In the past few decades the writings, novels and essays of Joseph Roth (1894-1939) have undergone a renaissance. Michael Hofmann’s translations have brought many of the more obscure works of the Mitteleuropa-Jewish writer to an English language audience.
Jerzy Kosiński was the Polish name his father gave to save him
So he was forged for a new eternal existence.
He was born Józef Lewinkopf in Łódź,
A child of the Shoah.
The cylindrical wicker stand
Supports a metal plate
On which is perched a candle
In earthen coloured shades.
Morning light flecks and floods
the house. A thought breaks out.
A shower sprays.
It runs away.
Breakfast cereal box
as, watching the clock,
there is an idea to toss
and then off.
Did dogs burst out barking
with the discovery in digging and dis-earthing
the finding of the King’s near complete skeleton?
Debilitated as a beached whale,
The child trembled like an old woman beyond the pale.
After the cyclone, the town is like a smashed termite top,
Hot as a flaming sunspot.
What have we done
now that we’re committed?
How could Dexter and Rosalie
pull off this poetic con
to discover unchartered hinterlands of talent
believing they are better than ordinary?