Mary Hobson

Translator’s 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 I’m still here. Bereft. What’s worse,
after this long apprenticeship in verse,
there’s no escape.
I’m like an athlete over-running the tape,
I’ll 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 couldn’t last for ever,
But I was safer inside Pushkin’s head.
It isn’t half as comfortable in mine.