Gabriel Griffin

Lament for an illegal immigrant

No moon, but fishermen

are used to that and the sea’s chanting,

the descant of the nets. The decks

silvered with sea verses,

the minims and trebles of fish

hushed into songbooks of ice.

Something didn’t sing, humped

in the net, thudding onto the deck.

Its ears heard no notes, its eyes

were blind to the men standing round,

its throat choked with words

that no-one would hear.

They let the sly octopus

sidle to the ship’s side, forgot to stop

the arch and leap of bream.

The sea moaned, the fish

slipped out of tune, the kittiwakes

hurled screeches like broken strings.

The men unfroze, thumped

what didn’t sing, what was lost for words, over the hissing deck. Tipped what had

no hope, had never had a hope,

back to the sea. No

word, no hymn, no prayer.

But the rags of its clothes cried. The sea

beat its fists on the boat. And the wind got up

and howled till dawn.

Steliana Palade

Gabriel Griffin

Elogie pentru un imigrant ilegal

Nu e luna, dar pescarii

sunt obisnuiti cu lipsa ei si cu melopeea marii, cu aria mrejelor. Puntile

argintate de versurile marii,

doimile si trilurile pestilor

amutiti repede in repertoriul de gheata.

Ceva nu a cantat, ghemuit

in plasa, azvarlit cu zgomot pe punte. Urechile lui n-au auzit nici o nota, ochii lui

nu i-au vazut pe oamenii ce-l inconjurau gatul lui era blocat de cuvintele

pe care nimeni n-avea sa le mai auda.

Au lasat caracatita lunecoasa

sa se tarasca spre marginea vasului, au uitat sa potoleasca

zvarcolirile platicilor.

Marea a gemut, pestii

au inceput sa cante fals, pescarusii cu trei degete

au emis tipete ca niste cozi rupte.

Barbatii s-au dezmortit, au rostogolit

ceea ce nu canta, ceea ce n-avea glas,

pe puntea suieratoare. Au impins ceea ce n-ave nici o sansa,

ceea ce n-avusese vreodata vreo sansa, inapoi in mare.

Niciun cuvant, niciun imn, nicio rugaciune.

Dar zdrentele se pe el s-au tanguit. Marea

a lovit cu pumnii in barca. Iar vantul s-a starnit

si a vuit pana in zori.