Albert Gatt

Translated by Albert Gatt

1. On your hand / Fuq idek

   

   

   ENGMLT

   Between translucent palm and bedside table

   a seventy-two year arid stretch.

    

   Clam shells, your hands,

   your hull’s flare in the palm hold.

   Enshrouding bone on bone.

   Curved like a whale.

   Washed up.

   Left high and dry.

    

   The whiff of sea. A sea of fret.

   You fret about everything.

    

   And it’s a chore, explaining where you came from

   how long ago you were born

   when the maybes of your life began

   to be fulfilled or maybe left unfulfilled

   their pending questions hanging still

   a sentence over your head.

    

   Reaching for answers you continue to look down.

    

   Your eyes forever riveted to the floor plane;

   your eyes stay riveted

   but your incline steepens slightly

   over the table and you raise your specs

   and put them on and it’s a sight better, a clearer sight.

    

   It helps you get the measure of things

   size up the situation,

   its proportions, for example

   to figure out your age

   you need to reckon life in teeth

   that one by one have fallen out.

    

   The leathery vessel of your face

   a stern bow facing the storm

   cold-shouldering pettiness and platitude.

   A farer of fair weather and foul.

    

   Broadside is a word you learned

   by dint of the seventy years you’ve lived.

    

   Three tenses, you arrange them in perspective

   before ambling off to bed: past, present and now.

    

   And it’s a struggle, pulling your gaze away from now

   until you manage, nearly.

    

   Let’s leave it there, shall we?

   We’ll weather the storm.

   We’ll see…

   Translated by Albert Gatt

   Minn idek fina għall-komodina

   hemm tnejn u sebgħin sena nexfin.

    

   Idejk arzell

   pali jfesdqu ġismek battiljar.

   Għadam għadam igeżwruh.

   Mgħawweġ balena.

   Mitluqa max-xatt.

   Mitluqa għal riħha.

    

   Riħa ta’ baħar. Baħar ta’ nkwiet.

   Tinkwieta fuq kollox.

    

   Tegħja tispjega minn fejn ġejt

   kemm ilek li twelidt

   minn mindu il-forsijiet ta’ ħajtek

   bdew jitwettqu u forsi ma twettqux

   u baqgħu mistoqsija mdendla tpendel

   fuq rasek sentenza.

    

   Tipprova twieġeb u tibqa’ tħares ’l isfel.

    

   Qatt ma taqla’ għajnejk mill-art invell;

   qatt ma taqla’ għajnejk

   imma tinklina tikk’iktar

   fuq it-tavolina u ttella’ n-nuċċali

   u tilbsu tar’aħjar, ċar.

    

   Jgħinek tara d-daqsijiet tas-sitwazzjonijiet,

   il-proporzjonijiet, ngħidu aħna

   biex tifhem kemm għandek żmien

   trid tgħodd ħajtek bis-snien

   li waqgħu waħda waħda.

    

   Wiċċek qoxra

   pruwa ppuppata tilqa’ għal dat-taħbit

   u għala biebek mit-tron tal-għerf u l-pettikolezzi.

   Baħħar tal-bnazzi u l-maltemp f’daqqa.

    

   Laġenba kelma li tgħallimtha

   bis-sebgħin sena l’għandek.

    

   Tpoġġi dat-tliet tempijiet f’perspettiva

   u titlaq torqod: passat, preżent u issa.

    

   Titħabat biex taqla’ issa minn quddiemek

   sa ma kważi ġġibha żewġ.

    

   Tridx biżżejjed.

   Ħallih ħa jħabbat.

   Issa naraw …

2. On place / Fuq post

   

   

   ENGMLT

   Between a rib and rib somewhere there is a place

   where the water’s lure begins

   and at the centre there, in that somewhere

   all piercing scents dissolve without a trace.

    

   The sea glances at me and there’s this gnaw within.

    

   Because this is not the tale of sirens luring or

   of leery men.

   This is not the tale of the lone seaman

   whose wife abides at home.

    

   You’d like to hear the bubbles pop,

   the water lapping at your feet and slipping through your hands.

    

   You yearn for the sensation, of plunge, of swim,

   of the sea’s thrust in you.

    

   Because this is not the tale of sirens luring or

   of leery men.

   This is not the tale of the lone seaman

   whose wife abides at home.

    

   Yet there’s a compromise to be made,

   to be written between rib and rib,

   or on rib even, let the bone feel

   let it savour the hurt.

    

   My yearning is to give myself to it, this sea

   salt smoothing out each wrinkle

   parting warmth of water

   fleeting embrace of me

   as I caress its head its belly

   wrung between it and a hard place.

    

   Because this is not the tale of sirens luring or

   of leery men.

   This is not the tale of the lone seaman

   whose wife abides at home.

    

   But between a rib and rib somewhere

   I see the sea glancing at me

   and it alone gives me the will

   and I peek at the sea

   and dipping in the scorching sand abide.

    

   And flee.

    

   Because this is not the tale of sirens

   luring or of leery men.

   This is not the tale of the lone seaman

   whose wife abides at home.

    

   This place where heat guzzles me up in one

   the water’s lure is just too much

   and the hurt begins to pulse

   and I am wary of the day

   when it should take the plunge

   and I should meet its glance

   and then the sea might hold its breath

   and I would too

   and woven we would wave.

   Translated by Albert Gatt

   Hemm post, xi mkien bejn il-kustilji

   fejn l-ilma jibda jinki

   u fin-nofs, hemm, f'dak ix-xi mkien

   jintreħew l-irwejjaħ niffieda kollha.

    

   Il-baħar iħarisli u nittiekel minn ġewwa.

    

   Għax din mhux il-ġrajja tas-sireni inkejjużi

   jew l-irġiel skruplużi.

   Mhix il-ġrajja tar-raġel baħħar

   u l-mara tistenna d-dar.

    

   Tixtieq tisma’ l-bżieżaq ifaqqgħu,

   l-ilma jċafċaf mas-saqajn u jżerżaq mal-idejn.

    

   Tixtieq taf xi jfisser li taqbeż, tgħum,

   li l-baħar jippenetrak.

    

   Għax din mhux il-ġrajja tas-sireni inkejjużi

   jew l-irġiel skruplużi.

   Mhix il-ġrajja tar-raġel baħħar

   u l-mara tistenna d-dar.

    

   Hemm kompromess xi jsir,

   x'jinkiteb bejn kustilja u oħra,

   anzi fuq kustilja, ħalli l-għadma tħoss

   il-weġgħa u tieħu gost.

    

   Nixtieq, nintelaq fih, dal-baħar

   bi mluħtu terħi t-tikmix

   bl-ilma sħun jintefaħ

   jgħaġġel iħokk miegħi

   immellislu rasu u żaqqu

   ningħasar bejnu u bejn il-blat.

    

   Għax din mhux il-ġrajja tas-sireni inkejjużi

   jew l-irġiel skruplużi.

   Mhix il-ġrajja tar-raġel baħħar

   u l-mara tistenna d-dar.

    

   Imma xi mkien bejn il-kustilji

   nara l-baħar iħarisli

   li jtini biss il-ħila

   l-baħar ntih titwila

   u nibqa' nintbill fir-ramel skarnat.

    

   U naħrab.

    

   Għax din mhux il-ġrajja tas-sireni inkejjużi

   jew l-irġiel skruplużi.

   Mhix il-ġrajja tar-raġel baħħar

   u l-mara tistenna d-dar.

    

   F'post fejn is-sħana tixrobni f’nifs

   għax hawn l-ilma jinki wisq

   u l-weġgħa bdiet taqbeż

   u meta taqbeż sħiħ nibża'

   inħares f'għajnejn dal-baħar

   għax forsi dakinhar

   il-baħar iżomm in-nifs

   u jien inżommu miegħu

   u nitmewġu flimkien.

3. On the death of me / (Untitled)

   

   

   ENGMLT

   notes on my death (or, the day I can be sea)

   a testament

    

   The day I die in your arms do not ask about the colour of autumn

   or about its form but listen to the steps perplexed

   tapping out rhythms we never had.

   There’ll be no rhythm left, or rhythm.

    

   No piece of sublime music.

   No sky mourning my departure.

   No river changing course.

    

   And it’s strange how the wind courses through

   corners dismembering our legs and arms our selves.

   We stare at the strange sky and sip the flavour of autumn.

    

   You remember the jolting and the flavours of jolting.

    

   Remember thoughts you never speak aloud,

   I don’t, we don’t speak aloud because we are afraid.

   And the teasing sky takes a turn for dark.

    

   There are no complex meanings.

   Another day gone by and we’re still staring here.

    

   Why not dislodge this arm and take it wherever you’re going?

    

   This leg, it’s tired now, but take it, do.

   Take me, take I, take of me.

    

   The day I die in your arms do not ask about the colour of autumn.

    

   Think about that fairytale in which the sea is calm.

    

   Think of my scarred isolated arms afloat 

   and my legs swimming a different course.

    

   Think of my fingers itching to write words new and newer. 

    

   I would have written silence but your sounds

   are sublime and your silent spaces invite me

   to invade them.

    

   Have I ever told you how in silence the fear of death assails me?

    

   And your thought taps persistent at my eyelids

   until I take my leave wide-eyed the evening chill

   piercing the iris briefly roving quiet now.

    

   The day I die in your arms do not ask about the colour of autumn.

    

   Let me dwell on and dismember me, dream of and chill me.

   I’ve always done for myself and I’ll death that way too.

    

   You death all by yourself is how you understand it.

   We won’t be doing this together

   the fear’s too great.

    

   If you want, I’ll leave you some so you can understand.

    

   Fan the waves and make them dance with me the day I die.

   And let me float unclothed

   let the sea swallow me whole let me be it.

   Translated by Albert Gatt

4. plaster in your eyes / il-ġir jaqa’ f’għajnejk

   

   

   ENGMLT

   or crumb by crumb

    

   1

    

   at three the memory’s fresh of sleeping in the cleft of her breast,

   the folds of her flesh, the flab of her arms at rest,

   the lopsided lumps of belly fat – so many ways you could curl up into those folds. 

    

   at three there is the urge to scan the room from end to end

   take in this endless whitewashed hall, its corners inside out.

   but what you want most of all is to stare at the ceiling, at the enamel stars,

   let them lull you, slip into your dreams, let yourself go there, when not if, maybe.  

    

   but when all you really want to do is stare and stare, she rolls over,

   this mother-woman of sorts, her body a warm blanket, and cautions, as if all 

   that matters is what may come to pass: don’t stare up or you’ll get plaster in your eyes.

    

   2

    

   but then you catch the crackle of a family-sized packet of crisps

   and out they come, fresh from beneath her pillow, and down floats a crumb –

   Translated by Albert Gatt

   jew farka fakra

    

   1

    

   ta’ tliet snin tkun għadek tiftakar torqod fil-fil ta’ bejn sidirha,

   fit-tikmixiet ta’ ġilditha, fit-tpaħpiħ ta’ dirgħajha xxamplati,

   f’żaqqha tiljiet xaħam sproporzjonat – tkun torqod fiha kif trid.

    

   ta’ tliet snin tkun trid ukoll tħares minn tarf sa tarf tal-kamra 

   mbajda sala la bidu la tmiem bl-irkejjen ta’ ġewwa fuq barra.

   imma l-iktar l-iktar tkun trid tħares lejn is-saqaf ħa tara l-istilel enamel,

   ħa jħeddluk, ħa toħlomhom, ħa tmur fihom, meta mhux jekk, jista’ jkun.

    

   u meta taħseb li vera tkun trid tibqa’ tħares, iddur fuqek ġisimha kutra

   sħuna dix-xorta ta’ mara-omm u tgħidlek pronta, bħallikieku l-iktar

   li jimporta x’għad jiġri: tħarisx ’l fuq għax il-ġir jaqa’ f’għajnejk.

    

   2

    

   imbagħad kif tisma’ t-tħaxwixa tal-pakkett tal-krisps mill-kbar 

   ħerġin iqamrċu friski friski minn taħt imħadditha, taqa’ farka –

5. white privilege / il-privileġġ tal-abjad

   

   

   ENGMLT

   or we who never came by boat

    

   “a colorless, all-color of atheism from which we shrink” 

   Moby-Dick, Herman Melville

    

    

   imagine us arriving from the void, not from afar,

   not from a country crumbling in our laps

   falling apart with every sound emerging from our lips

   imagine us both white and here

   reiterating theorems received through childhood grapevines

    

   imagine us a single-minded silver constellation, stars treading

   along the milky way hampered by nothingness if nothing else

   our hand holding our neighbour’s hand as if we knew no other way

   as if the blood coursing through us were suffocation flowing in our pores

    

   imagine we were whales who only ever knew a slake of sea

   arrested between a new life surging on a wave and the oath of now

   agnostic, if you will, uncaptured and unwanted by the crisis we are in

    

   we neither know what the land dwellers know or what they don’t know,

   we’ve struggled with misapprehensions and proclivities for things

   spawned out of brine permeating our tomorrows

    

   in the pressure of the ebb imagine our discomfiture

   we the discomfited in the vacuity of white filling our sails

    

   how no port or ship or stork, swan or child will herald

   our arrival, how our poems rhyme half-heartedly, how evacuation

   is the same as the advent of the waters – we’ll come to know

    

   there simply is no other way for you to say that we are those who

   did not arrive on boats, on ships, on rafts sunk in the deeps

    

   the helmets are approaching from afar to save us

   but no salvation will ever be our cure

   Translated by Albert Gatt

   jew aħna li ma ġejniex bid-dgħajsa

    

   “a colorless, all-color of atheism from which we shrink”

   Moby-Dick, Herman Melville

    

    

   immaġinawna ġejjin mill-vojt, mhux mill-bogħod,

   mhux minn pajjiż qed jaqa’ biċċiet f’ħoġorna

   jitfarrak ma’ kull ittra li toħroġ minn fommna

   immaġinawna bojod u immaġinawna hawn

   nirrepetu t-teoremi li tarrfulna meta konna tfal

    

   immaġinawna kostellazzjoni stilel fidda u miġegħma waħda

   mexjin fit-triq ta’ sant’anna mxekklin imqar mix-xejn

   idejna f’idejn ta’ ħdejna qisna qatt ma konna nafu mod ieħor

   qisu d-demm li jiġri fina bħal soffokazzjoni tnixxi fil-pori

    

   immaġinawna baleni li ma sirniex nafu għajr niskata baħar

   arrestati bejn il-mewġa tross eżistenża ġdida u l-ħalfa t’issa

   anjostiċi, jekk trid, fi kriżi li la taqbadna u lanqas tridna

    

   ma nafux x’ma jafux in-nies tal-art u lanqas x’jafu,

   tqabadna mad-delużjoni jew il-preferenza għall-affarijiet 

   imdakkrin mis-sodju jkanġi x’jiġri għada

    

   fil-wasla tal-jofrogħ immaġinawna skomdi

   aħna l-iskomdi fil-telqa tal-abjad jimla l-qala

    

   kif ebda port jew vapur jew ċikonja, ċinja, tarbija ma taf 

   li wasalna, kif il-poeżija tirrima nofs gost, kif l-eżodu 

   hu l-istess bħall-avvent tal-ilmijiet – għad insiru nafu

    

   m’hemmx mod ieħor kif tgħidu li aħna dawk li 

   ma ġejniex bid-dgħajsa, bil-vapur, biċ-ċattriet fil-qiegħ

    

   l-elmijiet ġejjin mill-bogħod biex isalvawna

   u l-ebda salvazzjoni mhi se tikkurana

6. bubbles rising white beneath the surface / il-bżieżaq jissieltu għall-wiċċ

   

   

   ENGMLT

   or the palm of her hand

    

   She would discover white the day she held her hand out to the gas lamp. It was the night before the village feast, she didn’t know there’d been a power cut – everything in the square was lit. And when she got to her aunt’s, as soon as she saw the lamp on the table, she skipped towards it, brushing her sleeves against the crumbling wall, never mind auntie and uncle, grandpa and gran, and touched it with her fingers, the palm of her hand, all of it (nearly). Not just a single finger, or two, or three.

    

   That day she discovered the feel of bubbles rising white beneath the surface of her skin, her face a mask of pain.

   Translated by Albert Gatt

   jew in-nar tal-abjad

    

   Skoprietu, l-abjad, dakinhar li misset b’idha l-lampa tal-gass. Kien lejlet il-festa u ma kinitx taf li nqata’ d-dawl għax fil-pjazza kollox baqa’ kif kien. U kif daħlet għand zijitha, u kif rat il-lampa fuq il-mejda, marret bil-qabża, mesħet il-kmiem mal-ħajt ifarfar, addijo zija u ziju, nannu u nanna, u missitha b’subgħajha, bil-pala t’idha (kważi) kollha. Mhux suba’ wieħed, tnejn, tlieta.

    

   Dakinhar skopriet kif jinħassu l-bżieżaq bojod jissieltu għall-wiċċ u wiċċha pjaga.

7. hair roots / l-għeruq tax-xagħar

   

   

   ENGMLT

   or it all begins to look the same when memory fails

    

    

   28

    

   when at age twenty-eight I dyed my hair

   they told me I looked old – I had inverted the order

   of appearances between the young and old

   and it mattered not one jot

    

    

   82

    

   her count was eighty-two and many strands

   the colour of the tender skin of tots

   it had been a while since she’d dyed

   her hair or visited the hospital

    

    

   28

    

   long or not my hair’s a current of contagious

   colours that I’ve woven into my mother’s hair

   and his mother’s and ours, they inherit

   colours from me I try to tell your

   breaths and ghosts apart

    

   82

    

   she’s forgotten the last time she was at home

   her own, old people’s, hers, the elderly’s

   it all begins to look the same when memory fails

   it all looks the same when memory begins to fail

   when memory fails it all begins to look the same

   the same it all begins to look when memory fails

   Translated by Albert Gatt

   jew kollox jibda jsir xorta meta tinsa

    

    

   28

    

   meta ta’ tmienja u għoxrin żbagħt xagħri 

   qaluli nidher xiħa – qlibt l-ordni

   li jidhru fiha n-nies minn tfal għal xjuħ

   u ma kien jimporta xejn

    

    

   82

    

   kellha tnejn u tmenin u ħafna ħjut 

   minn lewn il-ġilda tarija tarbija

   kienet ilha ma tiżbogħ xagħarha u

   l-isptar kienet ilha ma tidħol ukoll

    

    

   28

    

   xagħri twil u mhux inixxi l-imxija

   tal-kuluri kollha li nsiġt f’xagħar ommi

   u ommu u ommijietna, jirtu huma

   l-kuluri mingħandi nipprova nagħraf

   id-distinzjoni bejn nifiskom u fatati

    

    

   82

    

   insiet l-aħħar darba li daħlet id-dar

   tagħha, tax-xjuħ, tagħha, tal-anzjani

   kollox jibda jsir xorta meta tinsa

   kollox xorta jsir meta tibda tinsa

   meta tinsa kollox xorta jibda jsir 

   kollox xorta jibda jsir meta tinsa

8. how you come into the world / kif tidħol f’did-dinja

   

   

   ENGMLT

   or the white room

    

   I remember how I brought myself into this world

   a room with no doors no windows

   no loops or corners

   no edge, no cliff or barrier

    

   in the room all in one colour colouring all

   down to each breath taken in and rendered back

   down to the fingertips and the fingers, tips

    

   close your eyes and you might see a thing or two

   when you walk as if you’re treading cotton mist

   as if you’re treading air and taking wing

    

   someday I will remember taking myself out of this world –

   Translated by Albert Gatt

   jew il-kamra l-bajda

    

   niftakarni nidħol f’did-dinja

   kamra bla bibien u bla twieqi

   bla kantunieri u bla ċrieki

   bla xfar, bla rdum u bla lqugħ

    

   fil-kamra bil-kollox kulur wieħed

   san-nifs li tiġbed u n-nifs li trodd

   sal-ponta tas-swaba’ u s-swaba’ ponot

    

   jekk tagħlaq għajnejk tara ħaġa tnejn

   meta timxi qisek qed timxi fuq iċ-ċpar tajjar

   qisek qed timxi fl-arja u tħossok qed ittir

    

   xi darba se niftakarni noħroġni minn did-dinja –

9. the diaphragm of days / id-dijaframma tal-jiem

   

   

   ENGMLT

   or the in or the out

    

   we are the in we are the out

   our breathing half the breath we used to have

   as we fly silent and bare

   like little children born as drops

   who so remained and never grew

   Translated by Albert Gatt

   jew ġewwa jew barra

    

   aħna l-ġewwa u l-barra

   in-nifs in-nofs li kellna darba

   aħna u ntira għeriewen u siekta

   bħal tfal żgħar li twieldu qtar

   u baqgħu le ma kibru qatt

10. the sea of white / il-baħar tal-abjad

    

    

    ENGMLT

    or white according to daniel massa

     

    “the waves pound the blade-edged holes crowning the rock

    recounting a shipwreck that has not yet come to pass

    but tomorrow there will be a glimpse its outline can be glimpsed already

    white sails whose shape and size and order

    her father chose yesterday”

     

    in my dreams appear fields and seas I’ve never visited

    unirrigated fields and a boiling August sea

    giving off a scent of jasmine and the torsion shape of pain

     

    places you have never taken me and yet feel like I’ve been 

     

    curled like a snail in bed I turn once more into a speck of dust

    become a surge of blood and spit and water lurking in the veins

     

    places you have never taken me and yet feel like I’ve been 

     

    when I depart it will be sea that I become and sail on

    and on until – there’s someplace else to plumb my own becoming

    new roads for me to roam, sands to echo

    other dreams, a ruptured white every tenth of the month

     

    places you have never taken me and yet feel like I’ve already been 

     

    the rice paddies in india and china

    the salt flats in bolivia

    the salt flats in bonneville

    the salt pans in qbajjar

    the salt mines in poland

     

    when I depart enshroud me with the sea

    salty as the salt of death shrouds

    and let this deep penetrating wound become

    a crystal white

    Translated by Albert Gatt

    jew l-abjad ta’ daniel massa

     

    “il-mewġ iħabbat mal-ħofor imxaffra kuruna fil-blat

    jirrakkonta nawfraġju li għad ma seħħx

    imm’għada jintlemaħ diġà dellu ntlemaħ

    qlugħ abjad fil-forma qies u ordni

    li lbieraħ għażel missierha”

     

     

    fil-ħolm jitfaċċaw l-għelieqi u l-ibħra li qatt ma żort

    uċuħ ta’ raba’ bagħli u l-baħar jagħli t’awwissu

    jarmi riħa ta’ ġiżimin u wġigħ forma ta’ skrejjen

     

    dawn l-imkejjen qatt ma ħadtni fihom u qisni mort

     

    nitkebbeb bebbuxu fis-sodda u nsir farka mill-ġdid

    insir demm u nsir bżieq u nsir ilma jissajja fil-vini

     

    dawn l-imkejjen qatt ma ħadtni fihom u qisni mort

     

    la nitlaq minn hawn insalpa l-baħar u nsir hu

    u sakemm – hemm imkien ieħor xi nsir fond

    hemm toroq ġodda xi nterraq, ramliet jidwu

    ħolm ieħor, abjad imżarrat kull l-għaxra tax-xahar

     

    dal-imkejjen qatt ma ħadtni fihom u qisni diġà mort 

     

    l-għelieqi tar-ross l-indja u ċ-ċina

    il-pjanuri tal-melħ il-bolivja 

    il-pjanuri tal-melħ bonneville

    is-salini fil-qbajjar

    il-mini tal-melħ il-polonja

     

    la nitlaq minn hawn iksini baħar

    mielaħ melħ ħa jgħatti l-mewt

    u dil-ferita fonda dieħla ’l ġewwa ssir 

    abjad kristall

11. the atrophy of wounds / l-atrofija tal-ġerħiet

    

    

    ENGMLT

    or until I feel the pain inside

     

    every wound in my body I’ve named a different name

    every wound happened once upon a time and not another

    obvious as these excommunicated words disjointed sentences

     

    even the same wound will have a different name sometimes

    like the asphyxia that assails us every evening

    that mottle on our right foot that keeps spreading

    the frenzy that besets us with every sunrise

     

    keep mouthing these atrophied words and you might give them form

     

    every wound in my body I’ve named a different name

    like a suppuration festering  until I feel the pain within

    Translated by Albert Gatt

    jew sa ma nweġġa’ ġewwa

     

    kull ġerħa f’ġismi tajtha isem differenti

    kull ġerħa ġrat xi darba u mhux oħra

    u ovvja daqs dal-kliem qisu sentenzi skumnikati

     

    u ġieli  l-istess ġerħa m’għandha l-istess isem

    bħall-asfissija li taħkimna kull flgħaxija

    bħal dabra dejjem tikber fuq sieqna l-leminija

    bħad-dellirju li jgħassarna maż-żerniq

     

    jekk tibqa’ tgħidu l-kliem atrofikat af tiffurmah

     

    kull ġerħa f’ġismi tajtha isem differenti

    bħal dieħes għadu jgħawwar sa ma nweġġa’ ġewwa

12. the day you deflowered me / dakinhar li żverġnajtni

    

    

    ENGMLT

    or the flow of white

     

    the day you deflowered me it wasn’t the horse I rode that tore me open

    but my filmy legs splayed wide I was sixteen

    and I wanted you to deflower me

     

    not to break me

    not to cum inside me

    not to penetrate me

    not to come in me

    not to love me

    Translated by Albert Gatt

    jew inixxili l-abjad

     

    dakinhar li żverġnajtni ma kienx iż-żiemel taħti li fetaqni

    kienu saqajja strazzi miftuħin beraħ u kelli sittax

    u ridtek tiżverġanani –

     

    mhux taqsamni

    mhux iġġibha

    mhux tinfidni

    mhux tiġi fija

    mhux tħobbni

13. a garden in May sunshine / il-ġnien fix-xemx ta’ mejju

    

    

    ENGMLT

    or a whiff of the northwest

     

    1

     

    my mother once taught me how to write flowers in the plural

    to hold them closed between pages of word ends

    since no more life roams in the veins and roots

    they’re long gone the petals pressed roaming spelling out

    scattered syllables giving off other scents

     

    2

     

    the lilies are dragged through the worries of another week

    the magnolia’s folded in the pinch of in-between

    the orchid stirs from the folds

    the tulip would rather be a rose

    the chrysanthemums are dried for years to come

    the jasmine wilts and loses hope

    the gladioli and the dahlias lie in this scatter of pages

     

    3

     

    these were my mother’s flowers which she learned to grow

    before I grew up and after she’d raised me

    she found a garden blooming in the May sunshine

    Translated by Albert Gatt

    jew riħa mill-majjistral

     

    1

     

    darba ommi għallmitni nikteb il-fjuri fil-plural

    ħa nagħlaqhom bejn il-paġni ta’ kliem tmiem

    la m’hemmx ħajja tħuf fil-vini u l-għeruq ilhom

    li telqu il-petali jfuħu mgħaffġin jispellu sillabi 

    skjerati u jarmu fwejjaħ immaljati modi oħra

     

    2

     

    il-ġilju traxxinat bit-thewdin ta’ ġimgħa oħra

    il-manjolja mitwija fil-qarsa bejn il-bejn

    l-orkidea tistira minn bejn it-tinjiet

    it-tulipan jitħajjar isir il-warda

    Il-kriżantemi mnixxfin għal snin oħra

    il-ġiżimna qed tnin u ma ssibx tarf

    il-gladjoli u d-dalji f’dal-ħafna folji żarmati

     

    3

     

    dawn il-fjuri ta’ ommi li tgħallmet tkabbarhom

    qabel kbirt jien u wara li kabbret lili

    sabet ġnien qed jistejqer fix-xemx ta’ mejju