"I know what I'll call it, " he said.
"I've tried.
That's what I'll call it. I've tried.
I. Apostrophe. Vee. Ee. Tried.
I've tried.
That's what I'll call it
When I've written it
My life story.
I. Apostrophe. Vee. Ee. Tried.
I've tried."
And satisfied at having once again
asserted his claim
to the title of a book that would never be written
this working man in a bar in a country town
who had lived through a depression childhood
service as a squaddie in a vicious war
and countless labouring jobs
downed the tail end of his pint
and called for another
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem