Verses by George Topârceanu, translated by Julia Kalman
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In the doctor’s office, it’s clear and neat,
Doctors inquire about your winds and heat.
They want to know it all, the abundance, the phases,
Some call them “breezes,” others term them “gases.”
But don’t be surprised if medicine today
Studiously examines what “bottoms” convey.
Biologically, for everyone it’s clear,
To break wind is something very dear.
Everyone does it, it’s an axiom,
Sound or scent doesn’t matter, we’re all with him.
In this regard, we’re all the same
The flower of nobility, priests, princes,
Even the Pope from Rome farts, and then he winces.
Yet, in one matter, it must be grasped,
Everyone farts but at home, unsurpassed!
Without witnesses, whether strong or slow,
No one dictates how discreetly you should go.
Short bursts or lingering tunes to sound,
It’s your business, you’re free, you can make it profound!
And even if no one is around,
You can fart freely till you hit the ground.
Etiquette demands, though, to be discreet,
Good manners insist not to fart on the street.
Imagine, for instance, hearing someone state,
That in public, Mrs. So-and-so passed wind, of late.
Or that Miss, Teacher X, without a care,
Let one loose in class, precisely at 9, beware!
How would they be looked at, or qualified,
Would they retain prestige, authority beside?
Who would believe them to be graceful beings?
They’d be considered just a bunch of wind-bringers.
But let me return now to the realm of medicine,
Risking your health for a gas release, is it genuine?
To hold it in if you’re in public, is the rule,
Because etiquette demands that you be cool.
On this matter, opinions abound,
Who has time to listen to all around?
Some say you can let it go however much,
But you must know when to reign it in and clutch.
You can be the same person with dignity,
Politely letting it out when setting it free.
This is one opinion, one among many,
But morals dictate it’s hypocrisy.
What’s the difference between a man and a horse,
Morally speaking, of course?
When you present yourself with pride, plump, and fair,
But in reality, you’re just a gas-filled air?
How many are there who fart with might,
As if you’d ever know what’s by their backside?
But the law remains, it’s indelicate,
To release gas in public, it’s a strict mandate.
Fine, you can’t argue with morals, I guess,
But gas sometimes arrives without redress.
It whistles and moans with a prolonged echo,
And you have the misfortune to be at your desk, oh!
In such cases, tell me, what do you do?
Apologize or act like you’re in the loo?
From my experience, I tell you without jest,
I never dared, truly, in my life’s quest
To apologize, it would’ve been worse,
To make the whole world around me curse.
I dragged a chair, did something quick,
So people wouldn’t think I passed gas, slick.
And even if they say I’m a hypocrite,
Others have pretended they didn’t hear it.
Even lovers, when admiring the moon,
Unintentionally let slip a sonic boom.
But with a well-staged, dry cough,
Or a nasal melody, a bit off,
You can make everything hide, like poetry,
Even the unwanted, short symphony,
That passed through the bowels and flew in the air,
Disrupting our lives in this earthly lair.
But in such cases, when hypocrisy
Is associated even with poetry,
Our moralists consider it a sin.
Because morals stick their noses in.
In the end, every person wonders sadly:
Should I listen to the doctor or the moralist madly?
And there’s one more thing without much ado,
What to do with your butt if it doesn’t listen too?
George Topârceanu (born on March 20, 1886, Bucharest — died on May 7, 1937, Iași) was a Romanian poet, prose writer, memoirist, and journalist, corresponding member of the Romanian Academy.
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