput sa scrii poezie?

Cand femeile faceau pe baietii la radio
care era fara fir, si ii ho ho
racneau piratii cu o sticla de rom
in crancene talazuri spre Hilversum,

cand serialul un agent special era
la sapte fara un sfert si circulatia se-nvartea
intens in jurul lui Eros foarte incarcat’
de vedete de film, invatati si sefi de stat,

cand un cantec pastrat in inima era
printre preferatele familiei si reuniunea
de duminica de rasetele de la radio insotita
ca ornament, avea menirea compotului de dupa

cand alegerea insemna orice visa
o gospodina cand cutitul de unt stergea
cutit uitat de el in marmelada si slujba
de inchinaciune trecea pe aripi de rugaciune,

cand la stiri engleza perfecta se vorbea
cu o voce de profesor si farfuria fugea
cu lingura si Dumnezeu era acolo, de-asemeni
sa zica Noapte buna, copii de pretutindeni,

cand tata la fix acasa venea
si ceaiul lui era gata, si ciobul radea
de oala sparta din cauza unui viciu secret
care nu s-ar da vreodata pe vreun post indiscret,

ah, atunci a inceput de bun simt sa para
sa dau sonorul mai incet, sa caut o tacere necesara
pe care nimeni in afara de mine nu o putea auzi,
si sa-i ascult pe ceilalti numai cu o ureche.


Din volumul For the Moment, Peterloo Poets,2000

Translated by Octavia Marinescu