JOHN MOLE

The Cigarette

I was our sixth-form writer,
knew exactly how to look in paperback
before I’d typed a word, which meant
tough novels and essentially
the cigarette. The way to hold it
was like this, to prop yourself above
a portable Olympia, your fingers stained
and raking upwards from the palm
which cupped your brow, and that
was how you waited for the inspiration.
There, from the plunging apex of a V,
it stuck out with its brittle droop of ash
about to fall, but you were miles away
in Monterey or Little Rock because
it had to be America, remembering
the hard road to success, the guys
you’d left behind you in the flophouse
and the loneliness of night drives
in the cabin of a twelve-wheel truck.
Then later came the second take
when you had won the Pulitzer,
when naked to the waist, medallioned,
in white bermudas with the cigarette
still smoking at the far tip of your grin,
you faced the Newsweek cameras
but with the virtue now gone out of you,
a ghost, an ectoplasmic gauze
around the blur of indecipherable eyes.
And that was how I pictured it, the famous
end to the career I dreamed of
and the price of fame, burnt out,
with every title selling millions
and no need of a photograph at all
except the blown-up still life on each cover
of a last stub lying in its tray.


 

Tigara

Eram scriitorul clasei intr-a sasea,
stiam exact cum sa arat pe coperta cartii
dinainte sa tastez vreun cuvant, adica
romane dure si in primul rand
tigara. Felul in care trebuia tinuta
era asa, pe deasupra unei Olympia
portabile se vedeau degetele patate
ce se curbau in sus din causul palmei
care sustinea fruntea si asa
asteptai inspiratia.
Acolo, din varful semet al unui V,
iesea in evidenta cu varfu-i sfaramicios de cenusa
pe cale sa cada, dar tu erai cu gandul departe
in Monterey sau Little Rock pentru ca
trebuia sa fie undeva in America, amintindu-ti
drumul greu spre succes, tipii pe care
i-ai lasat in urma in pensiunea ieftina
si singuratatea drumurilor de noapte
in cabina unui autocamion pe douasprezece roti.
Apoi, mai tarziu, urma a doua ipostaza
cand, dupa ce ai castigat Pulitzer-ul,
erai gol pana la brau, in medalion,
purtand bermude albe cu tigara inca fumegand
in coltul departat al zambetului fortat
si te uitai la camerele Newsweek-ului
dar fara urma de virtute de data asta,
o fantoma, un voal ectoplasmatic
in jurul paclei ochilor indescifrabili.
Si iata cum mi-am imaginat faimosul
sfarsit al carierei la care am visat
si pretul faimei, mistuit,
cu fiecare titlu vandut in milioane de exemplare
fara sa mai fie nevoie de vreo fotografie
decat macroimaginea unei naturi moarte pe toate copertele
a unui ultim chistoc intr-o scrumiera.

Din volumul For the Moment, Peterloo Poets,2000

Translated by Octavia Marinescu