Black and TanMy grandmother knew the opening scrapeof her front gate was not a friend,told us she remembered staying perfectly still,his hard steps crunching through her.She didn’t remember his face,how long he stood in her kitchen,what lies or truths she utteredwhile my infant aunt gurgled in her cot.She did remember his words:I have a little girl like this at home, myself.For sixty-three y ...
Black and Tan
My grandmother knew the opening scrape
of her front gate was not a friend,
told us she remembered staying perfectly still,
his hard steps crunching through her.
She didn’t remember his face,
how long he stood in her kitchen,
what lies or truths she uttered
while my infant aunt gurgled in her cot.
She did remember his words:
I have a little girl like this at home, myself.
For sixty-three years she stepped over
the spot on her flagged floor
where the Black and Tan had stood.
[previously published in STUDIES, Ireland, print journal, 2001]
BLACK AND TAN
Ma grand-mère savait fort bien
En entendant le grincement de la porte d’entrée
Que la personne qui venait lui rendre visite n’était pas un ami.
Elle nous disait qu’elle était restée parfaitement calme
Ecoutant les pas bruyants approcher.
Elle ne se rappelait pas son visage
Ni le temps qu’il avait passé dans sa cuisine
Encore moins les mensonges ou les vérités
Qu’elle avait proférés
Pendant que ma tante, alors tout bébé, gazouillait
Dans son lit d’enfant.
Mais elle se souvenait très bien des mots qu’il avait prononcés :
Moi-même, j’ai une petite fille comme celle-ci à la maison.
Pendant soixante-trois ans, elle n’avait cessé d’enjamber
La marque sur son plancher affaissé
Qu’avait laissée, se tenant debout devant elle,
Le Black and Tan.
Noel King
Traduit en français par Athanase Vantchev de Thracy
27 décembre 2010
Old Silver
Her cup has been stolen again.
Last time she’d been lucky,
the police found it in a ditch
on a neighbour’s farm.
If it turns up this time
her family can no longer enjoy
its sheen, her story repeats:
being the only woman
on the team that rowed
to victory – August 11th, 1928;
because her taut arms have softened,
and hardened, pink lips whitened. She’s
dead as the crack-man rows to new prey.
[previously published in The Poet Tree, England, circa 1999]
Copyright © 2009 Noel King
When I come
Why is it always at the wrong time the passion, anger, pure imagination Why cant we write poems in aside spaces I had my pant down in Houston Station when this came to me.
Noel King
BIOGRAPHY:
Noel King
Noel King was born and lives in Tralee, Ireland. His poems, haiku, Short stories, reviews and articles have been published in over thirty countries. His debut collection, Prophesying the Past, appears from Salmon in 2010.
noelking@eircom.net
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