Immanuel Mifsud [Malta]

 

 

How to Write a Poem
 
I wish you could tell me how you write poems 
since your hands cannot carry pencils anymore 
and you cannot keep your eyes open. 
 
Darkness throws light on my pupils; 
it shows me the way I can take 
without seeing where it will lead me. 
Darkness lifts my pencil and it draws for me 
beautiful scenes I never saw before. 
I’m slowly starting to understand the story 
the northeast wind told me 
on that morning when it caught me taking the first steps. 
I’m understanding how simple the tale is; 
how light the notes of this song. 
You don’t need much to write a poem: 
You only need long, sleepless nights; 
dark places you’ve never been; 
visits from strangers and dead friends; 
beautiful memories and live corpses 
waiting amidst hordes of stopped clocks; 
and the most beautiful woman waiting alone, 
and the gold-hearted man tempted to talk to her. 
You don’t need much: all you need is a cottage 
with closed windows through which you never look, 
a vast sea in your room from where you set out 
toward blurred lines between the deep and the sky. 
You don’t need much: just an avalanche of years 
poised at the brink soon to crush you. 
 
 
Metropolis
 
Your streets pump blood into me. 
Like when they switch off the lights early in the morning 
and I return home with eyes like limestone; 
ears droning with after-hum of music that has stopped. 
I’m off to die for a while, then at evening again 
I'll feel the streets, invigorating. 
 
Love is at the end of the block, 
waiting and rejoicing when it sees me coming. 
Love is at the centre of a square, scantily dressed; 
in the middle of alleys where no one walks. 
Love is where cars cruise. 
Love is where crowds gather, 
pressing tight, on Friday nights; 
or in the message you sent me wanting to hook up 
even though I do not know you: 
hi, okay? i’m the one who texted you earlier 
i'm outside waiting wearing red 
long haired – who are you? 
 
Love is the light sprawling all over.  
Love is the dark where we hide, 
grinding: old women leaving their ailments behind 
and young machos still turned on by their mummies. 
 
Love is the racket at one a.m.; 
the taxicab waiting at the stand; 
the tram overtaken by melancholy. 
Love is these streets gorging with blood, 
exactly as they're turning off the lights early in the morning 
and I return home with yet a new ghost. 
 
 
They Will Lie Down
 
Don’t try to understand the strength of trees. 
One day — in two or three hundred years' time— 
they too will falter and lie down. 
 
(Translated by Ruth Ward and Immanuel Mifsud)
 

 
Author’s Bionote:
 
*Immanuel Mifsud (b. 1967) is a Maltese writer and professor of literature at the University of Malta. He is the author of several books of prose and poetry in Maltese, including short story collections, novels, and children’s literature. His works have been published both locally and internationally, with translations appearing in a number of languages. Mifsud has received multiple literary awards, most notably the European Union Prize for Literature in 2011 for his book “Fl-Isem tal-Missier (u tal-Iben)” [In the Name of the Father (and of the Son)]. He has also been awarded the Malta National Book Prize on several occasions across different categories. In addition to his creative writing, he has contributed to literary criticism and has been involved in various cultural and literary initiatives in Malta and abroad.