Two Poems, (“On pain” and “On killing” I and II)

By Leanne Ellul, Translated from the Maltese by Albert Gatt

On pain

You talk of time and how its crooked ways will make us old as time.
of daily devotions.
of the g of goodness in good friday.
of statues and folks resembling statues.
of hail marys and hymnals.
of church—it was all we had back then.
of lashes, lines, and lanterns.
of figolli, too, perhaps.
of everything is sacred on good friday.
of everything’s a little sacred/sacrilegious.

Even the cry you uttered on that day was sacred.
One into the floor another to the skies.
The neighbors were all ears, you could tell but wouldn’t give them satisfaction.
And so you writhed in bed
clutching your chest the way you clutched your belly when you laughed.
The way you held me when the world seemed way too big.
Holding pain in your palm and refusing
to call the ambulance, Joe, I said no calls
or they will talk. They’ll say we called an ambulance, see,
there’s something wrong, there’s no one home, there’s sickness in the family.

No way, forget it ħi, no calls.

So when you reach the hospital, in a taxi, you keep your head bowed incognito.
Until we get there.
We’re here, gran, right here.
And then worry takes over, as it does.
Worry is what you do.
I mean, what else is there to do in bed after a heart attack but worry that
it’s just one sock you’re wearing and even if the doctor isn’t looking
the lord can tell it’s just the one and that’s not right.
So I pull up the single sock and show it to you and
pull it down, switch hands and pull it up again to
make you see that it’s a pair and you believe me.

Maybe in that moment you let go a bit and realized
I’d become more of a woman and could take
the weight of mismatched socks and ambulances and death.
And so you, woman, took your leave, giving birth to pain and tears.
Like you, gran, I have never cried.
Remember how I’d ask you why you never cried—
I’ve found out since that tears and pain are not the same.

And that the sharpest pains do not draw tears.


On killing I
after Sylvia Plath

Daddy’s gone he killed himself
before I had a chance to be through
to find him dead in his absolutes always
never two hundred percent no doubt.

I found him dead
in the heat of the oven that never turns on
in the chill coming out of his mouth
in the ceiling fan installed but never used
in the meat he chewed up and spat out
in the tea he guzzled
in the wine he spilled on the floor.

Deafened by the yells I’d have yelled
blinded by the syllables stuck in my throat
he spoke out of turn
he hemmed and hawed when he should’ve heard
his voice reached the sky and bounced back.

He’s killed himself my Daddy
with all the worry,
and he also killed the daughter
he managed to have
and managed, also, to lose.


On killing II

When I became a woman, Daddy
told me the story of Tiresias.

     He said he’d turned into a woman, Tiresias
     Said I could be like him
     That I was like him now I was a woman
     That I was different now I was a woman

     He never mentioned he’d gone back to man, Tiresias
     That he was only a woman seven years
     That he was blind, Tiresias

     No seven-year span will make me forget I’m a woman
     And no prophet will make me believe
     I can’t see

How’s this for a new vision
A priestess’s—not a children’s word, that
A prophet’s—and a woman prophet, at that

About the author and translator:

Leanne Ellul lectures in Maltese and writes both poetry and prose. She has written for theater and currently writes both textbooks and books for children, namely the award-winning books Noè u l-Iskojjatlu bla Kwiet (Merlin Publishers, 2019) and L-Istorja ta’ Seb it-Tieni (u ta’ Seb l-Ewwel ukoll) (Merlin Publishers, 2019). Ellul has also translated a number of works to Maltese. In 2016, she was named the emerging author of the year by the National Book Council of Malta. Her first collection of poems is entitled L-Inventarju tal-Kamra l-Kaħla [The Blue Room Inventory] (Merlin Publishers, 2020). Ellul is part of a number of entities that have the Maltese language and culture at heart, namely Inizjamed and Fondazzjoni HELA.www.leanneellul.net


Albert Gatt trained as a linguist and computer scientist. His research focuses on the use of language in artificial (AI) and human systems and on the relationship between perceptual and symbolic data. He has translated poetry and prose by several Maltese authors, including Clare Azzopardi, Karl Schembri, Claudia Gauci, and Achille Mizzi. Recent translations include Last-Ditch Ecstasy by Adrian Grima (Malta: Midsea Books, 2017 and Mumbai: Paperwall Publishing) and In the Name of the Father by Immanuel Mifsud (UK: Parthian, 2020). Excerpts from his translation of the modernist classic Nanna’s Children in America by Juann Mamo (1934) have appeared in the journal CounterText. He currently works at Utrecht University in the Netherlands and is also affiliated with the University of Malta.