Poetry Night…mare and aloe plant.

Ekaterina Campbell
Nov 21
3 min read

I was hired to interpret a poetry night at the Sharjah International Book Fair. There were two Russian poets; the organisers did not give me the poems ahead of time. They even said, “We have a Hindu interpreter, he didn’t ask for anything.”

Frankly, I was a bit selfish. I’d always wanted to go to the biggest book fair in the world, but the thought of driving to Sharjah was killing me. This felt like the perfect excuse, so I agreed, hoping to play it by ear (понадеялась на авось).

I met the two poets 15 minutes before the session. They happily handed me about thirty poems to translate. Even ChatGPT got a bit tired and started producing gibberish. I didn’t even have time to read through the translations.

The first poet was a skinny guy with the classic “poet look”: dreamy eyes, curly hair, soft manners. All he lacked was a scarf frivolously wrapped around his neck and a small, leather-bound notebook in his hands, its cover worn and scuffed with age, as if a capricious Muse had visited far less often than she should. You just knew this man had been living on unrequited love and metaphors since forever.

He started reading a poem about an aloe plant which unlike people is totally harmless. I tried to keep a similar melody in English, line by line. The audience, however, was 100% locked onto the Arabic. Nobody understood Russian, and nobody cared about English.

The audience was silent. When the poet finished, a tall, thin African man stood up from the audience and asked the Russian poet, in perfect Russian:

“Have you read any Arabic poetry, and how much have Arabic poets influenced your work?”

“I haven’t,” the Russian poet replied. “But I have friends in Kazakhstan. I really like what they write.”

The African gentleman then translated everything into Arabic. The audience suddenly came to life.

After that, I was quietly replaced by a person from the audience who knew both Russian and Arabic.

I set off for home. First there was a gridlock, then the cars finally started moving. The road was dark and unfamiliar. I hit a curb and got a flat tire. I ended up stranded in the middle of nowhere with a dead wheel and strange people walking around. I cried and called for help. Help came in 30 minutes in a form of road assistance.

When I finally got home, it was past midnight.

Was it worth it? Probably not.But now I have a decent English version of a poem about aloe — and a very clear version of my own professional boundaries in both languages.

Aloe does us no harm;

it sits quiet and solo

in a round-bellied pot

in the window’s hollow.

Aloe has no stick nor carrot

hidden up its sleeve,

Aloe keeps no grudge in garrets,

it never will deceive.

Aloe doesn’t rage

if ever water is in lack;

Aloe doesn’t mind

when chilly winds slip through the crack;