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Poetry

Old-Fashioned

By Edward Pasewicz
Translated from Polish by Benjamin Paloff

And then she died on us, utterly.
The leg dead, the foot rough.
The bend of the knee glows with emptiness.
And the belly’s warmth turns to ash,
a black sachet filled with down.

Even the cigarette, that meager butterfly,
the joining of lung, poison, and breath,
is merely an inscription on a signboard
that says nothing to passers-by.
The mouth it rules being dead.

And even I, lying on sheets
already musty in late morning,
as disposable as a syringe, soak it up
like a ball of cotton and darken within.

Much as I’d like to brighten up and dye my hair,
to change the conversation’s tone and direction,
we’re dealing with a voice that will remain
deaf to any sound but its own.

Translation of “W starym stylu.” © Edward Pasewicz. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2011 by Benjamin Paloff. All rights reserved.

English Polish (Original)

And then she died on us, utterly.
The leg dead, the foot rough.
The bend of the knee glows with emptiness.
And the belly’s warmth turns to ash,
a black sachet filled with down.

Even the cigarette, that meager butterfly,
the joining of lung, poison, and breath,
is merely an inscription on a signboard
that says nothing to passers-by.
The mouth it rules being dead.

And even I, lying on sheets
already musty in late morning,
as disposable as a syringe, soak it up
like a ball of cotton and darken within.

Much as I’d like to brighten up and dye my hair,
to change the conversation’s tone and direction,
we’re dealing with a voice that will remain
deaf to any sound but its own.

W Starym Stylu

I oto umarła nam kompletnie!
Martwa jest noga i szorstka pięta.
Zgięcie w kolanie też świeci pustką.
A z ciepła brzucha pozostał popiół,
czarna saszetka wypełniona puchem.

Nawet papieros, ten nędzny motyl,
złączenie płuc, trucizny i oddechu,
jest tylko napisem na słupie ogłoszeń
który nic nie mówi przechodniom.
Bo martwe są usta którymi on włada.

I nawet ja, leżący przed południem,
w zatęchłej już nieco pościeli,
jednorazowy jak strzykawka, nasiąkam
jak wacik i ciemnieję wewnątrz.

Choć chciałbym rozjaśnić się i ufarbować,
zmienić ton i przebieg rozmowy,
to jednak głos pozostaje głuchy
na inne brzmienia poza własnym brzmieniem

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