Jérôme Leroy writes novels, short stories, noir, and scripts. As excellent as these are, his poetry is maybe the best part of his work (although not having read all of his output, I could be wrong.) Here’s a poem of his in English and then in original French. Anything that sounds less than extraordinary is the fault of my translation. His latest collection is Sauf dans les chansons, published by La Table Ronde.
The dead are not dead.
They rent hotel rooms by the week
In small towns, in winter.
The dead are not dead
They look out the window
On Main Street, covered with snow
The dead are not dead
They’ll live in the middling hotel
Room number 15
The dead are not dead.
They’re charmed by the wardrobe, the mirror
And the slightly dated bathroom
The dead are not dead
They’re surprised to catch a glimpse of themselves as they were,
when they were young
The dead are not dead
They calmly unpack their bags —
Light — just the necessities
The dead are not dead
They are finally
Without trinkets and red tape
The dead are not dead
Without newspapers piling up around them
Without the just-opened letters
The dead are not dead
They like the crispness
Of room number 15.
The dead are not dead
Soon, they’ll probably go down,
Take a walk in town
The dead are not dead
No one will recognize them
As their steps crunch in the snow
The dead are not dead
Like the rasp of catarrh
Maybe a drink in this bar
The dead are not dead
They note the difference
Between this and Dante’s Purgatory
The dead are not dead
The receptionist with the coal dark eyes
Reminds them of worn out loves
The dead are not dead
They like the soothing purity
Of a room arranged just so.
The dead are not dead
Unknown, and yet so friendly
They stretch out on the double bed
The dead are not dead
They read the single book
Chosen especially for the trip
The dead are not dead
They know every page
But finally they understand it
The dead are not dead
The snow still falls the snow falls again
They fall silent, smiling, say to themselves
The dead are not dead
They rent hotel rooms by the week
In small towns, in winter.
–Jérôme Leroy
(photo by René Burri)
In the original French:
Just Before Dark 