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Poem by Mary Hobson


Translators Lament


    To Umut and Ian

On Saturday I wrote the last full-stop.
Onegin was to be
my swansong. Probably
the swans have better timing,
but Im still here. Bereft. Whats worse,
after this long apprenticeship in verse,
theres no escape.
Im like an athlete over-running the tape,
Ill rhyme until I drop.
I am addicted to iambic rhyming.
While I could sit in bed
and English everything he said
and tear my brain apart
in an endeavour
somewhere between a crossword and fine art 
life was splendid.
And then it ended.
I wrote the final line.
I knew it couldnt last for ever,
But I was safer inside Pushkins head.
It isnt half as comfortable in mine.



Mary Hobson


Mary Hobson's other poems:
  1. Laundry Blues
  2. The Counsellors
  3. Summer in Zaraisk or Who wrote Shakespeare?
  4. Now I will always know that you died
  5. Waterloo Station


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