With Only One Life

Hold with both hands

The tray of every day

And pass in turn

Along this counter.

There is enough sun

For everybody.

There is enough sky,

And there is moon enough.

The earth gives off the smell

Of luck, of happiness, of glory,

Which tickles your nostrils

Temptingly.

So don’t be miserly,

Live after your own heart.

The prices are derisory.

For instance, with only one life

You can acquire

The most beautiful woman,

Plus a biscuit.

MARIN SORESCU

translated from the Romanian by D.J. Enright with Ioana Russell-Gebbett

The Biggest Egg in the World (Bloodaxe Books, 1987)

I heard ‘With Only One Life’ before I read it. It was one of the first poetry readings I had been to, a 24-hour sponsored ‘poethon’ at the ICA to raise funds for the then decrepit Moniack Mhor writing centre in Scotland.

The idea was that each participating poet had to recite from memory ten minutes of their poetry to qualify for sponsorship by friends and family, in the usual manner. (I can still remember who cheated by whipping out copies of their books.)

Marin Sorescu, whose English was non-existent, was accompanied by Alan Jenkins offering a line-by-line translation ‘for those of us whose Romanian [was] a bit rusty’. As I remember, it was the highlight of the evening, poem after wry poem delivered in declamatory Romanian, each line pursued by its after-echo in impeccable English.

It could be rose-tinted spectacles, but I clearly remember the audience falling around laughing at the final line of ‘With Only One Life’. I still love its underlying seriousness, almost in spite of its utterly clear translation and plain-speaking tone.