When the Translator Disappears, the Translation Withers and Dies
by Bill Yarrow
The kidnapping of the translator
made big news for a short time
but then the general incomprehensibility
of things resumed and everyone,
except Lorraine, went back to work.
Lorraine refused to extend the futility
of human communication—what was
the point? she wanted to know. What
was the point of speaking if, now that
the translator had been kidnapped,
no one (no one!) could decipher what she
or anyone else had to say? Lorraine could
not fathom how people could return to work.
How was work even possible? she wondered.
An iron silence began to oppress her as she
slept. It crept into her body and she felt herself
incapable of raising her arms in greeting or to
ward off a blow. She sank deep into bitterness,
dreading the dawn and the sight of neighbors
egregious in their pretense of meaningful speech.
She pined for the return of the translator who
became messianic in her eyes. Her dreams became
denuded of images, infused only with two lines
of unvarying dialogue. “Come back to me.” “Can't.
Can't you see I've never left?” It was the translator
speaking. He was holding her in his arms. He was
looking at her with the tenderness she so terribly
craved. She felt, suddenly, as if for the first time,
understood. And she understood perfectly, perfectly,
the repressed caress of words that poured from his mouth.
made big news for a short time
but then the general incomprehensibility
of things resumed and everyone,
except Lorraine, went back to work.
Lorraine refused to extend the futility
of human communication—what was
the point? she wanted to know. What
was the point of speaking if, now that
the translator had been kidnapped,
no one (no one!) could decipher what she
or anyone else had to say? Lorraine could
not fathom how people could return to work.
How was work even possible? she wondered.
An iron silence began to oppress her as she
slept. It crept into her body and she felt herself
incapable of raising her arms in greeting or to
ward off a blow. She sank deep into bitterness,
dreading the dawn and the sight of neighbors
egregious in their pretense of meaningful speech.
She pined for the return of the translator who
became messianic in her eyes. Her dreams became
denuded of images, infused only with two lines
of unvarying dialogue. “Come back to me.” “Can't.
Can't you see I've never left?” It was the translator
speaking. He was holding her in his arms. He was
looking at her with the tenderness she so terribly
craved. She felt, suddenly, as if for the first time,
understood. And she understood perfectly, perfectly,
the repressed caress of words that poured from his mouth.
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Author's Note
This poem appeared in BLIP Magazine (now New World Writing), guest edited by Courtney Eldridge.
The poem appears in Pointed Sentences (BlazeVOX, 2012).
Other stories by Bill Yarrow
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Amazing poem, Bill. *
Strong work, Bill. I really like the character sketch in this piece -
"It crept into her body and she felt herself
incapable of raising her arms in greeting or to
ward off a blow. She sank deep into bitterness,
dreading the dawn and the sight of neighbors
egregious in their pretense of meaningful speech."
Well-written. Good form. I like it.
I really like this. *
The translator has been kidnapped? Horrors! This one gets an A+ for originality. Plus a *.
Excellent, Bill.
This has a depth that cries for and provides meaning in such a beautifully cryptic way.
fav
Lovely, Bill. I like the feeling of her shutting down and then opening back up.
This is fine, Bill, indeed quite wonderful.
The expanding progress of the lines says to me "Prose. We want to be prose."
(I heartily agree with David, but was not brave enough to say so on a first read through.)
What a wonderful respite from the general incomprehensibiliy of things.
perhaps he was kidnapped, but then he surly returned to her.
The general incomprehensibility of things, yes, where is that translator?
"Can't you see I've never left?”
I'm still waiting for the light to come on. But I can admire your words, phrases, and poetry, nonetheless.
Supremely talented poetry of the very highest order. To be read again and again for pleasure.That's how good and how remarkable your gift is, Bill. Thank you for sharing it.
Gotta say I loved the neighbors and their - 'egregious pretense of meaninful speech' Nice one.
This is so good, Bill, it almost reads itself. It just rolls along. Love "repressed caress".
"denuded dreams" will stay with me. as will lorraine's somewhat surreal grief. wonderful relationship parabola. relationship with self, really.
So much depth, and just enough mystery. As always, beautiful work, Bill.
"Her dreams became
denuded of images, infused only with two lines
of unvary ing dia logue. "
*
Awesome, Bill. :)
Shades of Stephen Dobyns here.
I dig it.
This piece is so original. Denuded dreams -- come back to me -- this is a keeper. Well done! *
iron silence in the repressed caress of words
Great concept and a fine piece, Bill
I love the way your mind works, the creative choices you make, the line, arc, curves of your piece. So uncommonly you. Great prosey-poetry piece. *
This was lovely. Very mythic in the way certain Latin American writing can be.
i like this very very much and I think I agree with Ackley.
beautiful.
a truly solid and inventive write - like lots
* Great.
Do I ever love this, Bill! So many levels, and they all speak to me. I happen to be a translator, so there is that. But then of course the last half moves it onto another plane: the very nature of communication, of our ability to speak or to remain mute.
I also love your diction. "An iron silence began to oppress her", "Her dreams became
denuded of images", " repressed caress of words" -- great stuff. Can I give you more than one fav?
Wow - I'm late to this party but wow, am I glad I made it. I wish I could click fave over and over again. Love it *
"iron silence"
"repressed caress of words"
Terrific piece Bill - fraught, moody, fascinating.*
'An iron silence began to oppress her as she
slept.'
Strong line in a strong piece.
This is impeccable and haunting.
I love the emotions this conveys, so powerfully. *
Another oh my. Reminds me of that section in Portrait of a Lady where Isabel muses over her state after Gilbert's business has broken to the surface.
! Lovely.