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Some translation of Świetlicki (by Zofia Malgrab)

The third half

SHIT HAPPENS, that's how
the writing on men's toilet wall ends.
This is the worst -
to walk with such hunger
of at least minimal glow - to find
only this, the writing at night toilet,
that's how it looks, pussycat
and that's how it ends



Dogs make love on the pavement. I pretended a tenor
for fifteen minutes, till sudden lack
of tenor voice on the radio and the last movement
of my mouth was like fishy and I only pushed out
a cloud of silence. I squeeze a sheet of paper in my hand:
IF YOU FEEL MORTAL - CALL IN

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Another Ireland: Part Two
Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
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I began the first half of this article (Notre Dame Review #4) by mentioning some of the limits to the legendary hospitality Ireland has shown to its poets. If you arrive in Ireland from any point of departure outside of Eastern Europe, you will indeed find a public far more willing than the one you left behind to grant poets the recognition all but the most ascetic secretly crave. However, this hospitality has never extended to Irish poets w…