Lost in Translation

 

 

To be a translator, believe me it’s sad,

To be a translator, you have to be mad-

Who else would sit in a room

Encased in loneliness more like a tomb?

 

Who else would fondle a microphone cable

Or typewriter keyboard when perfectly able

To fondle some better more pliant device?

(It happens to others, they say it’s quite nice.)

 

Who else would apply so much love, care, devotion

To something that is another man’s notion?

Who else would spend hours to seek out one word

Just to ensure he writes nothing absurd?

 

Who else would read carefully through some epistle

Produced by a half-wit who had better whistle

Than write rotten copy that doesn’t mean much,

Yet expects a translation in, say, perfect Dutch?

 

Who else would accept that every job’s hot

When he knows that it’s probably not

And flog himself silly to see the work through

Then wait for three months not collecting one sou?

 

Who else would put up at social occasions

With statements like: “Oh, you do translations.-

There’s not much to that, after all it’s your lingo,

So where are the problems, why labour that thing so?”

 

Who else would be willing each day of the year

To sit exam where the pass-mark’s a mere

One hundred percent or perhaps just below?

If you think that’s easy, why not have a go?

 

And yet it’s a challenge which on reflection

Provides enormous job satisfaction.

Those who enjoy it will never desert

The odd fascination of the “foreign” word

-Wort, oh what the hell…

 

 

J.H. Hayes