Δουλεύω
It was a bright sunny day before the vernal equinox,
And I strolled through Manchester,
Books on my back, returning pages,
And seeking more words that would inspire me.
As I entered the poetry library,
I encountered instead the pulse of a different rhythm –
A conversation in translation.
The usher politely asked me to be quiet –
I shuffled around the shelves,
Picking up random books and reading.
The photographer, suddenly, almost pleading,
Implored, “Come and join us. Have a seat.”
So I did as A. E. Stallings said,
“Translation is like sexual reproduction,”
Jeffrey Yang nodded —
“Translation is just sexy.”
Not fully grasping, but sensing something
In the shimmer of an idea—the way words
Birth new meanings
And find new homes in strange tongues.
Then this word summed it up perfectly.
The Greek verb δουλεύω
Once meaning to be slave,
Now to work. Shocking, I thought.
To slave for work?
To bind your breath
To the rhythm of capitalism’s relentless machine,
The grind of the wheel
That keeps your mind unthinking,
The spirit weighed down by servitude?
Remember the Greek financial crisis?
The crash of the economy,
The crash of dreams—
Everything reduced to exchange—
State assets traded for debt.
How a single word can carry the past
In its breath, creating similies for the future.
How work becomes slavery,
Consuming goods and inflated services
Ensnaring most in debt.
A word, once shackled by chains,
Unbounded.
Its shackles hidden in the schemes
Of lords and multinational politicians.
Jamaicans reframe it Politricks.
And somewhere in the stacks,
After the lecture had finished,
Between the books I sought for inspiration,
I pondered:
Translation isn’t just sexy.
It’s evolution.
Almost survival.