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John Kinsella translates Ouyang Yu

By November 2021, Ouyang Yu has published 137 books in both English and Chinese in the field of fiction, nonfiction, poetry, literary translation and criticism. His second book of English poetry, Songs of the Last Chinese Poet, was shortlisted for the 1999 NSW Premier’s Literary Award. His third novel, The English Class, won the 2011 NSW Premier’s Award, and his translation in Chinese of The Fatal Shore by Robert Hughes won the Translation Award from the Australia-China Council in 2014. He won the Judith Wright Calanthe Award for a Poetry Collection in the 2021 Queensland Literary Awards, his bilingual blog at: youyang2.blogspot.com

 

无题

Intermingling the waves of sleep
with the bric-a-brac of instructions,

I shift one word via another word
and take a left turn at a left turn

wondering which direction
they want me to take — I refuse,

of course, looking for codes
in the blossoming of transplanted

trees, those uprights of consonants
in the calligraphy I write maps with;

how much eating and shitting
can the room of a vowel take

out of homonyms and the particles
I line up to the appropriate side

of some old old universe — blowing
hot & cold, the stem of a lotus

simply the direction heaven lays down:
atonal tones on an instrument tongue —

seconded people leaving my mouth,
shout outs and tongue twists waking asleep.

 

John Kinsella’s recent books include the memoir Displaced: A Rural Life (Transit Lounge, 2020), the co-written poetry collection The Weave (with Thurston Moore, UWAP, 2020) and the collection of stories Pushing Back (Transit Lounge, 2021). Vagabond published Supervivid Depastoralism (poems) and Five Islands Press (Apothecary Archive) Saussure’s Kaleidoscope: Graphology Drawing-Poems in 2021. UWAP will bring out the first volume of his collected poems The Ascension of Sheep: Poems 1980-2005 in early 2022. He lives in wheatbelt Western Australia on Ballardong Noongar land.

Ouyang Yu translates Zhang Meng

Zhang Meng, born in 1975, is a member of Shanghai Writers Association and has published five books of poetry.

 

High Summer

I was sitting beneath a cool loofah shed
I had let go of a strayed snake
the one I didn’t want to see went past my door on time again
I had won praise from a goose
I am always eased into sleep by the sound of cicadas
I walk on the earthen road with bright puddles
moonlight like flat salt, salt in the country
my old neighbour, prior to the coming of his centennial
cries for his dead partner every night
I often dream of the ancient gingko that wakes up
its bulgy bark thicker than a history book
the autumn wind was cruising in the reeds
decades after, there are fresh footprints of wild rabbits
apart from those of the egrets, and in the dews
and the thin birdcalls in the early mornings
I wander between the stone bridge and the sound of the tide
I blow the sound of a reed that defies understanding
I’ve lost myself, having woken up
another self

but, I am in a cinema

 

By November 2021, Ouyang Yu has published 137 books in both English and Chinese in the field of fiction, nonfiction, poetry, literary translation and criticism. His second book of English poetry, Songs of the Last Chinese Poet, was shortlisted for the 1999 NSW Premier’s Literary Award. His third novel, The English Class, won the 2011 NSW Premier’s Award, and his translation in Chinese of The Fatal Shore by Robert Hughes won the Translation Award from the Australia-China Council in 2014. He won the Judith Wright Calanthe Award for a Poetry Collection in the 2021 Queensland Literary Awards, his bilingual blog at: youyang2.blogspot.com

Alexander Alexandrovich Blok translated by Paul Magee

Alexander Alexandrovich Blok was born in 1880 and died in 1921. He is celebrated as the foremost of the Russian symbolists. His first book was entitled Verses about the Beautiful Lady.

 
 
 
 

 

 

Ночь,улиа,
фонарь, аптека


Ночь, улица, фонарь, аптека,
Бессмысленный и тусклый свет.
Живи ещё хоть четверть века —
Всё будет так. Исхода нет.

Умрёшь — начнёшь опять сначала
И повторится всё, как встарь:
Ночь, ледяная рябь канала,
Аптека, улица, фонарь.
Night, a street-lamp and a chemist’s

Night, a street-lamp and a chemist’s.
This lustreless, meaningless globe.
Have twenty more years, or some more.
No one’s ever known an exit.

You’ll die. Start it all over again:
everything repeats the past.
Night, an ice-cold ripple
in the canal, a street-lamp and a chemist’s.


 

 
Paul Magee is author of Stone Postcard (2014), Cube Root of Book (2006) and the prose ethnography From Here to Tierra del Fuego (2000). Paul majored in Russian and Classical languages, and has published translations of Vergil, Catullus, Horace and Ovid. He is currently working on a third book of poems, The Collection of Space. Paul is Associate Professor of Poetry at the University of Canberra.

Marina Tsvetaeva translated by Paul Magee

Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva was born in 1892. She left Russia in 1922, returned in 1939, and was to die two years later. She is celebrated as one of the greatest Russian poets of the Twentieth Century. Her first book was entitled Evening Album.

 

 

 
 

Сад

За этот ад,
За этот бред,
Пошли мне сад
На старость лет.

На старость лет,
На старость бед:
Рабочих — лет,
Горбатых — лет...

На старость лет
Собачьих — клад:
Горячих лет —
Прохладный сад...

Для беглеца
Мне сад пошли:
Без ни-лица,
Без ни-души!

Сад: ни шажка!
Сад: ни глазка!
Сад: ни смешка!
Сад: ни свистка!

Без ни-ушка
Мне сад пошли:
Без ни-душка!
Без ни-души!

Скажи: довольно мýки — нá
Сад — одинокий, как сама.
(Но около и Сам не стань!)
— Сад, одинокий, как ты Сам.

Такой мне сад на старость лет...
— Тот сад? А может быть — тот свет? —
На старость лет моих пошли —
На отпущение души.

Jardin

To cope with this underworld
you’ve sent me, and madness,
make it a garden
for the years that age.

For the years that age,
for the griefs I’ve to live through,
the years of work coming
and the groanings in my back.

For the years that age.
Bone for that dog.
For the hell-burnt years.
A garden in the breeze

for their refugee.
Bless me with a garden
and nobody there,
a soulless place.

Garden no one steps in.
Garden no one looks in.
A laughterless garden,
a no whistling there
garden

Earless,
bless me with a garden.
Nothing has a scent there,
not a soul.

Speak: you’ve tortured enough.
A garden on its own.
But don’t come near me here or there.
Yes, he says, it’s as alone as me.

That’s your garden for me and the years
I age. That. Or your paradise?
Bless me in the years that age.
Deliver me from here.

 

 
 
Paul Magee is author of Stone Postcard (2014), Cube Root of Book (2006) and the prose ethnography From Here to Tierra del Fuego (2000). Paul majored in Russian and Classical languages, and has published translations of Vergil, Catullus, Horace and Ovid. He is currently working on a third book of poems, ‘The Collection of Space’. Paul is Associate Professor of Poetry at the University of Canberra.

Paul de Brancion translated by Elaine Lewis

Paul de Brancion is the author of about fifteen novels and poems. He is regularly involved in transversal artistic projects, with contemporary art centres or music composers (T. Pécou, J-L. Petit, G. Cagnard, N. Prost, …). He lives and works between Paris, Corsica and Nantes. Where he organises and presents “Les Rendez-vous du Bois Chevalier”, annual events dedicated to literature, science and poetry.
He is editor-in-chief of the magazine Sarrazine, president of the Union des Poètes & Cie and representative in France of the WPM (World Poetry Movement).

 

36

Ça fait tout drôle, ce manque de légèreté. Des maisons, des meubles, des tapis, des mauvais livres, une sorte d’indélicatesse du goût. Comment peut-on survivre à cet environnement d’un si mauvais genre ?
Profusion, c’est le mot en français. Excès. Mor avait quelque chose d’excessif que je craignais infiniment. Il était dangereux pour moi d’être en relation avec elle. Même mon amour pour elle était inconvenant. Elle parlait très vite et beaucoup. Un déluge de mots était prononcé et je m’éloignais en marchant le plus loin possible du courant continu de ses phrases. Elle était le maître de la vérité. Elle priait et sa prière était un écroulement. Elle ruisselait devant le Seigneur Dieu. Comment peut-on dire cela sans être fauteur de scandal ?
Je n’arrive pas à rassembler une idée globale ou une image fixe. Toujours mouvante, elle était toujours mouvante, émouvante, éprouvante, épouvante, Mor.



43

Cette nuit cauchemar, cauchemère, j’en ai honte. Je crois qu’elle est tombée par terre dans l’entrée de damier noir et blanc froide et humide de l’enfance. Elle portait une longue robe bleu-gris sombre qui collait à son corps. Elle était allongée, elle se sentait faible. Je suis venu pour l’aider. Elle n’a pas appelé. Elle était allongée sur le sol, ses yeux étaient fermés et le teint blafard. Je sentais son cœur qui battait la chamade. C’est la fin pensai-je avec émotion.
De fait, elle est morte du cœur, d’une faiblesse du cœur et non du cancer qui rongeait ses entrailles. Voilà, cela arrive enfin. Presque soulagé parce que j’ai attendu ce moment précis toute ma vie. Je les considérais, elle et le vieux panard mon père comme immortels, éternels, alors c’était cela, ils pouvaient bien mourir, eux aussi. On y était arrivé. Le grand passage de Mor.

Elle est morte d’une attaque cardiaque. Elle avait pris beaucoup de médicaments. Son corps était en train de pourrir. Il a été décidé de ne pas lui inoculer des produits stabilisateurs qui empêchent qu’elle ne pourrisse de l’intérieur.
Mauvaise décision




Translator’s note: In Danish, 'Mor'means Mother. The original version of this poem was written in French, Danish and English. French and English were common to mother and son but Danish was his alone.

36

It feels weird, this lack of lightness. Houses, furniture, carpets, bad books, a sort of indelicacy of taste. How can one survive in such a hopeless kind of environment?
Profusion, that’s the word in French. Excess. There was something excessive about Mor that I feared greatly. It was dangerous for me to have a relationship with her. Even my love for her was unseemly. She spoke very quickly and a lot. A deluge of words was delivered and I walked as far away as possible from Mor’s continual stream of sentences. She was the master of Truth. She prayed and her prayers tumbled down. She gushed in front of the Lord God. How can one say that without stirring up a scandal?

I can’t put together an overall idea or a fixed image. Always moving, she was always moving, emotional, difficult, frightening Mor.




43

That nightmare of a night, nightmother, I’m ashamed of it. I think she fell over on the cold and damp black and white checked porch of our childhood. She was wearing a sombre long blue-grey dress that clung to her body. She was stretched out, she felt weak. I came to help her. She didn’t call out. She was lying on the floor, her eyes closed and her complexion pale. I felt her heart beating wildly. This is the end, I thought emotionally.
In fact, she died of a heart disease, a weakness of the heart, and not of the cancer that gnawed at her entrails. There it was, happening at last. I am almost relieved because I’ve waited all my life for this precise moment. I always considered them, her and that old dog my father, everlasting, then this was it, they too could die. It had happened. Mor’s great passing.

She died of a heart attack. She took a lot of medicines. Her body was rotting away. It had been decided not to inject her with any stabilising drugs to stop the deterioration of her insides.
Bad decision.


 

Formerly a music educator and writer, Elaine Lewis created the Australian Bookshop in Paris in 1996. She met poet Jacques Rancourt and began translating for the Franco-anglais Poetry Festival. Her book Left Bank Waltz was published by Random House Australia in 2006. She is currently co-editor  and book review editor of The French Australian Review, the journal of the Institute for the Study of French Australian Relations and is a committee member of AALITRA (Australian Association for Literary Translation). She has translated poetry from Guadeloupe, Haiti, Switzerland, Canada, La Réunion, Belgium and France, published in La Traductière and Etchings (Ilura Press).

 

Isabelle Li translates Zheng Xiaoqiong

Zheng Xiaoqiong (郑小琼) was born in 1980 in Nanchong, Sichuan. In 2001 she left home to work in Dongguan, Guangdong, and began writing poetry. Her poems and essays have appeared in various literary journals, including Poetry (《诗刊》), Flower City (《花城》), and People’s Literature (《人民文学》). She has published over ten collections of poetry, including Women Workers, Jute Hill, Zheng Xiaoqiong Selected Poems, Thoroughbred Plant, Rose Manor. Her work has won numerous awards and been translated into many languages, including German, English, French, Korean, Japanese, Spanish, and Turkish.
 
 
 
 
郑小琼

黄昏的车头淅淅沥沥的呜咽着,青山隐于烟雾之外。京广线上的灯盏,庄稼的孕育着一个个俚语的村庄,它先行抵达铁轨的尽头。
溅着几千万民工的颤栗,溅着雨水的头,溅着那头不肯停落的雨滴。
树木,村舍,渐退的山坡,缓慢劳作的农人。幻觉的玻璃之外,退去了一条疲倦而污染哭泣的河流。
暮色从前方插入车厢内,黑暗从铁轨上的黑雨水间涌起。
我看对座的旅客,疲惫而辛酸,残滴着衣锦回乡的松脂,一滴一滴,清澈而苦涩,保持着雨水冲洗过的洁净。窗外,山河呜呜而过,穿过雨水的戳印,向北而行。
官僚们正把一块土地划成块状抵押给水泥,钢筋,化学制品,资本银行。断枝的树木与砍削半边的山岭是最后的赎金,它们的背后,一群失地的百姓像雨水一样哭泣。

看车,看雨水。
看呜呜而过的河流。
看斑斑驳驳的车厢,火车凶狠地鸣叫,

人世间,人们正像一群赌徒一样抵押着一切。
我把行程抵押给铁轨。把痛苦的生活抵押给虚无的理想。
词典里面,是一张从夏到民国的周期表。它们穿汉越唐,过宋经清,像我此行,经湖南,过贵州……缓慢的车是否抵达目的地。
雨水正下,村庄退后。像过去的时间,埋葬在火车行程间,不复再现。

 
Rainwater Illusions

The dusky locomotive sobbing drips and drops, among the murky mountains veiled beyond the smog. Passing by the lights on the Beijing-Guangzhou Track, by the villages of slang borne to crops, it reaches the end of the line first.
Splashing millions of shivering migrant workers, hitting their heads, the raindrops refuse to stop.
Trees, villages, retreating mountain slopes, slow toiling labourers. Outside the glass of illusions, weeps a weary, polluted river.
Night penetrates the carriage from the front. Between the tracks in the black rain darkness swells.
I look at the passengers sitting opposite, in their homecoming sartorial splendour, miserable, exhausted, dripping resinous sweat, drop by drop, clear and bitter, rain-washed.
Through the windows, mountains and rivers whistle past, through the stamping marks of rain, heading north.
Bureaucrats are carving up land as collateral for concrete, steel, chemicals, and capital. Trees with broken limbs and hills half hewn are the last ransom. Behind them, a crowd of commoners are raining tears.

Watching the train. Watching rainwater.
Watching the weeping river.
Watching the motley carriage. Hearing the train’s fierce shriek.

In this world, people are mortgaging everything like gamblers.
I’ve pledged my itinerary to the trainline, my painful life to illusory aspirations.
Inside the dictionary is a periodic table from Xia Dynasty to the Republic of China. Across Han, over Tang, onto Song, then Qing, my trip reaches Hunan, into Guizhou … Will the slow train ever arrive at its destination? Rain falling, villages retreating. Time past is buried in the journey of this train, never to be seen again.
 
 
 
入楚

山鬼隐于水泥地板庄稼的化学药品间,穿豹皮的勇士们就已去了城市之间,剩下那头金钱豹已尸骨无存,急剧退却的河流,菖蒲与艾草,一朵盛开的荷花隐于时间之中。
日月星辰,风雨雷电,春夏秋冬,云海苍穹正化着一支箭,越过沼泽井泉,田土宅厝,命中注定的鸟兽虫鱼们,花树藤蔓们,它偏执于相对安好的命运。
灶台鸡笼的神,育鬼育魅育妖精育花鼓腔调中的菩萨与亡灵。
一只苦闷的鸟深入湖泊的深处,它来自远古,有着兽样的面孔。
它沿着京广线漂泊着,出川入楚,她怀抱着原始的直觉,返回一只鸾鸟的原形。
旧世隔得太远,隔了几个轮回,剩下苍茫的记忆,在一棵苦楝树的枝杈间寻找人世与兽面的花纹。

入楚。她已似回到前生的眸间。
湘鬼或者傩女,在巫的气息里,人们对她的回忆已成为山,成为水,成为河,成为日常俚语。花烛燃烧她的脊柱。
天空飞来古代的鸟与记忆,八百里的湖泊干涸的滩头。
撒满白花花的时光,三吨重的传说入水。
原来是一只鸟,掠过。

她的翅膀入楚,入楚之穹庐,入楚之乾坤。
她白色的翅膀划过一道道巫的魂迹,在光的波澜间。
万物正呼吸,怀孕,育动,分娩。
入楚,她黑暗的记忆不断衔接着前世,返回那些完好无损的巫咒与傩语。
她尘世间隐匿着,隐匿了她数千年轮回的鸟翅,隐匿了她的兽面。剩下记忆不断在梦境中返回前世。
万山已入暮,惟有白雪喧哗着黑夜。
 
 
 
Reaching Chu

Mountain Ghost hides under the concrete floor, among chemicals and pesticides for crops, in the city left behind by warriors once clad in leopard skin, though the bones of the last leopard are long gone. Rivers retreat, and the calamus, and the wormwood. A lotus blooms inside time.
The sun, moon, and stars; the wind, rain, thunder and lightning; the four seasons, the seas of clouds and the infinite skies – all become an arrow. It flies across swamps and wells, meadows and houses, doomed birds, beasts, bugs, fishes, flowers, trees, and vines, aiming for a relatively peaceful destiny.
Goddess of stove and chicken coop, you give birth to the demons and spirits, and the Bodhisattvas and dead souls in folk song and dance.
A sullen bird flies deep into the lake. It comes from the past, with the face of a beast.
It drifts along the Beijing-Guangzhou Track, out of Chuan, into Chu. Bearing an original instinct, it returns to the phoenix form.
The Old World is too distant now, a few reincarnations removed. All that remain are indistinct memories, like the beastly and humanly patterns amid the branches of a chinaberry.

Reaching Chu, she has restored the gaze of her former life.
A sorceress or a witch, in the voodoo vapour, memories of her turned into mountains, rivers, colloquial vernacular. Candles burn up her vertebrae.
Ancient recollections fly from the sky, over the dry sandbanks of Dongting Lake.
Sprinkled with white time, a legend, three tons heavy, slides into water.
A bird, gliding.

Her white wings soar into Chu, into its firmament, its cosmos, sweeping over traces of sorcerous souls in the surf of light.
Everything is breathing, conceiving, burgeoning, birthing.
Reaching Chu, her dark memories reconnect with history, recovering the untouched spells and folk lingo.
Hiding in the mortal world, she’s shrouded her wings over a thousand lives and veiled her beastly face. Remnants of her memories linger in recurring dreams.
Ten thousand mountains sink into the night. Snow is the only noise, whitening the dark.
 
 
 
乔木

山冈的栎木站成猛兽,微小的积水敲落了楝果。
栲树的前生是明月,梓木梦见楚王与浮云,樟木从梦中脱身来到庭院。剩下山楂在岐路上点灯,照亮了故乡与谜语。秋天落地长出了桔梗,夏天的栗树林把时光隔成过去与未来,榆木的瘩哒是结实的今生,有枢木把眺望送到远方。
葛藤为你饱尝悲痛,去年正是樟木的另一侧
刺槐开花,松木在追悼着什么人,它们之间的关系就像我的一场梦。
有雨水降落葡萄架下,白杨树站在发亮的铁轨间,我梦见庄子与蝴蝶。
必须唤来周公为我解梦,昨夜我用一根桃木挡住汹涌的大海。

这是人间生活,从无到有,从人到人,剩下灰喜鹊在梨木上慢慢聚集,那些发亮的鸣叫着的喜鹊,像那些无知的时光,停了一下便飞走了,剩下一树白梨花开着,又谢了。
楠竹有着无尽的缠绵,它们的悲伤青碧着日日夜夜。安身立命的杉树林站在路上期待着什么,星辰与月色像黄叶一样,仿佛一条镜中的河流,它要找到归向大海的路程。
我等待一棵梧桐,繁华散尽,剩下我,原本是孤独的一只凤凰。
站在回忆间的枥木,它的面容变幻。

柏木站于墓穴,从石廊到曲径,稠密的银杏移来十月的光阴,银白的花开满了十三世的孤独,我做了十二轮树木,才轮回成今生的行人,我沉默了十二轮,积聚着太多的言语。
哦,这些与我一般沉默的乔木,它们看透了人世沧桑,它们是前世或者来生的我
如果,我与它们一样,站在此与彼之间。
平静地度着每一滴时光。
 
 
 
Trees

Oak on the hill rears into a beast. Dripping droplets knock down chinaberry’s fruit.
Beech’s former life was a bright moon. Catalpa dreams of King Chu and floating clouds. Camphor laurel frees itself from a dream and comes to the courtyard. Hawthorn, left behind, lights a lamp on the side road, illuminating hometown and riddles. Autumn falls to the ground and grows into bellflowers. Summer’s chestnut forest partitions between past and future. Elm’s knot is the solid here and now. Thorn-elm casts its longing into the distance.
Arrowroot has endured your sorrow. Last year was just the other side of camphor laurel.
Black locust blooms. Pine mourns someone. The relationship between them seems a dream of mine.
Rain descends beneath the grape trellis. White poplar stands between gleaming train tracks. I dream of Master Zhuang and butterfly.
Must call on the Duke of Zhou, the God of Dreams, to interpret for me: last night I used walnut wood to ward off a surging sea.

Such is a worldly life, from nothing to something, from mortal to mortal. The last magpies slowly gather on pear tree, shiny, chirping, like those innocent days, staying briefly before flying off, leaving a tree of white blossoms, which then fade.
Mao bamboos have endless sentimentality. Their grief turns the nights and days green. Fir forest by the road, established and settled, is waiting for something. The stars and the moon drift like yellow leaves, like a river in a mirror, looking for its way back to the sea.
I wait for a parasol tree. While the bustling has dispersed, I remain, formerly a lonely phoenix.
Hornbeam, unmoving between memories, its face everchanging.

Cypress stands at a grave. From stone verandas to winding paths, dense gingko trees transport October’s light and shadow. Their silver flowers bloom thirteen lives’ solitude. I was a tree for twelve lives before becoming this traveller. I was silent for twelve rounds, and amassed too many words.
O, trees silent like me, have seen through life’s vicissitudes. They are my former or future selves,
If I could stand like them, between here and there,
Peacefully passing each moment.
 
 
 
旧堂

月光很白,三株腊梅开放院上。青石板上,唐朝檐滴,点点落于宋代的雕龙
星大如斗,照着明代的溪流,长流不息的草木,年年盛开,年年凋零,红尘里往事。落魄的书生读着清代的八股文。
有鱼跃出,有鸟长鸣,有花开放,老虎出没村头的山冈。

有人谈论嘉庆年间的往事,乾隆皇帝三下江南,有人坐在庭院的槐树下谈论收成,因果报应的鬼神,时光怀着忧伤,清晨在鸡冠花上凝成露滴,夜晚在星座的疼痛间彷徨。

男人们抽着旱烟,种五谷蔬粮,桃花开得艳,有人落发为僧。
女人们纺着纱线,织绸缎锦绣,鹧鸪叫得伤,落红沉默千里。

他骑毛驴,进京城,读四书五经,论语楚骚,读朝代更换,帝王君臣。经书里的人生开始变瘦,瘦成毛驴里的一根肋骨,瘦成古驿道里杉树林的一阵风。
他骑着黄河与长江,骑着秋风与夕阳,骑着满树的枯枝与愁肠。
他骑着一轮浅浅的海峡,骑着东风无常的人生。
人们在戏台上虚拟着欢乐和喜欢,善恶轮回。

它倒了,倒在一场积雪的冷中。
我坐在荒草径间,看落日心怀黯然,岁月滚滚而去。
槐树依旧茂盛,椿树依旧开花,燕子依旧回来,筑巢旧梁。
 
 
 
Old Manor

Under white moonlight, three ice laurels flower in the courtyard. Upon the bluestone slate, Tang Dynasty roofs drip onto Song carved dragons.
Giant stars illuminate Ming rivulets. The everlasting flora flourish and fade like history in red dust. A shabby scholar is reading Qing octopartite essays.
Fish jump, birds sing, flowers bloom, tiger roams the village hills.
Some discuss the past in the Jiaqing Era, and recount Emperor Qianlong’s three visits down the South Bank. Some sit under the pagoda tree in the courtyard, speaking of the harvest and the ghosts and spirits of karma. Time, laden with sadness, condenses into dewdrops on the celosia at dawn, and at night shuffles among the agonised constellations.
Men smoke tobacco and plant crops and vegetables. Peach flowers open bright. Shaved hair falls at ordination.
Women are spinning yarn, weaving satin splendid. Partridges cry mournfully, and the thousand miles of fallen red remain silent.

He rode a donkey, arrived at the capital, read Four Books Five Classics and Chu Songs, studied dynasties, emperors, kings and their courts. Life in the scriptures began to shrink, thin as the donkey’s rib, thin as the gusty wind on the ancient trade road through the fir forest.
Riding the Yellow River and the Long River, riding autumn wind and setting sun, riding trees of dry branches and sorrow.
He rode a shallow strait, a life of capricious easterly wind.
On the theatre stage, people simulate joy and love, good and evil.

It’s collapsed, down in the cold of the snow.
I sit on the forlorn path, watching sunset in dejection, watching time rolling by.
The pagoda tree is still lush. The red toon still blooms. The swallows return to nest on the old beam.
 
 
 
Isabelle Li is a Chinese Australian writer and translator. She has published in various anthologies and literary journals, including The Best Australian Stories, Southerly, and World Literature in China. Her collection of short stories, A Chinese Affair, was published by Margaret River Press in 2016.

Debbie Lim translates Luo Lingyuan

Luo Lingyuan was born in 1963 and is a German-Chinese writer. After studying Journalism and Computer Science in Shanghai, she has lived in Berlin since 1990 and published works in German and Chinese including four novels, two short story collections and numerous pieces in literary journals. In 2007 her short story collection Du Fliegst für Meinen Sohn aus dem Fünften Stock [You Fly for My Son from the Fifth Floor] received an Adelbert-von-Chamisso  Advancement Award, a prize awarded to works written in German, dealing with ‘cultural change‘. In 2017 she was Writer in Residence in Erfurt.
 
Photograph: Dirk Skiba
 
 
The following is an extract from a short story titled ‘Der Zunge, auf der schwarzes Haar wuchert’. It was originally published in a collection of stories by Luo Lingyuan titled Nachtschwimmen im Rhein (or Nightswimming in the Rhein, Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, 2008). The stories in the collection all centre around  relationships between Chinese women and German men. In the extract, the protagonist He Xue attends a Walpurgisnacht party for the first time with her German flatmate.
 

The tongue
which grew black hair

But Regina didn’t forget her. Shortly after eight, she knocks on the door and two hours later they’re in Charlottenburg in a private apartment. The place is huge, if somewhat run-down. At least fifty strangely dressed women have already arrived. Only a few of them are attractive, He Xue thinks. It’s true there are no old hags with hooked noses and evil looks. And few black capes, pointy hats and broomsticks. But He Xue doesn’t find the sexy costumes of these modern witches so appealing either. Many of the women have made up their faces to weird effect: one half colourful, the other with a snake depicted on it. Some are virtually naked, wearing garish masks, lurid wigs and skimpy outfits. One woman has painted eyes onto her breasts, which stare fixedly out.

As soon as a new arrival enters, a glass of sparkling wine is pressed into her hand. He Xue downs hers straight away out of pure self-consciousness and remains standing uncertainly in the foyer. She can’t help thinking about what the Professor has said – that she probably won’t enjoy this kind of a party. She allows her glass to be refilled anyway. In truth, she doesn’t feel like dressing up in costume at all. But she’s helpless against Regina’s insistence and in the end slips on a baggy dark-blue dress, which cloaks her body entirely. The women start dancing the tango en masse. Since dancing isn’t He Xue’s forté, she heaps up a plate with food, finds herself a quiet corner and watches the women. Each time she spots a glimpse of Regina’s blond hair in the crowd, she feels a deep admiration. She is, thinks He Xue, the most stunning woman at the party.

Two women are standing next to her wearing magnificent headdresses. They’ve already had a few drinks. He Xue hears one of them say: ‘Our boss is such a dirty dog. Now he’s getting it on with the cleaning woman. His assistant caught him. Ha! Apparently his thingy looked like a carrot.’

‘If I’d seen him, I’d have made him sweat a little,’ says the other. ‘Surely a pay rise could have come out of it. See the blonde with the eyebrow ring? Hot isn’t she? That’s Regina. I heard she just hooked up with a dentist. If he marries her, she’s set up for life. If …’ The two of them laugh, a strange bleating sound, then head into another room in search of a mirror.

Perplexed, He Xue searches for a trace of her friend. She knows Regina’s boyfriends are always changing. But she’d never mentioned the current one was a dentist. The women have begun Turkish belly dancing. Once more, it’s Regina who’s the star on the dance floor. Arms raised, she writhes like a snake, laughing blithely. Now she has on a tight sky-blue top and long skirt; around her hips is a belt made of tiny gold coins linked together, so that she gives off a bewitching tinkling with every shake of her body. To He Xue, her friend has a regal beauty. She follows her every movement.

Sometime before midnight, the women take up the unlit wooden torches, leave the apartment and head to the nearby Teufelsberg, singing the whole way. The Teufelsberg  isn’t very high and nobody’s ever met any spirits there. Actually, it’s not much more than a large mound rising on the western outskirts of the city comprised of rubble from the second World War. But the Berliners, always liking to sets their sights high, come here frequently to go strolling and look out over the vast sea of grey houses.

After climbing for some time through the dark woodland, they finally reach the top. It’s just before midnight and on the flat summit countless other women are already waiting, most of them in similar costumes. From every other direction, crowds disguised as witches are making their way up. More than two, three hundred women, young and middle-aged, have gathered under the bleak sky.

For some moments, He Xue gazes about her. When she turns back, Regina has vanished. She searches nearby but her friend is nowhere to be found. Everyone is jostling towards the centre for some reason unknown to He Xue, so she backs out to the edge.

Precisely at midnight, one woman begins to wail. Then all the women on the mountain start shrieking war cries at the tops of their voices. He Xue retreats further. Suddenly the flames from a bonfire in the middle of the clearing surge up into the sky. The women raise their torches and stamp in a circle, hooting and jeering. The summit, just a moment ago still dark, lights up with blazing sparks and glows over the city. Now the Teufelsberg is a mountain of fire. The women whoop, their voices shrill, encircling a group that’s laughing deliriously. It’s as if each has turned into a primeval creature, has waited the whole year for this mad event. As if on this night a year of compulsory service as normal respectable humans is finally over.

Now everyone has begun to dance in a frenzy. Dresses lift and drop in the firelight, long hair whips and swirls around the fantastic faces of the women. The scene is reminiscent of numberless female demons summoning up a catastrophe. He Xue desperately wishes she had a friend by her side, most of all another woman who was Chinese, with whom she could talk with. Maybe then she wouldn’t be shivering as though she had a bout of malaria.

At this moment she’s discovered by a particularly high-spirited group of revelers. One pushes a burning torch into her hand, another pulls her along and then they encircle her, shrieking the entire time in their eerie voices. They drag her into the centre then lead her closer to the fire. The torch falls from He Xue’s hand and she feels her neck stiffen and grow numb. Only when the women grab her arms and legs and yank her behind the wall of fire, do her eyes start flickering again. Now she sees that the women have stuck the torches into the ground so they form two close rows like a tunnel.  

‘A trial by fire for our little Chinese witch!’ someone yells and gives He Xue a bawdy slap on the behind. ‘Run quick through the path of fire and you’ll become pure like us.’ Someone adds: ‘Then you’ll get the witch badge with the green broom.’     He Xue searches for an escape route.

‘Run! Run! We’ll catch you!’ The women at the other end spur her on.

The torches are burning at chest-height. He Xue crouches down and waddles off like a duck. She can’t remember ever having run like this. The women encircling her burst into laughter and clap. When He Xue reaches the other end, she’s surrounded and thrown into the air three times. ‘A cheer for the Chinese witch!’ they cry.

The crippling thought that only a few seconds ago her hair could have ignited into flames inhibits He Xue as she dances. She moves stiffly, like a straw doll among a galloping herd of whinnying horses that’s in danger of at any moment being ripped in two.

As a new candidate is brought over for the trial by fire, everyone rushes back over to where the torches are standing. He Xue uses the opportunity to escape to the sidelines. Two middle-aged women with fake witch noses are approaching. They head over to those dancing, their brooms hoisted. ‘We’ve had incredible luck on the stock market this year. The tech shares went through the roof,’ says one. ‘You should get into the market too.’ The other looks pensively into the flames. ‘So what did you buy? I’ve played around a lot, but …’ Then the women disappear into the mass and He Xue can’t hear them anymore.

In the centre of the dancing crowd now is a girl whose hair is whirling like a hundred delicate snakes. The hem of her dress flutters up and down, like a black pupil dilating and contracting. Out of her mouth comes the call, ‘Ura! Ura!’ He Xue feels dazed watching her dance movements. Just where does she recognise this beauty from? And now this person is dancing towards her. The girl’s eyes display a wildness and then her hand alights, sudden as a spider, on He Xue’s shoulder. It shakes her.

‘He Xue, come on, dance!’

He Xue nearly stumbles over backwards. Until she realises it’s no-one other than Regina who’s come over. But by the time He Xue tries to follow, her friend has already danced away and is nowhere to be seen.

He Xue stands in the dark and thinks she can smell singed hair. She bats at her head with both hands to put out the supposed sparks, then she feels around her hair gingerly. Indeed, she finds what appears to be a hank that has been burnt to a crisp dry cinder. For a long time after, she pulls at the strands on her head until the stench of scorched hair finally disappears.

Notes

1. Celebrated on the night of 30 April, Walpurgisnacht is the eve of the Christian feast day of Saint Walpurga, who was known to ward away witches and evil spirits. The pagan folk rites of Spring are also celebrated.

2. The name ‘Teufelsberg’ literally translates as ‘devil’s mountain’. Teufelsberg, in the Grunewald district of former West Berlin, is a hill made of rubble dumped after the second World War and covers a Nazi military-technical college that was never completed. During the Cold War, there was a U.S. listening station on the hill, Field Station Berlin.

DEBBIE LIM was born in Sydney. Her poetry chapbook Beastly Eye was published by Vagabond Press (2012) and  her poems have been widely anthologised, including regularly appearing in the Best Australian Poems series (Black Inc.). In 2016 she moved with her family to southern Germany for 2 years where she started to translate from German into English.

Yunhe Huang translates Fan Zhongyan & Li Qingzhao

Fan Zhongyan (989-1052) was a Chinese statesman, writer and philosopher of the Song dynasty. A significant portion of his career was spent working on China’s defences along the North-western border, which inspired the theme of loneliness in his writings. His best-known poems contrasted his experience of solitude and homesickness with a sense of duty to his country and people.

 

 

 

Li Qingzhao (1084-1151) lived during the Song dynasty and was considered one of the most accomplished woman poets in Chinese history. Many of her poems intimately reflect her experiences of love, loss, fear and uncertainty living in a war-torn China.

 

 

 

 

Reminiscence
Fan Zhongyan (989-1052)


碧云天,
黄叶地,
秋色连波,
波上寒烟翠。
山映斜阳天接水,
芳草无情,
更在斜阳外。

黯乡魂,
追旅思。
夜夜除非、
好梦留人睡。
明月楼高休独倚,
酒入愁肠,
化作相思泪。


Nostalgia in Autumn
Fan Zhongyan


纷纷坠叶飘香砌,
夜寂静,
寒声碎。
真珠帘卷玉楼空,
天淡银河垂地。
年年今夜,
月华如练,
长是人千里。

愁肠已断无由醉,
酒未到,
先成泪。
残灯明灭枕头欹,
谙尽孤眠滋味。
都来此事,
眉间心上,
无计相回避。




Slow Song
Li Qingzhao (1084-1151)

怎一个愁字了得!
寻寻觅觅,
冷冷清清,
凄凄惨惨戚戚。
乍暖还寒时候,最难将息。
三杯两盏淡酒,
怎敌他、晚来风急?
雁过也,正伤心,
却是旧时相识。

满地黄花堆积,
憔悴损,如今有谁堪摘?
守着窗儿,
独自怎生得黑?
梧桐更兼细雨,
到黄昏、点点滴滴。
这次第,





Yellow-leafed earth.
On the autumn-tinted river,
A green mist floats the waves.
Under a sky merging into waters,
Hills frame a glorious sunset.
The grass stretches endless
Into the sun and sky.

Home-yearning soul,
Travel-weary heart.
Dreams, my only refuge
Through these endless nights.
The moonlit balcony is not for the lonesome traveller.
When the wine reaches my sorrow-stricken heart,
It turns to tears of longing.







Blue clouded sky,
Leaves fall on paved steps.
In the tranquil night,
I hear broken whispers of the cold.
Curtains open, I linger alone on the balcony.
The Milky Way drapes low across a pale sky.
Every year on this night,
The moonlight a silk ribbon
Stretching thousands of miles.

My heart is stricken beyond a drunken cure.
Before wine reaches my lips,
It had already turned to tears.
Watching the lamp flicker as I lean on my pillow,
I have long understood the taste of sleeping alone.
It hovers between my brows and drifts across my heart,
Refusing to be pushed away.






Empty solitude,
Bleak misery,
Despair.
I am restless as the warmth makes way for the cold.
A few glasses of wine,
No defence against the evening wind.
Wild geese fly past my heavy heart,
My old acquaintances.

Petals collect in my garden,
Wilted gold. Long past their prime.
Standing by the window,
I have no courage to face the black night.
Tiny raindrops fall among silent trees,
Dripping and drizzling into twilight.
Everything becomes one word:
Sorrow.






 

Translator’s note

I have selected three ci poems from the Song dynasty under a common theme of coping with loneliness. The ci was traditionally a form of song, which later evolved into written poetry with a unique lyrical quality. In order to capture the musical quality of these poems, I used a more liberal approach in my translation and re-created them in a more contemporary style using the English language. My aim was to show the rhythm of language in these poems, which is often lost in traditional literal translations of classical Chinese poetry. I had chosen to de-emphasize the exotic setting of these poems in my translation in order to highlight loneliness as a human condition common across all cultures. In particular, Li’s poem reminded me of English-language confessionalist women poets, and the form and language used in the translation was intended to reflect that similarity.

 

Yunhe Huang is a Chinese writer based in Australia. She has written poetry and prose in both Chinese and English, using a variety of genres from Song-dynasty ci to American confessionalist poetry. Translation has been her passion since childhood, with a special interest in translating poetry from Chinese to English. Her original poems have appeared in Dubnium.

Debbie Lim translates an interview with Luo Lingyuan

Luo Lingyuan was born in 1963 and is a German-Chinese writer. After studying Journalism and Computer Science in Shanghai, she has lived in Berlin since 1990 and published works in German and Chinese including four novels, two short story collections and numerous pieces in literary journals. In 2007 her short story collection, Du Fliegst für Meinen Sohn aus dem Fünften Stock [You Fly for My Son from the Fifth Floor,] received an Adelbert-von-Chamisso  Advancement Award, a prize awarded to works written in German, dealing with ‘cultural change‘. In 2017 she was Writer in Residence in Erfurt.

The following interview was carried out in 2016 by Bai Shaojie as part of her Masters degree in German Studies at the Shanghai International Studies University (SISU). The interview was originally conducted in German and the English translation is by Debbie Lim. Thank you to Bai Shaojie , Luo Lingyuan and SISU for permission to publish the interview in Mascara.
 
 
 
Bai: Why did you move to Germany? What led to your decision?

Luo: I have to say it was actually only by coincidence. During my studies at Fudan University I met a German man who was doing a degree in Chinese studies. That changed my life. We were in love and decided to get married after my studies. And so I learnt German, for the sake of love. Actually I was more interested in French literature and had even studied French for half a year. But then then we moved to Germany. When I arrived in Berlin, I could speak only very little German. My husband spoke fluent Chinese and in China we’d only spoken Chinese with each other. After we got married, I wanted to find to work in Berlin but it was very difficult because I hardly spoke German. I worked as a room maid in a hotel and a saleswoman in a department store. At the same time I learnt German. After some time, it became good enough to be able to work as a travel guide.

Bai: When did you begin writing?

Luo: I began writing regularly in German in 2002. The Literarische Kolloquium Berlin became aware of me and supported my work. Before that, I’d published a few articles in China. At first I only wrote short articles and pieces of prose but soon after stories and novels as well. I took a lot of detours and tried out various things until I found my dream job. My first book was published in 2005. But living as an independent writer isn’t easy. I know many German authors who live from hand to mouth and struggle in vain for grants and publishing contracts. Only a rare few can live from writing alone. I have to do all kinds of bread-and-butter jobs too in order to be able to keep writing.

Bai: Why did you choose this career?

Luo: I‘ve enjoyed reading since I was little. I‘ve always admired the famous works of Chinese literature and secretly always wanted to write myself. Even though I studied Computer Sciences at Jiaotong University, I never had much interest in it. I continued because it was ‘sensible‘. After I graduated, I was given a position as lecturer in Computing, which I did for two years. Then I decided to study journalism because I was looking for a bread-and-butter job that could combine with literary writing. I already knew back then that as a writer you always lived on the border of poverty. But it was during this degree that I met my first husband, which completely changed my plans. I learnt a new language and only after 11 years I became a journalist and was able to write articles in German as well as in Chinese.

Bai: Many migrant writers write in Chinese. Why do you write in German?

Luo: Well, Gao Xingjian writes in French, and Ha Jin and many other Chinese authors write in English. Whoever writes in the language of their host country can communicate an image of their home land much more directly. I’ve also read a lot of books in Germany about China. But each time I‘ve felt that the way things were depicted was somehow odd. The China that I knew was different from the China in these books. So I came upon the idea to tell the German people about my country, in their language. I hope that Germans can get to know China and its people better this way.

Bai: How did you choose the subjects for your books?

Luo: That’s difficult to say. I write what I enjoy writing. When I find myself  thinking about something repeatedly, when my thoughts keep returning to some person, some story or even some city then I feel that maybe I should write about it. But my subjects often come from my surroundings. People ask me questions about the people in China and I try to give an answer through my books.

Bai: I’ve noticed that you’ve written a lot about China, but not Germany. Why?

Luo: When I came here [to Germany] I was already 26. I spent my childhood and youth in China, and the Chinese culture and my family have  influenced me deeply. For a story, you need people – they’re the starting point of every narrative. And for me, it’s easier to understand and create a Chinese person. But it’s only a question of time. Maybe soon I’ll write more about Germany.

Bai: How do you manage the relationship between reality and imagination during the writing process?

Luo: The starting point is always reality and often even a concrete incident. But I look at reality quite critically. I attempt to figure out the core of the characters, based on what they think, say and do. It’s only during this phase that the imaginative power sets in. I ask myself questions: Why did this person do this? What would he or she do in other circumstances?

Bai: You’ve referred to the city of Ningbo in many works. Do you have a particular connection to the city?

Luo: No, Ningbo is a symbol for the rapid economic development in China. The city is much more interested than other cities in colloborating and exchange with foreign countries, but it’s not as well-known overseas as, say, Shanghai. I myself led at least two delegations from Ningbo on tour through Europe and met people from the city. Most Germans know of Shanghai in particular. The city has become almost a cliché and many Germans think that, apart from a few skyscrapers in Pudong, China doesn’t have much to offer. I lived for seven years in Shanghai and was very happy there but I’d like to show my readers that there are other cities in China too. If I ever write about Shanghai, it will be something special.

Bai: You’ve lived in Germany for 26 years. What are your views now towards China and Germany?

Luo: I’m still Chinese inside. That will probably never change. The richness of the Chinese culture with its vibrant traditions and deep thought, its music and reknown literary role models, still has a major influence on me. It’s such a powerful influence and can’t just be cast off. I don’t want to separate myself from it either. On the other hand, I’ve also adopted a lot from the German people, for example, conscientiousness. When I began writing, my husband once asked me how I could have made the same mistake three times. It unsettled me and I realised I hadn’t been very thorough or placed much value on precision. After that it was clear to me that I had to be more meticulous. The Germans are are very conscientious and strive for perfection in everything that they do.

Bai: Which experiences after all these years have remained particularly in your memory? What would be your suggestions for fellow countrymen who plan to come to Germany?

Luo: Above all, I’d recommend learning German. If you don’t speak it, it’s very difficult to interact with the people. The cultural contrast between the two countries is so great. Even finding a common topic isn’t simple because the majority of Germans have never been to China and know little about it. On the other hand, I notice that there’s great interest in China. Anyone who has ever seen China is fascinated.

Bai: When a Chinese person lives in Germany, they normally have problems with the language. But why haven’t the language difficulties of your characters been a topic that you address?

Bai: That never really interested me so much. The characters should have their own personalities. I’d like to depict their inner world rather than show every stammer. When the situation presents itself, I have in fact alluded to the language issues. For example, the misunderstandings that arise between Robert and the bathroom attendant in Guangzhou in the novel ‘Wie Eine Chinesin Schwanger Wird‘ [How a Chinese Woman Becomes Pregnant].

Bai: For me, your works can be considered women‘s literature as well as migrant literature. Women play an important part in your works. What’s your opinion?

Luo: It’s true. That has to do with myself. I’m a woman and can understand women better. I feel more confident depicting a woman. What’s more, I find women magnificent. Even where a man seems to be take centre stage, such as in ‘Die Sterne von Shenzhen‘ [Stars from Shenzen], it’s the very different women around him who determine what happens.

Bai: I’ve noticed that many of the love stories between German men and Chinese women in your works end tragically. Is that true?

Luo: It’s not easy for Chinese women being with  German men. They are expected to be both „exotic“ and „normal“ at the same time, wonderful lovers and perfect mothers, intelligent parters, pretty companions, thrifty housewives etc. There is   a lot demanded of them. But mostly they cope well and there’s a happy ending after all.

Bai: Many stories are open-ended. Was it your intention to say that one should accept fate and there’s nothing you can do about it?

Luo: Each book has its own style. But it’s true that I prefer an open ending. Life goes on, even after a novel ends, and as long as life continues, there’s also hope. It’s exactly the same as in reality. Perhaps it‘s possible to find a ‘dream man‘. But when we don’t find him, there are other possibilities. You have to fight for a better life.

 

 

 

Aquiles Nazoa translated by Ariel Riveros Pavez

nazoaAquiles Nazoa (born in Caracas 17 May 1920 – 26 April 1976) was a Venezuelan writer, journalist, poet and satirist. His work expressed the values of popular Venezuelan culture though in 1940 he was arrested for defamation and criticism of the municipal government. In 1948, Nazoa obtained the Premio Nacional de Periodismo (National Journalism Prize) in the humour and customs section. He was also awarded the Premio Municipal de Literatura del Distrito Federal (Municipal Prize for Literature of the Federal District) in 1967. He wrote for the Colombian magazine, Sábado and lived in CubaHe was expelled by the Jiménez regime in 1956 for two years. His poems have been reproduced as lyrics by musical artists throughout Latin America from the 1970s to this day.

 

Rezo el Credo o Credo de Aquiles Nazóa


Creo en Pablo Picasso,Todopoderoso, Creador del Cielo y de la Tierra;
creo en Charlie Chaplin, hijo de las violetas y de los ratones,
que fué crucificado, muerto y sepultado por el tiempo
pero que cada día resucita en el corazón de los hombres,
creo en el amor y en el arte como vías hacia el disfrute de la vida perdurable,
creo en el amolador que vive de fabricar estrellas de oro con su rueda maravillosa,
creo en la cualidad aérea del ser humano,
configurada en el recuerdo de Isadora Duncan abatíendose
como una purísima paloma herida bajo el cielo del mediterráneo;
creo en las monedas de chocolate que atesoro secretamente
debajo de la almohada de mi niñez;
creo en la fábula de Orfeo, creo en el sortilegio de la música,
yo que en las horas de mi angustia ví al conjuro de la Pavana de Fauré,
salir liberada y radiante de la dulce Eurídice del infierno de mi alma,
creo en Rainer María Rilken héroe de la lucha del hombre por la belleza,
que sacrificó su vida por el acto de cortar una rosa para una mujer,
creo en las flores que brotaron del cadaver adolescente de Ofelia,
creo en el llanto silencioso de Aquiles frente al mar;
creo en un barco esbelto y distantísimo
que salió hace un siglo al encuentro de la aurora;
su capitán Lord Byron, al cinto la espada de los arcángeles,
junto a sus cienes un resplandor de estrellas,
creo en el perro de Ulises,
en el gato risueño de Alicia en el país de las maravillas,
en el loro de Robinson Crusoe,
creo en los ratoncitos que tiraron del coche de la Cenicienta,
el beralfiro el caballo de Rolando,
y en las abejas que laboran en su colmena dentro del corazón de Martín Tinajero,
creo en la amistad como el invento más bello del hombre,
creo en los poderes creadores del pueblo,
creo en la poesía y en fín,
creo en mí mismo, puesto que sé que alguien me ama...




El Mayordomo y El Gato

Recientemente falleció en Montana
una viejecita norteamericana
que, en calidad de único heredero
le dejó a un mayordomo su dinero.

Mas la anciana del caso que relato
dejó también un gato
que ha venido a plantearle al mayordomo
un problema, lector, de tomo y lomo,
ya que en el testamento hay un mandato
que le impide aunque llegue a la indigencia,
disponer ni una puya de la herencia
hasta que no se muera dicho gato.

Me diréis: - ¿Y por qué ese mayordomo
no se arma de una estaca o de un zapato
y acaba de una vez con ese gato
que debe de caerle como un plomo?

Ah, porque la viejecita, en previsión
de que ocurrir pudiera cosa tal
aclaró al imponer su condición
que del gato en cuestión la defunción
debe ser natural,
y si no muere así, tampoco hay real.

Lo que le queda, pues, al mayordomo
ante este caso, es conservar su aplomo,
con paciencia llevar su dura cruz
y esperar que se muera el micifuz.
y como el gato tiene siete vidas,
¡esas puyas, lector, están perdidas!

The Credo according to Aquiles Nazoa


I believe in Pablo Picasso, Almighty, Creator of Skies and Earth;
I believe in Charlie Chaplin, son of rats and violets,
who was crucified, dead and buried by the time
but who is resurrected daily in the hearts of men,
I believe in love and in art as the path to enjoy everlasting life
I believe in the miller who lives off making golden stars on his marvelous millstone
I believe in the aerial qualities of human beings
set in the memory of a swooping Isadora Duncan
like the purest dove wounded under Mediterranean skies
I believe in the chocolate gold coins I secretly stowed
under childhood pillows;
I believe in the myth of Orpheus and the magic of music
When, in the hours of my anguish I saw Faure’s Pavane evoked
walk free radiantly from sweet Eurydice in the hell of my soul
I believe in Rainier Maria Rilke, hero of our struggle for beauty,
who sacrificed his life by plucking a rose for a woman,
I believed in the blossoming flowers of Ophelia’s adolescent corpse,
I believe in the silent lament of Achilles facing the sea,
I believe in a sleek and distant ship
that embarked a century ago in search of the aurora;
whose captain, Lord Byron, by the scabbard of archangels,
a blaze of stars on his brow,
I believe in Ulysses’ dog,
I believe in Alice’s Cheshire Cat in Wonderland,
in Robinson Crusoe’s parrot,
I believe in Cinderella's ratty coachmen,
Veillantif, Roland’s steed,
and in the worker bees in their hive within the heart of Martin Tinajero,
I believe in friendship - mankind's most beautiful invention,
I believe in the creative power of the people,
I believe in poetry and to end,
I believe in myself, since I know someone loves me…






The Butler and The Cat

An old American lady
passed away recently
in Montana
and made the butler
her sole inheritor

Furthermore, the old woman
in this case also left a cat
that caused contention
my learned friend, of books and spines,
because there was a clause in the will
that put pause to any pay
even on pains of penury
‘til said cat died

And may well you ask:
why wouldn’t the butler
take hold of a stake or shoe
and finish off said cat
which must be gnawing at him by now?

Oh, it’s because the grand old dame foresaw
that such a thing could happen
and clearly imposed this condition
that the cat in question
should die of natural cause
and if this did not occur,
there would be no recourse

So what’s left in this case
is that the butler should
keep calm and composed
bare his heavy cross
and wait for the furball to croak
but as a cat has nine lives
my learned friend, to all those bucks
you might as well say goodbye.

 
 
ARP

Ariel Riveros Pavez is a Sydney-based creative writer, publisher and poetry translator. He also writes on experience-dependant Neuroplasticity. Ariel was convener of The Blue Space! Poetry Jam and is founding editor of Australian Latino Press. His work has appeared in various publications including Arena Magazine, Journal of Postcolonial Text, Southerly and Verity La.

Lưu Diệu Vân translates Michael Brennan

!cid_190BEFB7-B172-471E-8485-CCC50C29680D@wi2_neLưu Diệu Vân, born December 1979, is a Vietnamese poet, literary translator, and managing editor of the bilingual Culture Magazin.  She received her Master’s Degree from the University of Massachusetts in 2009. Her bilingual works have appeared in numerous Vietnamese print literary journals and online magazines. www.luudieuvan.com. Her publications include 47 Minutes After 7, poetry, Van Nghe Publisher, (2010), The Transparent Greenness of Grass, flash fiction, Tre Publishing House, co-author (2012), Poems of Lưu Diệu Vân, Lưu Mêlan & Nhã Thuyên, poetry, Vagabond Press, co-author (2012).

 

!cid_1FEA160E-C469-459D-8723-B2011245D3BB@wi2_neMichael Brennan is a Tokyo-based writer and publisher. His most recent collection Autoethnographic was short-listed for the Victorian Premier’s Award and won the Grace Leven Prize. He established and runs Vagabond Press, one of the most prolific publishers of poetry in translation from Asia Pacific. His first collection translated into Vietnamese translated by Lưu Diệu Vân is forthcoming from Hanoi-based AJAR Press, and a second collection  in Japanese, titled アリバイ, translated by Yasuhiro Yotsumoto and in collaboration with Korean artist Jieun June Kim was released in July 2015.

 

Cast away

You’re a message in a bottle cast into the
ocean forty years ago at the end of a great
conflagration in a country no one cares much
for anymore. Drifting in that ocean of yours,
there are the great things to ponder: sky and
ocean, and you between with the message
you carry that no one has read. It’s all so
heartless in its ways, this mystery that was
halfway through when you awoke. Even if
you knew the beginning you doubt it’d make
much sense and somehow know now the end
will be a let down compared to the horrors
you’ve been imagining in the quiet moments,
which are many. Still, the sky is endless and
the ocean deep and its warm here inside the
unnameable. When you drift back to the
haste in which you were written, that long arc
of inertia that sent you out into the breakers
and the days heading out to open ocean, you
feel a little teary with everything that’s
passed and the hope that started it all. Some
nights, rocking on the waves under the stars,
you remember being in pieces on the shore
and her hand quickly scribbling you into
being, the distant cracks of gunfire bursting
distance, the night sky bright with burning
buildings and those rough voices getting
closer, when she stuffed you in your glass
cell and sent you on your way. It’s true you
will never get out and so you’re left to
wonder what witness you bear: an
accusation, a plea for mercy, a suicide note,
perhaps a last ditch love letter.


 
Noah in love

‘If one of us dies, I’m moving to Paris.’
That’s how it started, love, liquid and light,
no escape clause, no pre-nup, a cardigan and
fluffy slippers and the refrain of per capita
happiness indexed against inflation. #2+2=5.
LOL. It’s a business strategy, gimlet, not a
song! We’d friended on Facebook. I’d been
distracted, cruising drunk, hoping for just a
little disambiguation, to be fluently human as
YouTube. Then the fateful day she updated
her status and a little part of me died. I’d
followed their relationship for months,
lurking on the edge, thrilled by the
singularity, of love posted, cascades
intoxicating, distant and sweet. I learnt
French, then tried my hand at Java, PHP,
HTML, wanting to slip under the skin of
things, to get to grips with the apparent
devotion, the lack of context, the ease of
emotion. Think of it, Wherever US is, WE
are!! I’ve downloaded everything, I’m
learning every move she made on the
Boul'Mich' late last summer. I’m a study in
readiness, the promise of reincarnation.



Trôi giạt

Mi là mẩu tin trong chiếc chai bị ném vào đại
dương bốn mươi năm trước vào điểm cuối
cơn đại hỏa hoạn ở một đất nước chẳng ai
màng biết đến nữa. Trôi giạt trong đại dương
của mi, ngẫm suy bao điều to lớn: bầu trời và
đại dương, mi lẫn ở giữa cùng lời nhắn mi
đeo mang chưa ai từng đọc. Quá đỗi vô tình,
điều huyền bí ở khoảng giữa lúc mi tỉnh dậy.
Ngay cả khi đã biết điểm khởi đầu mi cũng
hồ nghi liệu điều ấy có ý nghĩa gì và cớ
chừng bây giờ biết rằng điểm cuối kết sẽ là
nỗi thất vọng so với những ghê rợn mi đã
tưởng tượng trong những phút lặng im, rất
thường. Thế mà, bầu trời vẫn bao la và đại
dương sâu thẳm, và nỗi ấm áp bên trong điều
không thể gọi tên này. Khi mi giạt trở lại lúc
mi được viết nên trong hối hả, vòng cung lê
thê của sự trì trệ ấy đã đẩy mi vào những con
sóng lớn, và trong những ngày trôi ra biển
rộng, mi rưng rưng nghĩ lại tất thảy những gì
đã qua và niềm hy vọng đã khơi nguồn mọi
thứ. Nhiều đêm, lênh đênh trên sóng dưới sao
trời, mi nhớ thuở còn là những mảnh rời trên
bờ và bàn tay nàng thoăn thoắt những nét chữ
thành hình mi, tiếng súng gãy vỡ lạnh nổ dòn
từ phía xa, đêm rực cháy những tòa nhà và
những giọng nói nặng nề càng lúc càng dồn
gần, khi nàng nhét mi vào nhà tù thủy tinh và
đẩy mi đi. Sự thật là mi sẽ không bao giờ
thoát khỏi, nên mi chẳng thể làm gì ngoài
việc tự hỏi mi đang cưu mang nhân chứng gì:
một lời kết tội, sự cầu xin tha thứ, tâm thư
tuyệt mạng, hoặc có thể là một tình thư tuyệt
vọng cuối cùng.


Noah đang yêu

‘Nếu một trong hai ta chết, anh sẽ chuyển tới
Paris.’ Chuyện bắt đầu như thế, tình yêu, chất
lỏng và ánh sáng, không điều khoản lối thoát,
không hợp đồng tiền hôn nhân, một chiếc áo
len và đôi dép bông cùng sự kiềm chế của tỷ
lệ hạnh phúc trên mỗi đầu người tính theo chỉ
số lạm phát. #2+2=5. LOL. Đây là chiến lược
thương mại, mũi khoan, không phải bài ca!
Mình đã kết bạn trên Facebook. Tôi lúc ấy
rối bời, chuếnh choáng say, hy vọng dù chỉ
một chút gì sáng sủa, để nhuần nhị con người
như YouTube. Rồi đến cái ngày định mệnh
nàng cập nhật trạng thái mới, trong tôi chết đi
một phần. Tôi dõi theo quan hệ của họ hàng
tháng trời, ẩn mình bên lề, phấn khích với
tính chất độc đáo, của tình yêu được công bố,
say sưa như thác chảy, xa cách và ngọt ngào.
Tôi học tiếng Pháp, rồi thử cả Java, PHP,
HTML, mong muốn ngụp sâu vào mọi sự,
gắng thấu hiểu sự thành tâm hiển lộ, sự thiếu
ngữ cảnh, sự thanh thản của cảm xúc. Nghĩ
xem, Nơi Nào có HAI TA, thì MÌNH ở đó!!
Tôi tải về mọi thứ, tôi tìm biết từng chuyển
động của nàng tại Boul’Mich’ vào cuối hè
vừa qua. Tôi là đối tượng nghiên cứu của sự
sẵn sàng, một hứa hẹn của hóa sinh.

Denisa Duran translated by Florin Bican

SONY DSCDenisa Duran (b. 1980) is a Romanian poet, translator and cultural manager, author of four poetry books: the award-winning debut collection Pufos şi mechanic (Fluffy and Mechanical), Bucharest, 2003, was followed by the bilingual book Omul de unică folosință / Disposable People (translated into English by Florin Bican), published by Galway Print in Ireland (2009) and promoted during a reading tour in Cork, Limerick, Galway and Dublin; in 2012 she published Sunt încă tânără (I Am Still Young) – a selection of which was included in the anthology The Most Beautiful Poems from 2012; in December 2014 her new book came out, Dorm, dar stau cu tine (I Am Asleep, Yet Keep You Company), accompanied by illustrations. She signed her first three collections with her maiden name of Denisa Mirena Pişcu.

Selections of her poems have been included in several national and international anthologies and translated into: English, Czech, Bulgarian, German, Italian, Turkish, Arabic and Finnish.

 

Amintirile atârnă în mine

Amintirile atârnă în mine
grele
ca nişte mere verzi
cu viermi.
Viermi
şi sub ţărână,
departe,
în adânc,
au spălat oasele
alor mei.




Netezesc mormântul

Netezesc mormântul,
smulg buruienile,
trag cu mâinile de pământ,
ca de-o pătură,
încercând să-i trezesc.





Oamenii se adună în jurul lui

Tatăl
mânca din mâna mea
cu greu.
Şi a murit.

Oamenii se adună în jurul lui
grijulii,
preocupaţi
să nu se molipsească de moarte.




Candele

Am fost ieri pe la Europa
să împrumut o cană de ulei
pentru prăjit cartofi
(sunem mulţi şi mereu se termină uleiul
de parcă l-ar da cineva pe gât).
E drept, E. nu ştie
şi nici nu e treaba ei,
dar o părticică din uleiul pe datorie,
încleiat sau lucios,
eu îl pun la candelele aprinse
pentru morţii mei
şi ai săi.
Memories Hang Inside Me

Memories hang inside me
as heavy
as green apples
ridden with worms.
Worms
under the dirt,
deep down
in the earth,
have also washed clean
the bones
of my people.



I Level the Grave

I level the grave,
I pluck out the weeds,
I tug with my hands at the earth
as if it were a blanket,
attempting to shake them awake.





People Gather Around Him

The father
would eat out of my hand
with difficulty.
And he died.

People gather around him
reluctantly
worried
lest they catch death.




The Lamps I Light Up

Yesterday I dashed over to Europe
to borrow some cooking oil
for frying potatoes
(there’s too many of us and we keep running out
as if someone were guzzling the stuff).
Truth be told, E. doesn’t know,
nor is it her business,
that I pour the tiniest portion
of the oil on loan,
be it rancid or fresh,
into the lamps I light up
for my dead
and for hers.

Mario Bojórquez translated by Mario Licón Cabrera

BojórquezMario Bojórquez (Los Mochis, Sinaloa 1968) is a Mexican poet, essayist and translator. Since 1991 to date he has published 9 collections of poetry. His work has been widely awarded, including The National Poetry Prize  Clemencia Isaura (1995.) The National Poetry Prize  Aguascalientes (2007) the most wanted poetry award in México. The Alhambra Award for American Poetry (2012) Granada, Spain, amongst many other awards.

 

Mario Licón Cabrera (1949) is a Mexican poet and translator living in Sydney since 1992, he has published four collections of poetry and translated many Australian leading poets into Spanish.

 

La piedra más alta

Fui contando las piedras del camino
una por una

todas

La piedra más alta
era la nube de tu sueño

el hueco de tu sueño

Yo lo supe 

y fui contando las veces que el amor
nos abrió las puertas del destino.



Arte poética

Hemos visto
el ámbito azul de la tristeza

el vestigio insondable de lo que ya se va
Hemos visto también

cómo el descuido de la tarde

nos trajo la memoria de un árbol habitado por su sombra
Tú has visto

mi rostro entre las piedras del sepulcro
la muerte avanzando
Tú ves

el espacio irrevocable de la felicidad
el tiempo de la sonrisa
Yo veo

estas palabras dispersas
                    el poema.




Ditirambo

Acércate conmigo al fuego de las tribulaciones
que el abismo abierto entre los cuerpo
s
sea el espacio de una danza
               la caída o el vuelo
Acércate conmigo al borde del peligro insospechado
Que tus manos inventen otra vez

mi piel y mis sentidos.
The highest stone

I went along the road counting its stones
one by one
all of them
The highest stone
was the cloud of your dream
the hollow of your dream
I knew it
and I went on counting the times that love
unlocked destiny’s gates for us.



Ars poetica

We have seen
the blue sphere of sadness
the inscrutable vestige of what is now vanishing
We have also seen
how the carefree afternoon
brought us the memory of a tree inhabited by its shadow
You have seen
my face amongst the grave stones
death advancing
You see
The irrevocable space of happiness
the time for smiles
I see
These scattered words
                   the poem.



Dithyramb

Come with me closer to the fire of misfortunes
so the open abyss between our bodies
turns into a dance space
               the fall or the glide
Come with me closer to the edge of unexpected peril
So your hands once again invent
my skin, my senses.

The Burial by Bijan Najdi translated by Laetitia Nanquette & Ali Alizadeh

bijan najdiBijan Najdi (1941-1997) was an Iranian poet and short-story writer, famous for his collection The Leopards Who Have Run With Me (1994), from which the selected short-story “The Burial” comes from. His style is characterized by the use of unfamiliar and poetical images offering a fresh perspective on the everyday world.

 

 

 

The Burial

Translated by Ali Alizadeh and Laetitia Nanquette

Taher stopped singing in the shower and listened to the sound of the water. He watched the water flow down the sagging skin of his thin arms. The smell of soap dripped from his hair. Steam encircled the old man’s head. When he threw the towel around his shoulders, he felt as if parts of his body’s old age stuck to the long red towel and the swollen veins of his legs stopped throbbing. He buried his head in the towel and lingered by the door of the bathroom until he started to feel cold. Then he dragged himself to the mirror of the main room and saw that he was indeed an old man now.

In the mirror, he could see the breakfast spread on the floor and Maliheh’s profile. The samovar was boiling, silently in the mirror and loudly in the room, and Taher and his image in the mirror warmed up to it.

Maliheh said: “Don’t open the window; you’ll catch a cold, ok?”

Friday was behind the window with its incredible resemblance to all the winter’s Fridays. An electric line was bulging under the blackness of birds. The curtain dividing the main room was motionless and the wood-burner was burning to the song of the sparrows. Taher sat down for breakfast, switched on the radio (…with minus 11, theirs was the coldest part of the country), and raised a glass of tea.

Maliheh, turning her face towards the window, said, “Listen, it sounds like there’s something going on outside.”

Their home had a balcony overlooking the only paved street of the village. Twice a week, the sound of the train arrived, passed the window, and ended up on the broken pieces of the plasterwork of the ceiling. On the days when Taher did not feel like reading the old newspapers, when the smell of the old paper made him feel sick and when Maliheh was too tired to sing the forgotten songs of Qamar through her dentures, they went to the balcony to listen to the sound of the train, without ever seeing it.

“I’m talking to you, Taher. Let’s see what’s going on outside.”

Taher put down his glass on the tablecloth and went with his wet hair to the balcony, his mouth full of bread and cheese. There were people running towards the end of the street.

“What’s happening?” asked Maliheh.

She was more or less sixty years old. Thin. Her lips had sagged. She did not pluck her facial hair anymore.

“I don’t know.”

“I hope it’s not a corpse again… They must have found a corpse again.”

Even if Maliheh had not said “a corpse again”, they would have continued to eat their breakfast remembering the hot and sticky summer day when they had argued about the choice of a name: the day when the sun had crossed the frontier of Khorasan, lingered a bit on the Gonbad-e Qabus tower and travelled from there to the village to spread a pale dawn on Maliheh’s clothesline.

Taher, in the bed saturated with Sunday’s sun, had woken up to the music that Maliheh’s feet made each day. Maliheh would soon open the wooden door, and then she did just that. Before putting the bread on the breakfast spread, Maliheh said:

“Get up, Taher, get up.”

“What’s happening?”

“At the bakery, people said they’d found a corpse under the bridge.”

“A what?”

“A dead body… Everyone’s going to have a look at it, get up.”

The two of them walked towards the bridge. There were people standing on it and looking down. For such a crowd, they were not making much noise. A warm wind was blowing towards the mulberry trees. A few young men were sitting on the edge of the bridge with their legs pointing down to the sound of the water. The police had formed a circle around a jeep. As soon as Maliheh and Taher arrived at the bridge, the police placed the corpse into the jeep and drove away.

Maliheh asked a young girl: “Who was it, my dear?

“I don’t know.”

“He was young?”

“I don’t know.”

“You didn’t see?”

The young girl moved away from Maliheh.

A man leaning on the railing of the bridge said: “I saw him. He was all blown up and dark. It was a kid, Mother, a little one.”

Taher took Maliheh’s arm. The bridge and the man and the river swirled around her. All that could be seen of the jeep was some dust moving towards the village.

“This man called me Mother, did you hear Taher? He called me…”

The sun had set. There was a little triangle of sweat on the back of Taher’s shirt.

Maliheh said: “Where are they taking this kid now? Was he dead? Maybe he was in the water playing and then…” The warm wind had failed to ripen any mulberries and had come back to ruffle Maliheh’s chador. “I didn’t find out how old he was! Take my hand, Taher.”

“Let’s sit down for a bit.”

Maliheh was thinking, if only there were children here instead of all these trees. “Ask someone where they’re taking him, will you?”

“Probably to the police station or to the clinic.”

Maliheh was thinking, if only I could see him.

Taher added: “What is there to see anyway, it’s just a kid.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you.”

“You want to go and see Yavari?”

 

The doors of the clinic were open. There was a row of tall pine trees in the alley leading to the building’s landing, so dry that summer paled to insignificance next to them.

Doctor Yavari shook Taher’s hand and asked Maliheh: “Have you been taking your pills?”

“Yes.”

The doctor asked Taher: “Is she sleeping well at night?”

Maliheh interrupted: “Doctor, they’ve found a child. Do you know about this?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he now?”

“They’ve put him in the storeroom.”

“Storeroom? A kid? In the storeroom?”

“You know we don’t have a morgue here.”

“What will they do with him?”

“They’ll keep him ‘til tomorrow. If nobody comes to claim him, well, they’ll bury him.”

“If nobody comes, if nobody claims him, can we take him?”

“Can you… what?”

Taher said: “Take the child with us? What for, Maliheh?”

“We will bury him, we will bury him ourselves. Maybe then we can love him. Even now, it’s as if, as if… I love him…” Maliheh buried her head in her chador and the cry that she had kept from the bridge to the clinic broke out and her thin shoulders twisted under her chador and she blew her nose into her covered fist.

Taher poured a glass of water. The doctor had Maliheh lying down on a wooden bench. He stuck a thin needle under the skin of her hand. A bit of cotton with two drops of blood fell in the small bucket near the bench and until sunset that day, until the not-passing of the sound of the train, Maliheh did not open her eyes and did not say a single word.

 

It was Friday. The curtain of the main room was motionless and the wood-burner was burning to the song of the sparrows. The white winter, on that side of the window, wandered with its white coldness.

Maliheh said: “So many names, but nothing in the end.”

“We will eventually find one.”

“If we couldn’t find a name that day, then we can’t. Which day of the week was it, Taher?”

“The day when we went to the bridge?”

“No, the following day, when we went to the clinic…”

The day following that Sunday nobody came to claim the corpse. So on Monday, they sent the corpse from the clinic to the cemetery, carried on a crate, rolled up in a grey sheet. Outside of the clinic’s courtyard, Maliheh and Taher, who were not dressed in black, in a weather that was neither sunny nor rainy, started to walk at a slower pace than the man who carried the crate, who changed it from one hand to the other from time to time and sometimes rested it on the ground or against the trunk of a tree. They went around the small square of the village and entered its sole street. In front of the coffeehouse, the man rested the crate under a lamppost, which, although it did not look at all like a tree, was casting a shadow on the ground just like one. The coffeehouse keeper poured water from a jug and the man washed his hands and stayed at the same place to drink a glass of hot milk from the saucer. Maliheh turned her head and felt something leaking from between her breast to her shirt just as she walked past the crate. Taher slowed down his pace. Even though their house was nearby, Maliheh and Taher did not return home and stood still until the man was ready, for they did not wish the break the solemn silence of the funeral procession. They even stopped and looked at the balcony of their house where the window was still open to let the sound of the train enter, and they saw a young Maliheh bending to pour water in a flowerpot. When she lifted her head, an old Maliheh was gathering the empty flowerpots. Maliheh, with her firm flesh and her dark hair loosened, opened the curtain. Maliheh, with her small face and her hair tainted with henna, was walking in the rain. It rained just a few drops and then the man entered the cemetery. Taher and his wife had walked over the grass between the stones, a few steps away from the house where the corpses were washed. The burial ceremony—grey, dusty—lasted so long that they eventually had to sit down on the wet grass. When the gravediggers left, one could still hear the sound of the spade.

Taher said: “Get up, let’s go.”

“Help me then.”

They held on to one another. One could not say which one was supporting the other. As they struggled to stay on their feet, Maliheh said: “So he belongs to us now, no? Now we have a child who’s dead…”

All around them were stones, names and dates of birth…

Maliheh added: “We must tell them to carve a stone for him.”

“Ok.”

“We must find him a name.”

“…”

“…”

 

It was Friday; the wood-burner was burning to the song of the sparrows and from the balcony one could hear the hubbub of the people echoing from the other end of the street. They were making so much noise that Taher and Maliheh could not hear the sound of the train, approaching, passing, disappearing.

 

***

downloadLAETITIA NANQUETTE is a French translator and academic, based at the University of New South Wales, Sydney, specializing on contemporary Iranian literature and World Literature. She frequently travels to Iran.

 

 

 

???????????????????????????????ALI ALIZADEH is a Melbourne-based writer and lecturer at Monash University, and is co-editor and co-translator, with John Kinsella, of Six Vowels and Twenty Three Consonants: An Anthology of Persian Poetry from Rudaki to Langroodi

Mario Licón Cabrera translates Ali Cobby Eckermann

MLCMario Licón Cabrera (1949) is a Mexican poet and translator living in Sydney since 1992, he has publishe four collectios of poetry and has translated many Australian leading poets into Spanish . He’s currently conducting a Creative Writing and Reading workshop (in Spanish) at The nag’s head hotel, in Glebe, NSW every first Saturday of each month.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Kami

I walk to the south
I walk to the north

Where are you
My warrior?

I sit with the desert
I sit with the ocean

Where are you
My warrior?

I sing in the sand
I sing with the the rocks

Where are you
My warrior?

I dance with the birds
I dance with the animals

Where are you
My warrior?

Heaven is every were
Where are you?

 
Abuela

Camino hacia el sur
Camino hacia el norte

Dónde estás
Guerrero mío?

Me siento con el desierto
Me siento con el océano

Dónde estás
Guerrero mío?

Canto en la arena
Canto con las rocas

Dónde estás
Guerrero mío?

Danzo con los pájaros
Danzo con los animales

Dónde estás
Guerrero mío?

El cielo está por todas partes
Dónde estás tú?

 
Wild Flowers

Mallets pound fence posts
in tune with the rifles
to mask massacre sites
Cattle will graze
sheep hooves will scatter
children’s bones
Wildflowers will not grow
where the bone powder
lies
 
 
Flores Silvestres

Los masos golpean postes de cercas
a tono con los rifles
para ocultar los sitios de la massacre

El ganado pastará
las pesuñas de las ovejas dispersarán
osamentas infantiles

Las flores silvestres no crecerán
donde el polvo de los huesos
reposa

 

Crows

early dawn crows
tell of your impending arrival
that first day I wait
I fall asleep in the street
an earth angel comes
siting beside me
to divert the traffic.

the second day
neighbours wave brooms shouting
we don’t understand you,
you’re too different,
please don’t visit anymore
above my sobbing I heard the crows
tell me you’re closer.

on the third day
a blanket of crows
curtains my bedroom window
I stay in bed until
the knock on the door.

 
Cuervos

temprano por la madrugada los cuervos
hablan de tu inminente arrivo
ese primer día de mi espera
caí dormida en la calle
un ángel terrestre llega
se sienta a mi lado
para desviar el tráfico.

el segundo día
los vecinos agitan sus escobas gritando
no te entendemos,
eres muy diferente,
por favor no vuelvas más
arriba de mis sollozos oía a los cuervos
diciéndome que estabas muy cerca.

al tercer día
una parvada de cuervos
acortina la ventana de mi recámara
me quedo en cama hasta
el llamado en la puerta.

Luke Fischer translates Evening Poems by Goethe, Trakl and Ausländer

Photo Luke FischerLuke Fischer is a Sydney-based poet and scholar. His publications include the poetry collection Paths of Flight (Black Pepper, 2013), a monograph on Rilke and phenomenology (Bloomsbury, forthcoming 2015) and a book of bedtime stories (The Blue Forest, 2014), as well as poems, translations and articles in Australian and international journals. He won the 2012 Overland Judith Wright Poetry Prize and was commended in the 2013 FAW Anne Elder Award for a first book of poems. In 2008 he was awarded a PhD in philosophy from the University of Sydney. He has held post-doctoral fellowships and taught at universities in the U.S. and Germany.

WANDRERS NACHTLIED II

Über allen Gipfeln
Ist Ruh,
In allen Wipfeln
Spürest du
Kaum einen Hauch.
Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde.
Warte nur, balde
Ruhest du auch.


––Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832)

VERKLÄRUNG

Wenn es Abend wird,
Verlässt dich leise ein blaues Antlitz.
Ein kleiner Vogel singt im Tamarindenbaum.

Ein sanfter Mönch
Faltet die erstorbenen Hände.
Ein weisser Engel sucht Marien heim.

Ein nächtiger Kranz
Von Veilchen, Korn und purpurnen Trauben
Ist das Jahr des Schauenden.

Zu deinen Füssen
Öffnen sich die Gräber der Toten,
Wenn du die Stirne in die silbernen Hände legst.

Stille wohnt
An deinem Mund der herbstliche Mond,
Trunken von Mohnsaft dunkler Gesang;

Blaue Blume,
Die leise tönt in vergilbtem Gestein.


––Georg Trakl (1887-1914)

VERWANDTER TRÄUMER

Abend
verwandter Träumer
mit Schweigen
begabt

Du zeigst
dem Menschen
das Ziel
das sanfte Hinüber
in eine
andere Welt

––Rose Ausländer (1901-1988)




WANDERER’S NIGHTSONG II

Calm is
Over every hill,
In all the canopies
You can feel
Barely a breath.
The birds in the forest keep silent.
Wait a while and
You too will rest.




TRANSFIGURATION

When the evening comes
A blue face quietly leaves you.
A small bird sings in the tamarind tree.

A gentle monk
Folds the lifeless hands.
A white angel distresses Mary.

A nightly wreath
Of violets, grain and purple grapes
Is the year of one who sees.

At your feet
Graves of the dead open up,
When you lay your brow in silver hands.

Upon your mouth
Silently dwells the autumn moon,
Dark song drunk on poppy-sap;

Blue blossom
That quietly sounds in yellowed stone.




RELATED DREAMER

Evening
related dreamer
gifted
with silence

You show
human beings
the goal
the gentle transfer
into
another world



Liang Yujing translates Zuo You

Liang YujingLiang  Yujing writes in both English and Chinese,  and is now a lecturer, in China, at Hunan  University of Commerce. His publications include Willow Springs, Wasafiri, Epiphany, Boston Review, Los Angeles Review, Bellevue Literary Review, and many  others.

 

 

 

 

 

Zuo YouZuo  You is a Chinese poet based in Xi’an. His poems have appeared in some major  literary magazines in China. He is hearing-impaired and can only speak a few  simple words.

 

 

 

 

The Hotel

Celestial trees stand upside down outside the window. The train a crackless gap
falling down from the clouds. Tonight I stay with bats,
crooning for darkness. Rocks contract their four fingers.

The wall gradually resembles the face of my grandma who died a decade ago.
Empty bells mingle with streetlight. Under the moon,

the tea is fragrant. A woman guest stays in the adjoining room, playing the flute.
One of her oil-copper breasts lies outside the quilt. Laden with grief,

she plays a series of vacant echoes.
Whose cat suddenly jumps on the table? A teacup rolls. It keeps up its courage:
tiptoed, it creeps into the hot edge of the woman guest’s quilt.


旅馆

左右
窗外倒立着天空的树。火车像云朵上掉下来的
没有裂痕的缺口。今夜我和蝙蝠们在一起
为黑暗低歌。岩石紧缩着四个手指头
墙面越来越和逝去十年的老祖母——脸庞吻合 

空荡荡的钟,和路灯交杂在一起。月光下
茶香喷喷。吹笛的女旅客,住在我左手隔壁
她一只油铜色的乳房,掉在被外。忧伤满面
吹出空荡荡的回声 

谁家的猫突然窜在桌面上,茶杯翻滚。它一直在鼓足勇气:
轻手轻脚,溜进女旅客滚烫的被角

 


Horary Chart

Cold night falls. It keeps raining. The air is fresh.
Inside me, a horary chart is turning without stop. Petals clinging to the ground.
A conscious wind gently knocks at my door. The sandglass on my lips has foretold:
my dream will go back to where you are lost.

 

桃花上的卦盘

寒夜来临。雨一直下着,带有清新的空气
身体里的卦盘旋转个不停,花瓣沾在地角
风随意识轻轻敲门。唇上的沙漏预告过我:

在哪里遗失过你,我就梦回哪里

 

Zeina Issa translates Khalid Kaki

GetAttachmentZeina Issa is a Sydney based interpreter and translator, a columnist for El-Telegraph Arabic newspaper and a poet.

 

 

 

 

 

Khalid Kaki was born in Karkouk, Iraq. He moved to Madrid, Spain and has resided there since 1996. He is a poet, writer, artist and musician. He won the Grand Prize of Poetry at the International Poetry Nights at Curtea de Arges, Romania in 2012. He has published three poetry collections.

 

A belated message from “Halabja”

The children, the mules
and the dragonflies
fell asleep exhausted
in the shade of the village’s clay walls,
they will not wake up again…
Nor will the sunflowers
bowing their heads after the last sunset…

*  *  *

The women villagers
the harvesters of wheat,
the carriers of water from the spring,
the milkers of the morning’s first drop…
They shall stop
at this border in life,
despite the faithful sun
promising them much more

*  *  *

The singing voice of the pupils
spreading across the mountain’s map,
hurried towards the ringing bell of death
thinking it was time for class…

*  *  *

The sticky white clouds
did not distinguish the snakes from the sparrows,
nor the gates from the tiny windows…
They travelled through the houses and the alleys
and devoured the swallows’ nests,the village’s lamps,
its rocks and its fruits…
And they stretched, bleating inside the stables
like an animal spattering its poison and flames

*  *  *

Cadavers embraced
grabbing each other in fear…
The four cardinal points
were leading to the same direction…
They died on their land
it was the only direction

*  *  *

The deformed birds made of steel
dropped their weighty gifts on them…
Coated by wrappers of pain
they returned to eternity

*  *  *

The dreams, the shoes and the horseshoes
melted in the crucible of this little hell…
Death was a mobile well
drenched in captured lives.

رسالة متأخِّرة من “حلبجة”

الأطفال والبِـغال

واليـعاسـب

التي رقدت منهكـةً

في ظل الـجدران الطـيـنـيّـة في القريـة ،

لن يـستـيـقظـوا بـعد الآن ..

كذلك أزهار الشـمـس

التي أطرقَـت بعد الغروب الأخير..

* * *

نساء القريـة

حاصدات السنابل،

حاملات الـماء من الـنَـبع،

حالبـات ضرع الصـباح ..

سـيَـتَـوَقَّـفـنَ

عند هذا الـحد من الـحياة،

رغـم إن الشمسَ الـمخـلِصة

وعَـدَتـهُم بالـمَـزيـد

* * *

نَـشـيد التلامـيذ الـمُنتشرين

على خارطـة الـجبل،

لـحـقَ راكضاً بـجرس الـموت

ظانّـاً أنـّهُ الدرس ..

* * *

السُحُب البِـيـض الـلَّـزجـة

لـم تـميـِّز الأفاعي مِن العصافـيـر،

ولا الأبواب مِن الكـوى ..

سارَت في الـمساكن والشِعاب

والتهمت أعشاش السـنونـو،

وفوانـيـس القـريـة

وأحـجارها والـثِـمار ..

وتَـمـَطـَّت وثَـغـَتْ في الإسطـبـلات

كـحيوانٍ من نِـثـار الـسُم والنـار

* * *

تعانـقت الـجُـثَـث

تـتخـاطَفُ فـزعاً ..

إلـى بعضها كانَـت

تؤدي الـجهات الأربـع ..

ماتوا في أرضهم

التي كانت الـجهة الوحيدة

* * *

الطيور الـحديدية الشـوهاء

ألـقـت علـيـهم

هدايـاهـا الـثـقـيـلـة ..

مغمورين بالألـم الـمغـلَّف

عـادوا إلى الأبـد

* * *

الأحلام والأحـذيـة والـحدوات

ذابت في بوتـقة الجحيم الصغيـر..

كـان الـموت بـئـراً متحـركـة

تـنـضَحُ بأقـفال العُمرِ الكبـيـرة

He went and came back

He went to the orchard
and came back with a flower…
To the shops
and came back with bread
and a can of sardines..
To the war
and came back with a thick beard
and letters from the dead!

  ذهبَ وعادَ

ذَهب إلى البستان

فعاد بزهرة..

وإلى السوق

وعاد بخبز

وعلبة سردين..

وإلى الحرب

فعاد بلحية كـثـة

ورسائل من موتى !

Jan Owen translates Charles Baudelaire

Jan OwenJan Owen’s most recent book is Poems 1980 – 2008. Her selection of Baudelaire translations has been accepted for publication in the U.K., and a New and Selected, The Offhand Angel, is also forthcoming in the UK with Eyewear Publishing.  

 

 

 

 

 

La mort des amants

Nous aurons des lits pleins d’odeurs légères,
Des divans profonds comme des tombeaux,
Et d’étranges fleurs sur des étagères,
Ecloses pour nous sous des cieux plus beaux.

Usant à l’envi leurs chaleurs dernières,
Nos deux coeurs seront deux vastes flambeaux,
Qui réfléchiront leurs doubles lumières
Dans nos deux esprits, ces miroirs jumeaux.

Un soir fait de rose et de bleu mystique,
Nous échangerons un éclair unique,
Comme un long sanglot, tout chargé d’adieux;

Et plus tard un Ange, entr’ouvrant les portes,
Viendra ranimer, fidèle et joyeux,
Les miroirs ternis et les flammes mortes.

 

The Death of Lovers

We shall have beds imbued with faint perfumes,
and flowers from sunny lands on shelves above
the sofas deep and welcoming as tombs
will bloom for us as sweetly as our love.         

Flaring up, our hearts will shine through space                   
like blazing torches spending life’s last heat,
with our twin souls, two mirrors face to face,
reflecting back their dazzling doubled light.

One evening born of rose and mystic blue,
a lightning flash will leap between us two
like a long sob heavy with last goodbyes;

and later on, half-opening the doors,
an angel slipping in with joyful eyes
will raise the tarnished mirrors and dead fires.

 


La mort des artistes

Combien faut-il de fois secouer mes grelots
Et baiser ton front bas, morne caricature?
Pour piquer dans le but, de mystique nature,
Combien, ô mon carquois, perdre de javelots?

Nous userons notre âme en de subtils complots,
Et nous démolirons mainte lourde armature,
Avant de contempler la grande Créature
Dont l’infernal désir nous remplit de sanglots!

Il en est qui jamais n’ont connu leur Idole,
Et ces sculpteurs damnés et marqués d’un affront,
Qui vont se martelant la poitrine et le front,

N’ont qu’un espoir, étrange et sombre Capitole!
C’est que la Mort, planant comme un soleil nouveau,
Fera s’épanouir les fleurs de leur cerveau!


The Death of Artists

How often must I shake my jester’s stick
and kiss this dismal caricature? Will I ever
hit the hidden target? Tell me, quiver,
how many more lost arrows will it take?

We waste our souls in subtleties, we tire
of smashing armatures to start again
in hopes we’ll stare the mighty creature down
that we’ve sobbed over with such hellish desire.

Some have never ever known their god,
and these failed sculptors branded with disgrace
go hammering their chest and head and face,

with one last hope, a capitol of dread—
that death sweep over like a second sun
and bring to bloom the flowers of their brain.

 

 

La Cloche fêlée

Il est amer et doux, pendant les nuits d’hiver,
D’écouter, près du feu qui palpite et qui fume,
Les souvenirs lointains lentement s’élever
Au bruit des carillons qui chantent dans la brume,

Bienheureuse la cloche au gosier vigoureux
Qui, malgré sa vieillesse, alerte et bien portante,
Jette fidèlement son cri religieux,
Ainsi qu’un vieux soldat qui veille sous la tente!

Moi, mon âme est fêlée, et lorsqu’en ses ennuis
Elle veut de ses chants peupler l’air froid des nuits,
Il arrive souvent que sa voix affaiblie

Semble le râle épais d’un blessé qu’on oublie
Au bord d’un lac de sang, sous un grand tas de morts,
Et qui meurt, sans bouger, dans d’immenses efforts.

 

The Cracked Bell

How bitter-sweet it is on winter nights                                 
listening by the fire’s flicker and hiss                
to distant memories slowly taking flight
with the carillons resounding through the mist.

Faithfully the sturdy-throated bell                           
flings its holy cry abroad. Unspent
despite it’s years, it’s vigorous and well
—a veteran keeping watch inside his tent.

As for me, my soul’s cracked through with pain;
I scarcely hold a tune in sun or rain,                                                                    
and often now my voice turns weak and thin

as the last rattling breaths of a wounded man
crushed under a mound of corpses piled up high
next to a lake of blood. Struggling to die.

 

Philippe Soupault translated by Marty Hiatt

Marty Hiatt is a Melbourne poet. His chapbook Rook’s Lair on a Lever was published in October 2012. Contact: martyhiatt@mail.com

 

 

 

Say it with music

The golden bracelets and drapes
the locomotives the boats
and the salubrious wind and clouds
I simply abandon them
my heart’s too small
or too big
and my life is short
I don’t know exactly when my death will come
but I age
I descend the day’s steps
with a prayer on my lips
On each floor is it friend waiting for me
or a thief
or me
I no longer know how to see anything other
than a single star or cloud in the sky
according to my sorrow or joy
I no longer know how to lower my head
is it too heavy
Nor do I know if in my hands
I hold soap bubbles or cannon balls
I walk
I age
but my red blood my dear red blood
roams through my veins
driving out memories of the present
but my thirst is too great
I stop again and await
the light
Paradise paradise paradise

 

Say it with music

Les bracelets d’or et les drapeaux
les locomotives les bateaux
et le vent salubre et les nuages
je les abandonne simplement
mon cœur est trop petit
ou trop grand
et ma vie est courte
je ne sais quand viendra ma mort exactement
mais je vieillis
je descends les marches quotidiennes
en laissant une prière s’échapper de mes lèvres
A chaque étage est-ce un ami qui m’attend
est-ce un voleur
est-ce moi
je ne sais plus voir dans le ciel
qu’une seule étoile ou qu’un seul nuage
selon ma tristesse ou ma joie
je ne sais plus baisser la tête
est-elle trop lourde
Dans mes mains je ne sais pas non plus
si je tiens des bulles de savon ou de boulets de canon
je marche
je vieillis
mais mon sang rouge mon cher sang rouge
parcourt mes veines
en chassant devant lui les souvenirs du présent
mais ma soif est trop grande
je m’arrête encore et j’attends
la lumière
Paradis paradis paradis

 

Philippe Soupault (born in 1897) was a French writer and poet, novelist, critic, and political activist. He was active in Dadaism and later founded the Surrealist movement with André Breton.

Lu Ye translated by Ouyang Yu

Ouyang Yu is now based in Shanghai, teaching at SIFT (Shanghai Institute of Foreign Trade) as a professor. In 2012, he has published a couple of books, including The Kingsbury Tales: A Complete Collection and Self Translation.

 

 

 

B-mode Ultrasound Report, Gynecology Department

On it is written:
Anteversion of uterus and abnormal corpus uteri: 9.1 x 5.4 x 4.7cm
A prominent tubercle on the back wall that is 1.9 x 1.8cm
Its inner membrane 0.8cm in thickness
The appendix (on the left) is 2.7 x 1.6cm and (on the right) 2.7 x 1.8cm
With a clear and even echo

I was drinking till my belly was close to bursting, my legs weakening
And my lower abdomen turned thin and transparent, like the crepe georgette I was in
To make it easier for the instrument to explore the complex topography inside
The doctors thought they were looking at a kaleidoscope
A woman’s final file, her history as much as her geography

The descriptive language on the report, in an objective tone
Is an assessment of the most vital part of a woman
Like the remarks on a student’s performance at school in the old days
The figures accurate and submissive
Suggesting that one had to offer a monthly betrothal present
If the report were written in a figurative language
It would have to be something like this: its shape is closer to a torpedo
Than an opening magnolia denudata
With a garment of pure cotton and silk linings
Hiding nothing in her heart except the depths of her body, in a corner or a far suburb
So remote it almost resembles the western regions in the body
Connected to the outside and heights by dark channels and narrow lifts
With a door ajar, a dream of crowded kids and the courage to be ageing all the way

In a lyrical language, it would have to be written thus:
Ah, this cradle of mankind
Grown on the body of a failed woman
Stops short of germinating despite its rich maternal instinct
Ah, this church of love
Ruins of love to the nth degree, like the Imperial Summer Palace
This other heart, an organ the most solitary and empty in the body
Ah, instead of being a house, an old garden, it often feel s homeless
And does not believe in gravitation as it has an intuition, soft and moist
A memory that flies

 

《妇科B 超报告单》

 

上面写着——
子宫前位,宫体欠规则,9·1×5·4×4·7cm
后壁有一外突结节1·9×1·8cm,内膜厚0·8cm
附件(左)2·7×1·6cm,( 右)2·7×1·8cm
回声清澈均匀

当时我喝水, 喝到肚子接近爆炸,两腿酸软
让小腹变薄、变透明,像我穿的乔其纱
这样便于仪器勘探到里面复杂的地形
医生们大约以为在看一只万花筒
一个女人最后的档案,是历史, 也是地理

报告单上这些语调客观的叙述性语言
是对一个女人最关健部位的鉴定
像一份学生时代的操行评语
那些数字精确、驯良
暗示每个月都要交出一份聘礼

如果把这份报告转换成描写性语言
就要这样写: 它的形状, 与其说跟一朵待放的玉兰相仿
不如说更接近一颗水雷
它有纯棉的外罩和绸缎的衬里
它心无城府, 潜伏在身体最深处,在一隅或者远郊
偏僻得几乎相当于身体的西域
它以黑暗的隧道、窄小的电梯跟外面和高处相连
它有着虚掩的房门, 儿女成群的梦想以及一路衰老下去的勇气

如果换成抒情性语言呢, 就该这样写了吧:
啊, 这人类的摇篮
生长在一个失败的女人身上
虽有着肥沃的母性, 但每次都到一个胚芽为止
啊, 这爱情的教堂
它是N 次恋爱的废墟,仿佛圆明园
这另一颗心脏,全身最孤独最空旷的器官
啊, 它本是房屋一幢故园一座, 却时常感到无家可归
它不相信地心引力, 它有柔软潮润的直觉
有飞的记忆

 

Perhaps I am Willing

Perhaps I am willing
To be with you every day
Raising ducks.
My heart, for the rest of my life
Is a window pane
Cleaned till it shines.
Early in the morning we go somewhere near
To the simple-minded creek
The sun spreading our skins
With a deep glaze
And the healthy grass reaching over our knees.
I am willing
To listen to you every dusk
Gathering the ducks home with a whist le
When the land becomes quiet
And the sun, brilliant, beautiful.
Because of the lush water grass
Our ducks are over-grown, nearly to the size of geese
Without the red crown
The sign of the geese.
We are so poor at managing them
That these ducks have become like us
Believing only in the poetry of life
Not wanting to go home for the night, and stepping onto a great
wandering journey
Happy or unhappy
Until they move back, from artificial propagation
To wilderness
Laying liberalist eggs, one by one
In the boundless grass.

 

《也许我愿意》

 也许我愿意
每天和你在一起
放鸭子。
我后半生的心
是一块擦拭得锃亮的
窗玻璃。
我们一大早就去了不远处
那条心地单纯的小溪
太阳在皮肤上涂上一层
深色的釉彩
健康的青草漫过双膝。
我愿意
每天黄昏听你
用口哨集合起鸭子回家
那时大地多么沉寂
落日多么辉煌、壮丽。
由于水草丰茂
我们的鸭子长得太大,几乎像鹅
只是头顶上缺少红色王冠
那才是鹅的标志。
我们不擅管理
使得鸭子们全都跟我们一样
信奉生活中的诗意
渐渐夜不归宿,踏上伟大的流浪之路
哪管快乐和失意
就这样,它们从人工养殖过渡还原成了
野鸭子
把自由主义的蛋,一颗一颗地
产在无边的草丛里。

 

 

You Have Fallen Ill

Separated from you by hundreds of kilometers of a rainy land
I am so concerned about your condition
I misread weather report as cardiograph, CT, colour ultrasound or blood
                  pressure figures
I shall fast for you, taking only vegetables with little oil and rice congee
And pray for your recovery

Now that you are ill
Please take a good rest like barn grass after the rain
Flashing your tender bud in the afternoon sun
Ring me about your pain and dizziness smelling of Lysol
For life is a debt that needs to be paid off slowly
Please open the ward window and see the morning glow and the setting sun
                 over the top of the dawn redwood
And the path drifting with the aroma of dinner
Peace and quiet are the best doctors

I have so many things to warn you about but please do remember these:
You have to add a bit of laziness to your virtue
And let the dust gently settle on your desk
Make friends with tea and enemies with liquor or cigarettes
Have walnuts, peanuts, sesame, seaweeds and fish
Take a regular walk along the river
And take medications on time, not afraid of its bitterness

 

《你在病中》

我隔了上千里烟雨迷蒙的国土
惦念着你的病情
竟把天气预报误读成心电图、CT、彩超和血压数
我还要为此斋戒,只吃一点少油的素菜米粥
祈祷你的康复

 如今你在病中
请像一棵雨后的稗草那样好好歇息
在午后阳光下闪烁细细的嫩芽
把来苏水味的疼痛和晕眩打电话告诉我吧
生命原是一笔需要慢慢偿还的债务
请打开病房的窗户, 看看水杉树顶的朝霞和落日
还有那飘着晚饭花香气的小路
安宁和静默是最好的大夫

 我还有一大串叮嘱, 也请求你一一记住:
你要在美德里加进去那么一点儿懒
让书桌上轻轻落着尘土
你要与茶为友,以烟酒为敌
你要常吃核桃花生芝麻, 还有海藻和鱼
你要每天去江边散散步
你必须按时吃药啊, 不能怕苦

 

One

Now, everything has turned from two into one
One cotton quilt, one pillow
One tooth-brush, one face-towel
One chair, and photographs that contain only one person
And there is only one poplar tree outside the window as well
What’s more, I emit one egg in vain as usual every month
All these things are feminine
Shadows matching their shapes, like a widow
Sticking to her chastity, like a nun

Now, I lock my door alone, I walk downstairs alone
I window-shop alone, I walk alone, I go back to my room alone
I read alone, I have a banquet alone, I sleep alone
I live from morning till night
And have to walk to the end of my life alone
The cloth doll, covered in dust, on the bookshelf
Has no spouse, like myself
I am a divorcee and she, an old maid
We suffer from the same condition but have no pity for one another

My telephone remains silent, like a mute
Who can strike my heart’s cord in the stillness of the night?
Even my heartbeat is solitary
Creating an echo in the empty room
I am a compound vowel that cannot find a matching consonant
I am an oblique tone that cannot find a matching level tone
I am a surface that cannot find a match to strike
I am a parabola that cannot find its coordinate system
And I am a dandelion that can find neither the spring nor the wind

I am one, and I am ‘1’
With solitude as my mission
And loneliness as my career

 

《单数》

 如今, 一切由双数变成了单数
棉被一床,枕头一个
牙刷一只,毛巾一条
椅子一把,照片保留单人的
窗外杨树也只有一棵
还有, 每月照例徒劳地排出卵子一个
所有这些事物都是雌的
她们像寡妇一样形影相吊
像尼姑一样固守贞操

如今, 一个人锁门, 一个人下楼
一个人逛商店,一个人散步,一个人回屋
一个人看书, 一个人大摆宴席, 一个人睡去
一个人从早晨过到晚上
还要一个人走向生命的尽头
布娃娃在书架上落满灰尘
跟我一样也没有配偶
我离异了,而她是老姑娘
我们同病却无法相怜

 电话机聋哑人似地不声不响
谁能在夜深人静时拨通我的心弦
我连心跳的每一下都是孤零零的
在空荡荡的房子里引起回音
我是韵母找不到声母
我是仄声找不到平声
我是火柴皮找不到火柴棒
我是抛物线找不到坐标系
我是蒲公英找不到春天找不到风

我是单数,我是“1”
以孤单为使命
以寂寞为事业

 

 The International Flight

Across the city wall of the Chinese language
Through the broken limbs of the Japanese language and over the hedge of
the Korean language
Until I, with a leap into the round window of the English language
Am translated into a sick sentence

Passion covers more than a thousand kilometers an hour
There are the sun-threshing-ground and cloud-villages outside the window
It is a gale, I believe, of thirty-thousand feet that is blowing me away
Chucking the absurd first part of my life onto the earth

The International Date Line resembles a jumping rope
As I jump back from the 12th to the 11th
From today to yesterday: Can mistakes be corrected? Can love return?

 

《国际航班》

跨出汉语的城墙
穿过日语的断臂残垣,翻过韩文的篱笆
最后, 又跳进了英语的圆窗
我被译来译去,成了一个病句

激情每小时上千公里
窗外是太阳的打谷场和白云的村庄
我相信是一场三万英尺的大风把我刮走
将荒唐的前半生扔在了地球上

国际日期变更线像一条跳绳
我从4 月12 日跳回11 日
今天变昨天, 错是否能改,爱是否可以重来

 

Lu Ye, is a Chinese poet born in December 1969. She has published a number of poetry collections, such as feng shenglai jiu meiyou jia (Wind is Born Homeless), xin shi yijia fengche (Heart is a Windmill) and wode zixu zhi zhen wuyou zhi xiang (My Non-existent Home Town). She has also published 5 novels such as xingfu shi you de (There was Happiness) and xiawu dudianzhong (Five in the Afternoon). She has won a number of poetry awards, including the People’s Literature Award in 2011. She now teaches at Jinan University, China.

Three Poems by Nikola Madzirov

Nikola Madzirov was born in 1973 in Strumica, Macedonia in a family of Balkan Wars refugees. His first collection of poetry, »Zaklučeni vo gradot« (tr: Locked in the City), won the »Studentski zbor« prize for best début. In the same year he published his second book, »Nekade nikade« (tr: Somewhere Nowhere), also a poetry collection, which won the Aco-Karamanov prize. The anthology »Vo gradot, nekade« (tr: In the City, Somewhere) followed in 2004, and in 2007 he published his last poetry collection to date, »Premesten kamen« (tr: Relocated Stone), for which he was awarded the prestigious Miladinov-Brothers Prize and the Hubert-Burda Prize for Literature.

Madzirov was poetry editor of the Macedonian e-magazine »Blesok« and is the Macedonian co-ordinator of the international network Lyrikline. He lives in Macedonia and works as a poet, essayist and literary translator.

 

The Shadow of the World Passes Over My Heart

—Lucian Blaga
(translated by Peggy and Graham W. Reid)

I haven’t the courage of a relocated stone.
You’ll find me stretched on a damp bench
beyond all army camps and arenas. 

I’m empty as a plastic bag
filled with air. 

With hands parted and fingers joined
I indicate a roof. 

My absence is a consequence
of all recounted histories and deliberate longings.      

I have a heart pierced by a rib.
Fragments of glass float through my blood
and clouds hidden behind white cells.

The ring on my hand has no shadow of its own
and is reminiscent of the sun. I haven’t the courage
of a relocated star.

 

Before We Were Born

(translated by Peggy and Graham W. Reid)

The streets were asphalted
before we were born and all
the constellations were already formed.
The leaves were rotting
on the edge of the pavement,
the silver was tarnishing
on the workers’ skin,
someone’s bones were growing through
the length of the sleep.

Europe was uniting
before we were born and
a woman’s hair was spreading
calmly over the surface
of the sea.
 

Separated

(translated by Magdalena Horvat and Adam Reed)

I separated myself from each truth about the beginnings
of rivers, trees, and cities.
I have a name that will be a street of goodbyes
and a heart that appears on X-ray films.
I separated myself even from you, mother of all skies
and carefree houses.
Now my blood is a refugee that belongs
to several souls and open wounds.
My god lives in the phosphorous of a match,
in the ashes holding the shape of the firewood.
I don’t need a map of the world when I fall asleep.
Now the shadow of a stalk of wheat covers my hope,
and my word is as valuable
as an old family watch that doesn’t keep time.
I separated from myself, to arrive at your skin
smelling of honey and wind, at your name
signifying restlessness that calms me down,
opening the doors to the cities in which I sleep,
but don’t live.
I separated myself from the air, the water, the fire.
The earth I was made from
is built into my home.

 

ABOUT THE TRANSLATORS

Peggy Reid, M.A. (Cantab), Doctor honoris causa, Skopje, M.B.E., born Bath, U.K., 1939, taught English at Ss. Cyril and Methodius University, Skopje, Macedonia, for twenty years between 1969 and 2006. Translator/co-translator from Macedonian of novels, poetry, plays and works of nonfiction. Lives in Edinburgh, U.K.

Graham W. Reid, M.A., M.B.E. born Edinburgh, 1938. Read English at Trinity College, Cambridge. Taught English for twenty-five years at Ss. Cyril & Methodius University, Skopje, Macedonia. Widely translated both poetry and prose from Macedonian into English. M.A. thesis at Bradford University on Reflections of Rural-Urban Migration in Contemporary Macedonian Poetry. Currently lives in Edinburgh, U.K.

Magdalena Horvat (born 1978, Skopje, Macedonia) is the author of two poetry collections: This is it, your (2006) and Bluish and other poems (2010). Among the books she has translated into Macedonian are Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar and Fiona Sampson’s The Distance Between Us. She currently lives in Athens, Georgia.

Adam Reed (born 1978, Athens, Georgia) has co-translated/edited several poetry collections, anthologies and works of nonfiction from Macedonian into English. He taught English, Writing and History courses at University American College Skopje, Macedonia, for several years. He currently lives in Athens, Georgia.

 

Susan Hawthorne translates Kālidāsa’s Meghadūta

Susan Hawthorne is the author of six collections of poetry, the latest of which is Cow (2011). Cow was written during a 2009 Asialink Literature Residency based at the University of Madras and funded by the Australia Council and Arts Queensland. Her previous book, Earth’s Breath (2009) was shortlisted for the 2010 Judith Wright Poetry Prize. A chapbook of poems about war, Valence, will be published in late 2011. She is Adjunct Professor in the Writing Program at James Cook University, Townsville. She has been studying Sanskrit at La Trobe University and ANU for five years.

 

 

Kālidāsa’s Meghadūta

Kālidāsa’s Meghadūta (Cloud Messenger) from approximately the 4th century CE is a poem of 111 stanzas. This poem is based on reading the first 20 stanzas of the poem in Sanskrit. Meghadūta is one of several lyric poems by Kālidāsa who wrote three plays as well as epic poems. He is one of the most important poets writing in Classical Sanskrit. Translating for Sanskrit provides many challenges, and in this version I take poetic licence in order to make the poem work in English. The Sanskrit metre in which it is written is mandākrānta, a slow elegiac metre.

 

Twenty stanzas of Meghadūta

a whole year passed and the Yakṣa pined
though he lived in pleasant surrounds
among Rāmagiri’s shady trees
and the holy waters of Sītā
yet still he ached
only himself to blame for Kubera’s curse

his mind bent by longing for her
love bangle slipped from his famished arm
with bittersweet pangs of love
he hungered on that lonely mountain top
on a windy day portending monsoon
he saw an elephant cloud rutting the cliff face

his yearning peaked as he stood
before this phantasm of elephant
dry-eyed tears welling inside
even the cheerful mind is ruffled
by the sight of a rough-skinned cloud
he wished his arms a necklace

as the month of Śrāvaṇa approached
the month of listening he prepared
to send news through the cloud ear
he made an offering of fresh kuṭaja flowers
spoke aloud his words filled with love
sustenance for his beloved

his mind bent by yearning
he clutches at cloud elements
vapour light water wind
mistakes cloud breath for vital breath
poor lovelorn Yakṣa can’t sense
the mirror from its reflection

Yakṣa speaks to the cloud saying
I know you are born into the world-wandering
shapeshifting clan related to thunder-bearing
Indra I call on you to help me most lofty one
my kin are far away and destiny tells me
to make a humble request though it be futile

rain-giver you are a refuge in sticky heat
Kubera has parted me from my beloved
and  I beg that you travel to her in Alakā
with my message where you’ll find a palace
bathed in the light of a crescent moon on the head
of Śiva standing in the outer garden

ascend the path of the wind sky-fly
so the wives need no longer sigh
at their unravelled hair imploring
their well-travelled husbands to return
whereas I in thrall to Kubera
have neglected my beloved

without obstruction follow the jet stream
how you float unlike my beloved
her heart like a wilted flower
she needs the thread of hope
to buoy up her spirits in fruitless
counting of days and nights

as the wind drives you slowly slowly
the cātaka bird sings sweetly sweetly
skeins of cranes are in flight
cloud seeded they fly in formation
like a garland aloft pleasing to
the sky-turned eye

your sky companions the gander kings
have heard your thundering gait
they long for Lake Mānasa so high
they watch for mushrooming earth
and carry food strips of lotus root
as you fly together to Mount Kailāsa

lofty mountain embraced by cloud
rain tears and farewells marked
by Rāmagiri’s receding footprints
steaming tears stream down
the mountain’s face a knot
of loss born of long separation

oh cloud listen to me
let your ears be drunk
on sound    listen follow
the path laid down
drink from bubbling streams
rest when exhausted

beneath you bewildered
women watch the crowd
of elephant clouds a shiver
of north wind carries off
the mountain tusk
beware the quarter elephants

face-to-face a sliver of Indra’s
bow rises from the anthill
a kaleidoscope of colours
in crystalline refraction
your indigo body glittering
like a glamour of peacocks

fruits of harvest grown
on moisture from you
fertile as the wombs
of women sweet sacred
smell of turned earth
climb the brow to the cloud-road

ride the spine of Āmrakūṭa
the ground awash with
your downpour extinguishing
wildfire such kindness is
returned providing refuge
for high flying friends

cloud braid lies along Āmrakūṭa’s
spine fringed with mango orbs
the mountain a curve of breast
its dark nipple in the middle
a coupling of gods looks
at the pale vastness of earth

the young wives of forest nomads
frolic in thick mountain arbours
you sprint the rim of mountain
streams riven by strewn boulders
like the cross-hatched pattern
decorating the body of an elephant

you whose rain is shed drink
the must-infused water of wild
elephants water-clumped
jambū trees obstruct your way
the wind cannot lift a solid mass
a void is light fullness is gravity

 

Stuart Cooke translates Pablo de Rokha

Pablo de Rokha (1894-1968) was born as Pablo Díaz Loyola. Despite his profound influence upon subsequent generations of Latin American poets, he failed to achieve the international fame of his contemporary, Pablo Neruda (with whom he quarrelled fiercely and publicly). In 1965 he was awarded Chile’s National Literature Prize, deemed by many at the time to be long overdue. He committed suicide at the age of 73.

 

 

 

God

He made man, he made him in his IMAGE and semblance, and he’s enormously sad and an immense man, an immense man, the continuation of all men, all men, all the MOST manly men, the continuation of all men towards the infinite, a dream, all a dream or a TRIANGLE that dissolves in bright stars.

***

How much pain, how much pain did the earth need to create you, God, to create you!.. how much pain! Gesture of the world’s anguish, of matter’s sickness and an enormous, enormous mania of enormities!

***

God, that great human caricature, God, full of empty skies, sad consciences, sad consciences and GREAT anguish, his neutered cadaver’s voice brings together and sums up, FOR man, in his common and disconcerting attitude, the moaning of every object and, in addition, the other, the distant, the other, the other, like the words of a naive child, a naive child, a naive child; bad God, good God, wise God, stubborn God, God with passions and gestures, virtues and vices, concubines or ILLEGITIMATE sons, with an office like a pharmacist’s, like any hairdresser’s.

***

The earth sculpted the earth’s ingenuous fruits for him, only for him, the earth’s ingenuous fruits, and man denied the enormous world, denied the world; who was, who was ever, who was more loved than him?… he, he was the most loved but never was anything, anyone, he never was, never, never was, never, never, never was!..

***

Tragedy of God, God, God, the major disgrace of history, the lie, the PHENOMENAL blow to the rights of life, God.

***

God answered smiling answered God, God answered the most tremendous, the most obscure, the most disastrous questions and the great question; BUT the most tremendous, the most obscure, the most disastrous questions and the great question still, still haven’t been, haven’t been, haven’t been answered yet, still haven’t been answered; God squashed the earth, oh! sacred hippopotamus, God squashed the earth with filthy feet, and the footprints survive until today, survive on the roads and in the tragic belly of the worlds.

***

He blackened, he blackened, he blackened LIFE with the black paint of dreams and urinated the dignity of man.

***

“God, God, God, do you exist?… God! God! God!..”, howl the towns and the old women, the old women and the towns across the theological plains… shut up! idiots, shut up! shut up!… God IS YOU.

***

Great absurd wing, God extends himself over THE VOID…

 

 

The Pale Conquistadors

Epic characters, epic, executive or emphatic characters, emphatic, emphatic, and souls of bronze, steel, rock, wretched bones, wiry muscles, men of concise, energetic, simple, authentic, authoritative, exact language, and RED actions, RED burning a priori, hermit-swordsmen, swordsmen-hermits, adventurers who are transformed by hunger and the thirst for GOLD, glory, dashing exploits – glory! glory! – transformed from frauds into heroes, from frauds into heroes, the power of having a soul boiling, the power of having a soul boiling, the power of having a soul boiling at SEVENTY ONE degrees in the shade.

***

Dim, illiterate, ignorant, ignorant soldiers, you predated the immense, contemporary urban estates and you were THE FIRST settlers of the dull brown, dull brown earth, dull brown, humble, agricultural, BLUSHING like a woman who is discovered naked; free to draw your daggers, you pursued two destinies: to be hung at the gallows or crowned with laurels.

***

And you’re called Pedro de Valdivia, Hernán Cortés or Francisco Pizarro, Napoleon, you’re all the same: brave, drunken swine, demented or crazy geniuses, contradictory, bilious – that is, IRRESPONSIBLE instruments of cosmic DYNAMISM and LIFE’S nocturnal forces; CONQUISTADORS, I salute you because you were a lot of dreaming-poet-leaders crossing the horizon’s SEVEN HUNDRED hardships with your absurd, painted-on, metaphorical costumes and resonant, fantastical attitudes, full to the brim with illusions, ambitions, heroic, enormous emotions, eyes full of landscapes, sleeping in the shadow of a great, distant dream as BIG as THE SKIES, and not ten cents, not ten cents in your pockets!..

 

 

Stuart Cooke’s chapbook, Corrosions, was published by Vagabond Press in 2010, and his translation of Juan Garrido-Salgado’s Eleven Poems, September 1973 was published by Picaro Press in 2007. His first full-length collection, Edge Music, is forthcoming in 2011.

 

Maria Freij translates poems by Lars Gustafsson

Lars Gustafsson (born May 17, 1936) is a Swedish, poet, novelist and scholar. He was born in Västerås, completed his secondary education at the Västerås gymnasium and continued to Uppsala University; he received his Licentiate degree in 1960 and was awarded his Ph.D. in Theoretical Philosophy in 1978. He lived in Austin, Texas until 2003, and has recently returned to Sweden. He served as a professor at the University of Texas in Austin, Texas, where he taught Philosophy and Creative Writing, until May 2006, when he retired. Gustafsson is one of the most prolific Swedish writers since August Strindberg. Since the late 1950s he has produced a voluminous flow of poetry, novels, short stories, critical essays, and editorials. He is also an example of a Swedish writer who has gained international recognition with literary awards such as the Prix International Charles Veillon des Essais in 1983, the Heinrich Steffens Preis in 1986, Una Vita per la Litteratura in 1989, a John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation Fellowship for poetry in 1994, and several others.

 

Nyårskantat år 2007

In med tenorerna i höga lägen, pukslag!
Snabb övergång från ess-moll till C-dur!

Champagnekorkarna som lättar

är som änderna som flyger upp ur vassen
skrämda utav kyrkklockor och ångbåtsvisslor

Jag har aldrig förstått varför man firar nyår
Mig skrämmer de rejält

på samma sätt som morgnar skrämmer
med sitt kalla ljus. De vill för mycket.

Varje år som vi har upplevt
var en gång ett nyår.

Vad är skillnaden emellan framtid
och förfluten tid? Ingen vet.

Vad väntar oss strax bakom hörnet?
Krig, pest och annat fanskap? Eller Eden?

Ej kan vanans nötta läxa
Evigt repas upp igen

skrev en aktad kollega,
herr Tegnér, år 1813.

Jaså kan den inte det?
Hur kan man vara så säker på det?
Vissa dagar kan man undra.

Får man skriva så i en kantat?
Det är nog fel. Kantaten är beställd.

Beställaren är optimist.
Vi antar det i alla fall.
Hans yrke kräver det.

In med tenorerna
i höga lägen, pukslag,
snabb övergång till C-dur!

Vet: denna match är inte avgjord än.
Slutsignalen dröjer.
Minuter och sekunder!

Visst finns här plats för någon överraskning.
Visst gör det så!

Sensationsmål  i sista sekunden!
Ett sådant där som ändrar hela läget!

Och i det mellanrummet,
i en hårfin spricka mellan tid och tid

där allt är möjligt, önskar jag er lycka till.
Mellan ”inte än” och ”strax”

hörs nu tydligt ljudet av
en kork som lycklig lämnar flaskan.

 

New Year’s Canto year 2007

In with the tenors’ high notes, kettle-drumbeats!
Quick transition from E flat minor to C major!

The champagne corks taking flight are the wild ducks dashing out of the reeds
frightened by church bells and steam-boat whistles

I have never understood why they celebrate new years They scare me soundly

in the same way that mornings scare with their cold light. They want too much.
Every year we have known was once a new year.

What is the difference between future
and past time? No one knows.

What awaits us around the corner?
War, pestilence and other damned nuisance? Or Eden?

The worn lesson of habit cannot
Eternally be unravelled

wrote an esteemed colleague,
Mr Tegnér, in 1813.

Oh, can it not?
How can we be so sure?
Some days make you wonder.

Can you really write that in a canto?
It is probably wrong. The canto is commissioned.

The commissioner is an optimist.
We assume so at least.
His profession demands it.

In with the tenors’ high notes, kettle-drumbeats,
quick transition to C major!

Know this: this match is not yet decided.
The final whistle is delayed.
Minutes and seconds!

Of course there is room for some surprise.
Of course there is!

A last-minute sensational goal!
One of those that change everything!

And in that interspace
in the thin rift between time and time

where everything is possible, I wish you good luck.
Between “not yet” and “soon”

the clear sound can now be heard of
a cork happily leaving the bottle.


Primtalen

De första
är mörka fästningar

som byggdes av furstar
i en längesedan bortglömd tid.

De ligger tätt intill varandra
och kastar långa skuggor,

landet omkring dem är en platt
och svårförsvarad våtmark.

De är byggda av en stenart
som ingen tid kan söndervittra

och alla de andra är byar
som hukar runtomkring dem.

Sedan blir de allt sällsyntare:

man måste rida länge över stora slätter
för att se ännu en vid horisonten.

Sanningen är att de blir allt färre
på sin väg emot de ofattbara djupen

Och doktor Riemanns skugga står
onaturligt hög och varnande

i en oändlig solnedgång

 

The Prime Numbers

The first are dark fortresses
built by princes

in a long-forgotten time.
They lie close together and throw long shadows,

the land around them is flat
and hard-to-defend wetlands.

They are built from a variety of stone
that no time can crumble away

and all the others are villages
crouching around them.

Then they become more rare:

you have to ride across vast plains
to see yet another on the horizon.

Truth is, they grow far fewer
on their way toward the unfathomable depths

And doctor Riemann’s shadow stands
unnaturally tall and cautionary

in an infinite sunset

 

Sjöarna

Sjöar utan öar
har inte mycket att säga.
De ligger där på sin plats.

Vänern
detta Mellansveriges bleka emaljöga
skulle då kunna tjäna som exempel.
Exempel på vad?
På sig själv, naturligtvis.

*

Sverige, somrarnas ljumma regnland
med tydlig doft av allt som
murknar, ruttnar, flagnar
De gamla ensamma husen i skogen
sjunker långsamt in i sig själva
och ett mossigt äppelträd
försöker berätta, men
kommer sig inte riktigt för
att komma ut med sanningen.
Berätta om vad?
Sanningen, som är alltför förskräcklig.

I somrarnas milda regnland
blir det inte så mycket över att säga.
Hörendesjön  inåtvänd.
Och sedan mörkret,
en våt och ljummen mur.
Vi signalerar över sjön
med våra alltför svaga lampor.
”Och sedan mörkret”

Logonauten lyssnade uppmärksamt.
Och kommenterade sedan
på sitt stillsamma sätt:
”Den som har stora mörka rum
inom sig, mörka som potatiskällare,
mörka som rummet mellan galaxerna,
känner sällan mörkrädsla.”

 

The Lakes

Lakes without islands
do not have much to say.
They lie in their place.

Lake Vänern
this the pale glass eye of middle Sweden
could thus be an example.
An example of what?
Of itself, of course.

*

Sweden, the land of warm summer rain
with a palpable scent of everything that
decays, rots, peals
The old lonely houses in the forest
slowly sink into themselves
and a mossy apple tree
tries to tell, but
cannot really bring itself
to tell the truth.
To tell what?
The truth, which is too terrible.
In the land of warm summer rain
there is not much left to say.
Lake Hörende turned inside itself. And then the darkness,
a wet and warm wall.
We signal over the lake
with our too-weak lamps.
“And then the darkness”

The logonaut listened carefully.
And then commented
in his quiet way: “He who has large dark rooms
inside himself, dark as potato cellars,
dark as the room between the galaxies,
is seldom afraid of the dark.”

 

En försommardag vid Björn Nilssons grav

(Midsommar 2005)

Väster Våla kyrkogård i försommarljuset
och med den vänliga sydvästvind över

Bruslings ängar som måste ha rått
den milda förmiddag på sextiotalet

när vi uppfann Monstret i Bo Gryta.
Monstret var en jättemal, och vi behövde den

för att ha något att skriva om i Expressen.
(Det var en av dessa  förargliga veckor

när inget vill hända,

världshistorien tvekar eller grubblar
på hur nästa verkligt taskiga överraskning

skall se ut och ingen stjärna hade brutit benet.)

Bo Gryta är ett djuphål i Åmänningen.
Man hittar det någon kilometer utanför

Bodarnes och Vretarnas byar, på en linje
mellan den gamla Bodahamnen, där vraket

efter en i åskby kantrad och sjunken malmjakt
skall ligga men ingen vet var, och Tandläkarudden.

Hur djupt detta djuphål är? Ingen vet.
Mången har försökt med lod och lina.

Och när linan kom upp, avbiten
lika elegant som av en rakkniv

eller kättingen de prövade i stället
lika blank och prydlig i snittet

efter vad som väl bara kunde vara
mycket stora tänder, gav man

upp försöken. Christopher Middleton
beskrev dem i sin dikt ”The Mole”.

Det blev förvisso verkningsfullt,
för ett par somrar senare kom en busslast

av engelsmän, excentriker och experter
på djupa sjöars monster. De lodade

och antecknade. Per Brusling bjöd på kaffe,
nu en äldre man som vet en del om sjön.

Över Björn Nilssons grav går sommarvinden.
Och jag fruktar att jag är den ende nu som vet

hur det egentligen gick till.

Expeditionen återvände
djupt övertygad att denna jättemal,

inte bara jättelik och illasinnad,

också är slug, mycket slug
och vet att gömma sig i dunkla djup

närhelst det kommer någon dit
som söker den.

 

An early Summer’s Day by Björn Nilsson’s Grave

(Midsummer 2005)

Väster Våla graveyard in the early summer light
and with the kind south-westerly over

Bruslings meadows that must have blown
on this mild morning in the sixties

when we invented the Monster of Bo Gryta.
The Monster was a giant catfish and we needed it

to have something to write about in Expressen.
(It was one of those annoying weeks

where nothing happens,

world history hesitates or deliberates
over what the next really crude surprise

will be and no star had broken a leg.)

Bo Gryta is a deep hole in Åmänningen.
You will find it about a kilometer outside

the villages of Bodarne and Vretarna, on a line
between the old Boda harbour, where the wreck

of an in a thunderstorm turned and sunken iron ore carrier
supposedly lies but no one knows where, and Tandläkarudden.

How deep this deep hole is? No one knows.
Many have tried by lead and line.

And when the line came up, bitten off
as elegantly as by a barber’s knife

or the chain they tried instead
as neat and tidy in its incision

after what surely could only be
very large teeth, they gave

up trying. Christopher Middleton
described them in his poem “The Mole”.

It was certainly effective,
for a couple of summers later a busload

of Englishmen, eccentrics and experts
of deep lakes’ monsters. They leaded

and noted. Per Brusling made them coffee,
now an older man who knows something of the lake.

Over Björn Nilsson’s grave, the summer wind blows now.
And I fear that I am the only one who now knows

what really happened.

The expedition returned
deeply convinced that this giant catfish,

not just monstrous and ill-spirited,

is also shrewd, very shrewd
and knows it must hide in dusky depths

whenever someone comes to seek it.

 

Ouyang Yu translates three poems by Shu Cai

Born in 1965, in Fenghua, Zhejiang, Shu Cai was originally Chen Shucai. He graduated with a BA in French literature from the Department of French Language and Literature, Beijing Foreign Languages University in 1987. From 1990 to 1994, he worked as a diplomat in the Chinese Embassy in Senega and has since been working as a research fellow in Foreign Literature Research Institute, Chinese Academy of Social Sciences. He won the Medal of Academic Palm Knight in France in 2008. His publications include such collections of poetry as Solitaire (China, 1997) and Short Poems by Shu Cai (Hong Kong, 2004) and his translations of French literature include A Selection of Poems by Pierre Reverdy (China, 2002), Selected Poems by René Char (China, 2002), Selected Poems by Nine French Poets (Shanghai, 2009).

 

 

生日 

关于死亡
生者又能说些什么
而死者恰恰
无法叙说

“瞧,谁也躲不了
被我掂量!”
这可能就是
死神想说的话

死者已果断地死去
生者犹拘泥地活着
最大的困惑永远是
被出生,和必须死

 

永远的海子

一位朋友,心里驮满了水,出了远门
一位朋友,边走边遥望火光,出了远门
一位朋友,最后一遍念叨亲人的名字,出了远门……
从此他深深地躲进不死的心里。

他停顿的双目像田埂上的两个孔
他的名字,他的疼痛,变幻着生前的面容
噩耗,沿着铁轨传遍大地……
多少人因此得救!

兄弟,你不曾倒下,我们也还跪着
我们的家乡太浓厚,你怎么能长久品尝
我们的田野太肥沃,你刨一下,就是一把骨头……
你怎么能如此无情地碾碎时间?

你早年的梦必将实现,为此
你要把身后的路托付给我。像你,
我热爱劳动中的体温,泥土喷吐的花草……
我活着。但我要活到底。

你死时,传说,颜色很好
像太阳从另一个方向升起血泊
你的痛楚已遍布在密封的句子里
谁在触摸中颤抖,谁就此生有福!

 

母亲

今晚,一双眼睛在天上,
善良,质朴,噙满忧伤!
今晚,这双眼睛对我说:“孩子,
哭泣吧,要为哭泣而坚强!”

我久久地凝望这双眼睛,
它们像天空一样。
它们不像露水,或者葡萄,
不,它们像天空一样!

止不住的泪水使我闪闪发光。
这五月的夜晚使我闪闪发光。
一切都那么遥远,
但遥远的,让我终生难忘。

这双眼睛无论在哪里,
无论在哪里,都像天空一样。
因为每一天,只要我站在天空下,
我就能感到来自母亲的光芒。

Birthday

About death
What can the living say
And the dead just
Wouldn’t say

‘Look, no one can avoid
my measuring up!’
That may be what
God of Death wants to say

The dead have died with resolution
And the living, still living punctiliously
The greatest puzzlement remaining
That of being born and having to die

 
 

Hai Zi Forever

A friend, heart filled with water, has travelled far from home
A friend, walking as he looks towards the far fire, has travelled far from home
A friend, murmuring the names of his loved ones, has travelled far from home…
He has since gone into hiding deep in his undying heart

His eyes, stopped, are like two holes on the ridge of a field
His name, his pain, in which the face of his previous life changes
The bad news, spreading across the land along the railway…
So many are saved for that!

Brother, you have not fallen, and we are still on our knees
Our native home so richly abundant you can’t keep tasting it
Our fields so fertile bones turn up when you dig them…
How can you so ruthlessly grind time to pieces?

Your early dreams will definitely be realized, and because of that
You’ve got to trust me with the road behind you. Like you
I love the body temperature in labour, flowers and grasses in the eruption of the mud…
I am alive, but I’ll keep being so till the end

When you died, the legend has it, you looked well
Like the sun whose blood rose in another direction in blood
Your pain already scattered in the enclosed words
He who trembles in the touch will be happy for the rest of his life!

 

Mother

Tonight, a pair of eyes in the sky
Kind, honest, brimful with sadness!
Tonight, the pair of eyes speak to me: Son,
Cry, cry and be strong!

For long, I watch the eyes
That look like the skies
Unlike the dew or grapes
No, but they look like the skies!

Unstoppable tears make me glitter
The May night makes me glitter
Everything so distant
But the distant is something that I can never forget the rest of my life

Wherever they are
The eyes, wherever they are, are like the skies
For every day I stand under the skies
I can feel the light coming from Mother

 

 

Ouyang Yu came to Australia in early 1991 and has since published 55 books of poetry, fiction, non-fiction, literary translation and literary criticism in the English and Chinese languages. He also edits Australia’s only Chinese literary journal, Otherland (since 1995). His noted books include his award-winning novel, The Eastern Slope Chronicle (2002), his collections of poetry, Songs of the Last Chinese Poet (1997) and New and Selected Poems (Salt Publishing, 2004), his translations in Chinese, The Female Eunuch (1991) and The Man Who Loved Children (1998), and his book of literary criticism, Chinese in Australian Fiction: 1888-1988 (Cambria Press, 2008). The English Class (Transit Lounge), has been named as one of the Best Books of 2010 in Australian Book Review and The Age as well as the Sydney Morning Herald. His third English novel, Loose: a Wild History, is forthcoming with Wakefield Press in 2011, which, together with his first English novel, The Easter Slope Chronicle, will form the Yellow Town Trilogy. His latest book of poetry, titled, White and Yu, was released in April 2010 by PressPress. He is now based in Melbourne.

 

Priya Sarukkai Chabria translates Aandaal

Aandaal, ஆண்டாள், an 8th century Tamil mystic poet followed the poetic conventions of her time by requesting monsoon clouds to act as messenger to her love, the God of the Universe. Besides the literal meaning, each verse embeds parallel and inset meanings that are left to the reader to discover. Simultaneous shifts in meaning dynamize each verse into a literary trompe l’oeil. The following are translations from Naachiar Tirumozhi, a poem of 143 verses that belongs to an erotic genre of spiritual verse, not favoured by conservative Tamil Vaishnavites.

 

from The Sacred Songs of the Lady 

Song 8: Dark Rain Clouds Be My Messengers

1

Dark cloud roof unfurling beneath
           the roof of the covering sky
Do you herald the coming of my lord Tirumal from high
                    Venkata hill where the bright waterfall plunge?
My tears, luminous, stream between the full
           hills of my breasts
I am not to weep; yet he makes me break my vow,
           how does this honour him?

Vast curly vault veiling
the sky’s   star drizzled dome

Does your darkness hide
his gleaming     darkness    from which shimmer

cascades
into my body’s wet valleys?

I weep, forsaking secrecy.
How could my coursing silver illumine his glory?

My love
vast   star-filled
overcast

in separation.
Still I flow
a stream lightening –struck
leaping

to  lustrate
you
see my glory

5

Monsoon clouds you spread across
           the sky, slash
it raining torrents, you shake the honey-heavy blossoms
           of Vengadam and scatter scented petals.
Go tell the dark lord who killed the demon Hiranya
           ripping him with paws of  fury
that he has robbed me of my bangles.
                     He must return them to me now!

Dark clouds you enlarge in anger, growl and roll
across the skies rending it open

with rain, lightning bolts; you tear
flowers, spill honey, petals clot like blood on earth.

Go to the fiercest lord who plunged his claws in Hiranya roaring,
mane tossing as his bloody paws ripped insides out

tell him: I’ve grown thin with longing, bangles slip from wrists!’
He must heal me with his touch

 

engorged with anger

nails extending you kill

plunging wrists in

 

these very hands I seek

to caress me

gather my swollen ripeness in

 

as

spilling nectar

my body’s blood flower bursts

                                                                                                

7

In his avatar as Kurma, submerged tortoise, he supported
           the churning of the star –milk ocean awash
with gems; cosmic treasures bubbled out.  Descend
           clouds, down to the lotus feet of  Vengadam’s lord  and lay
there my surrender. Fragrant saffron paste covers
           my breasts — that must be wipe
on him; he must embrace
           me if only for a day or I waste away.

Splendid the Milky Way spreads
spinning constellations plucked from its depths shimmer

as the great churning begins — before
Time begins.  Lotus eyed Nayarana, the Eternal

One caused this to be. Dive deep clouds and lay
me at his crimsoned feet. Tell him of my

surrender; tell him to wash my body’s scarlet longing
for just today else I die.

Churn
churn
Time’s great ocean, each second, each eternity

churn away my adornments
churn my body’s milk
churn me red

from my ocean
churn out my truest self.
Let me rise to you my love
or let me die

Priya Sarukkai Chabria is a poet, writer and translator. Her publications include Dialogues and Other Poems (2005) reprint (2006) and Not Springtime Yet (2008)

Sarukkai-Chabria edits the website Talking Poetry and edited the anthology 50 Poets 50 Poems. Recipient of Senior Fellowship to Outstanding Artists from the Indian government, she has worked with the Rasa Theory of Aesthetics, co-founded a film society Friends of the Archive and collaborated with classical dancer Malavika Sarukkai. She has been invited to The Writer’s Center, UK; ‘Alphabet City’, Canada; Frankfurt Book Fair etc. and many literary festivals in India.  Her work is published in numerous international journals and websites, and anthologized. She is translating works of eighth century Tamil mystic poet Aandaal; writing a travelogue and a story collection; all three books are to be published in 2011.

 

Jorge Yviricu translates a poem by José Kozer

José Kozer, born in Havana, Cuba, 1940, has lived in the USA since 1960, taught Spanish literature at Queens College from 1965 to 1997, and is now living in Hallandale, Florida. Kozer is the author of 56 books of poetry and his work has been partially translated into several languages as well as published in many journals and anthologies.

 

DIVERTIMENTO (MA NON TROPPO)

La
madre
le
gritaba,
y

él, pato que era, metía la cabeza bajo un ala,

la oía cacarear, a grito
pelado desde lo alto
denostaba excoriando
excoriándolo chillaba
madre al fin que era
y con qué fin quién
lo sabrá, a voz en
cuello hendía y
hurgaba úvula
amígdalas cuerdas
vocales donde, pato
que era, el chico
supuraba, a final
de cuentas era su
madre, ¿no estaba
en su derecho? Él
se arrebujaba más
a fondo bajo el ala,
la madre le volaba
la cabeza, el chico
veía serafines,
húsares, calendas
griegas, oía vibrar
las trompas del
Señor, se santiguaba
a la manera de los
ortodoxos rusos, la
señal de la cruz a
la altura de los labios:
a qué le chillan, por
qué la madre
despotrica, esa
madre vulnerando
sus costumbres que
desde niño, ¿o no
se ha dado cuenta?
después de todo él
es él, a quién molesta
o hace daño, pero por
Dios, que baje Dios y
lo vea, se lo diga a la
madre, si es todo un
muchachón de
nótese calidad
elevada, ved su
gran amor, en
efecto, por la
Humanidad: qué
más pedir, pedirle,
y la vieja dejar de
espetarle groserías,
denuestos, gritarle
tales verracadas,
lo enciende oírla
hurgar y hurgar ahí
do el pecado se
pone más de
manifiesto ah igual
que en el Romance
del Rey Rodrigo, lo
leyeron en clase,
con qué emoción
lo leyó de pie
ante la clase, lo
aplaudieron: algunos
rieron: las chicas casi
lloran: y el amigo de
su amigo le dio un
abrazo a oscuras
que por poco lo
hace mixto lo
apachurra se le iba
la vida cuánta emoción:
y mete la cabeza aún
más bajo el ala, no la
oye chillar sus burradas,
se besan se abrasan
son Uno (fundidos) en
santo y casto Amor
que todo lo vence,
coño, sal de ahí que
te conozco bijirita,
basta ya de tus, a
quién te crees que
engañas: tú, que
nunca podrás
concebir, anda,
ve y hazme abuela,
ve, ven ya palomo
de mamá, cosona
mía, curruca, alba de
alas, buche, cloaca, mi
aguilucho sin destino
conocido, gallina
tragona (por detrás)
cresta (mamá, no seas
vulgar) vaya mota que
gastas hijo mío, ve y
mírate en el espejo,
el ridículo que haces:
sal, ven, besa y
quiéreme, quiéreme
mucho, como si fuera
esta noche y bla bla
bla la última vez,
¿ves?

cómo
y
cuánto
la
vieja,
grita,
te
idolatra.

 

 

DIVERTIMENTO (MA NON TROPPO)

His
mother
screamed
at him,
and

he, silly goose, ducked his head under a wing,

listening to her cluck, screaming
from on high
reviling lashing
lashing out at him screeching
after all she was his mother
to what end who
will ever know, her voice
on high rented the air and
searched uvula
tonsils vocal
chords where, gay goose
that he was, the boy
oozed, after
all she was his
mother, wasn’t it
her right? He
wrapped himself more
thoroughly under his own wing,
his mother blew
his brain, the boy
saw seraphim,
hussars, a month of
Sundays passed by, he heard
the horns of the Lord
vibrate, crossed himself
as the
Russian Orthodox do, the
sign of the cross
at the height of the lips:
why all the screeching at him, why
does his mother
carry on, his own
mother violating
his habits of a
lifetime, or doesn’t
she realize?
after all he is
what he is, whom does he bother
or hurt, for heaven’s
sake, let God Himself come down
and witness it, tell his
mother, he’s a big
old boy of
obviously outstanding
quality, behold his
great love, truly,
for
Humanity: why
ask for anything else, ask him for more,
and his old lady to stop
spitting rude words at him,
insults, screaming
such nonsense,
it stirs him to hear her
digging and digging right there
whence the sin resides
most
apparent oh just
as in the Ballad
of King Roderick, it
was read in class,
with such feeling
he read it standing
before the class, they
applauded him: some
laughed: the girls almost
cried: and his friend’s
friend gave him such an embrace
in the dark
that almost
neutered him squashing his
life away with such
tremendous feeling:
he ducks his head even
more under his own wing, doesn’t
hear her asinine screeches,
they kiss and burn
they are One (fused together) in
holy and chaste Love
which overcometh all,
shit, stop pretending
my little bird,
stop your, who
do you think
you’re fooling: you who will
never be able
to conceive, go ahead,
go ahead and make me a grandma,
go ahead, come here mama’s
big dove, love of my
life, white-throated honey, feathered
wings, belly, cloaca, my
good-for-nothing
eaglet, greedy
hen (aft)
cock comb (mother please, don’t be
crass) what a great hairdo
sonny boy, go check yourself
out in the mirror,
how ridiculous:
come on, come here, kiss and
love me, love me a lot
as the song goes,
tonight and blah, blah,
blah for the last time,
do you see?

how
and
how much
your
old lady,
screaming,
worships
you.

 

Born in Cuba and educated there and in the U.S., after a long career in the teaching profession, Dr. Jorge Yviricu is now Professor Emeritus of Modern Languages at California State University, Bakersfield. He has published criticism on many Latin American novelists and poets as well as his own poetry and short stories. His previous translations include Spanish versions of poems by Sylvia Plath and Marilyn Hacker.
 
 

Toby Fitch translates Arthur Rimbaud

Après le Déluge

Aussitôt que l'idée du Déluge se fut rassise,
Un lièvre s'arrêta dans les sainfoins et les clochettes mouvantes et dit sa prière
à l'arc-en-ciel à travers la toile de l'araignée.
Oh les pierres précieuses qui se cachaient, — les fleurs qui regardaient déjà.
Dans la grande rue sale les étals se dressèrent, et l'on tira les barques vers la mer
étagée là-haut comme sur les gravures.
Le sang coula, chez Barbe-Bleue, — aux abattoirs, — dans les cirques, où le
sceau de Dieu blêmit les fenêtres. Le sang et le lait coulèrent.
Les castors bâtirent. Les "mazagrans" fumèrent dans les estaminets.
Dans la grande maison de vitres encore ruisselante les enfants en deuil
regardèrent les merveilleuses images.
Une porte claqua, et sur la place du hameau, l'enfant tourna ses bras, compris
des girouettes et des coqs des clochers de partout, sous l'éclatante giboulée.
Madame * * * établit un piano dans les Alpes. La messe et les premières
communions se célébrèrent aux cent mille autels de la cathédrale.
Les caravanes partirent. Et le Splendide-Hôtel fut bâti dans le chaos de glaces
et de nuit du pôle.
Depuis lors, la Lune entendit les chacals piaulant par les déserts de thym, — et
les églogues en sabots grognant dans le verger. Puis, dans la futaie violette,
bourgeonnante, Eucharis me dit que c'était le printemps.
— Sourds, étang, — Écume, roule sur le pont, et par dessus les bois; — draps
noirs et orgues, — éclairs et tonnerres — montez et roulez; — Eaux et tristesses,
montez et relevez les Déluges.
Car depuis qu'ils se sont dissipés, — oh les pierres précieuses s'enfouissant, et
les fleurs ouvertes! — c'est un ennui! et la Reine, la Sorcière qui allume sa braise dans
le pot de terre, ne voudra jamais nous raconter ce qu'elle sait, et que nous ignorons.
Arthur Rimbaud, “Illuminations”


After the Flood

After the idea of the flood had dried up,
A hare stooped amid the clover and trembling bluebells and said his prayer to the
rainbow through a spider’s web.
Oh what precious stones in hiding, — the flowers that were already staring out.
Down the sullied main drag stalls were erected, and boats were drawn out to sea,
which staggered above as in old engravings.
Blood flowed, at Bluebeard’s, — in abbatoirs, — in circuses, wherever the seal of
God paled the windows. Blood and milk flowed.
Beavers got building. Glasses of coffee steamed in small cafes.
In the big glass house still dripping with water, children in mourning gazed at the
marvellous images.
A door slammed, and a boy swung his arms through the village square,
understood by weathervanes and clock-towers everywhere, in the glittering rain.
Madame * * * installed a piano in the Alps. Mass and first communions were
celebrated at the hundred-thousand altars of the cathedral.
Caravans decamped. And the Hotel Splendide was built amid the chaos of
glaciers and the polar night.
From then on, the Moon heard jackals yapping through deserts of thyme, — and
eclogues with wooden feet grumbling in the orchard. Then, in the purple forest,
burgeoning, Eucharis told me that springtime had come.
— Surge, puddle — Lather up, roll on the bridge and over the woods; — black
drapes and organs, — thunder and lightning; — ride and roll out; — Waters and
sorrows, rise and bring back the Floods.
For since they were dispelled, — oh what precious stones burrowed down, what
flowers unfurled! — ah whatever! The Queen, the Witch who lights her embers in the
cauldron of earth, will never tell us what she knows, and what we don’t know.

 

Barbare

Bien après les jours et les saisons, et les êtres et les pays,
Le pavillon en viande saignante sur la soie des mers et des fleurs
arctiques; (elles n'existent pas.)
Remis des vieilles fanfares d'héroïsme — qui nous attaquent encore le cœur et
la tête — loin des anciens assassins.
Oh! Le pavillon en viande saignante sur la soie des mers et des fleurs
arctiques; (elles n'existent pas.)
Douceurs!
Les brasiers, pleuvant aux rafales de givre, — Douceurs! — les feux à la pluie
du vent de diamants jetée par le cœur terrestre éternellement carbonisé pour nous. —
O monde! —
(Loin des vieilles retraites et des vieilles flammes, qu'on entend, qu'on sent,)
Les brasiers et les écumes. La musique, virement des gouffres et choc des
glaçons aux astres.
O Douceurs, ô monde, ô musique! Et là, les formes, les sueurs, les chevelures
et les yeux, flottant. Et les larmes blanches, bouillantes, — ô douceurs! — et la voix
féminine arrivée au fond des volcans et des grottes arctiques.
Le pavillon...
Arthur Rimbaud, “Illuminations” 

 

Barbaric

Long after the days and the seasons, the living and the lands,
A flag of bloody flesh over silken seas and arctic flowers; (they don’t exist.)
Surviving old fanfares of heroism — which still attack our hearts and heads —
far from ancient assassins.
— Oh! A flag of bloody flesh over silken seas and arctic flowers; (they don’t
exist.)
What bliss!
Blazing coals raining down flurries of ice, — Bliss! — fire in the rain of a
diamond wind, bursting through the earth’s eternally igneous heart for us. —
O world! —
(Far from old retreats and old flames, that we can hear, can smell,)
Blazing coal and spindrift. The music, shifting the abysses and shocking the
icicles into stars.
What bliss, o world, what music! And there, the shapes, the shivers, tresses and
eyes, floating. And white tears, boiling, — what bliss! — and a feminine voice
arriving at the depths of arctic volcanoes and chasms.
A flag…

 

Chen Li

Chen LiChen Li was born in Hualien, Taiwan in 1954. Regarded as “one of the most innovative and exciting poets writing in Chinese today,” he is the author of 14 books of poetry and a prolific prose writer and translator. He graduated from the English Department of National Taiwan Normal University. With his wife Chang Fen-ling, he has translated into Chinese over 20 volumes of poetry, including the works of Sylvia Plath, Seamus Heaney, Pablo Neruda, Octavio Paz, Wisława Szymborska, Tomas Tranströmer and Yosano Akiko. The recipient of many awards (e.g., the National Award for Literature and Arts, the Taiwan Literature Award) in his country, he is the organizer of the annual Pacific Poetry Festival in his hometown. His poems have been translated into English, French, Dutch, German, Spanish, Japanese, Korean and Croatian, among other languages.

 

 

Translated by Chang Fen-ling

Black Sheep

Dropping out of senior high and fooling around, my youngest brother is the black sheep of us three brothers. Although he has a blue dragon tattooed on his leg, his heart is as gentle and weak as our mother’s. Mother, who has been riding a bike to and from work all her life, has been paying off debts all her life. She has wished her youngest son to stop going astray. After the several motorcycles and cars she had bought for him were all gone, she borrowed money and bought him another car without my knowledge. That was a white car, white as the morning fog on winter days. That morning when I returned to Shanghai Street, I saw her, with cleaning cloth in hand, sneaking toward the white car parked on the roadside and wiping its body forcefully but gently, as if to rub the black sheep into a white one. She rubbed and rubbed, because she knew the white car might soon be gone, and she had to sew the white skin on quickly before the black sheep woke up.

 

 

The Tongue

I left a segment of my tongue in her pencil box. Consequently, every time she opened it to write a letter to her new lover, she would hear my mumbling words, which were like a line of scribbles, chafing among commas with the movement of her newly sharpened pencil. Then she would stop writing, not knowing it was my voice. She thought that I, who had never spoken to her since we last met, had kept silent for good. She wrote another line, finding the Chinese character “愛” (love), which consisted of so many strokes, was carelessly written. She handily picked up my tongue. Mistaking it for an eraser, she rubbed it forcefully on the paper, leaving a considerable drop of blood on the spot where the character “愛” disappeared.

 

Gurcharan Rampuri translated by Amritjit Singh and Judy Ray

Gurcharan Rampuri  (born 1929) has been writing poetry in Punjabi for six decades. Author of ten volumes of poetry, he moved to Vancouver, British Columbia, in 1964. He has won many awards, and his poems have been translated into many languages, including Russian, Hindi, Gujarati, and English. His Collected Poems appeared in India in 2001. Many of his lyrical poems have been set to music and sung by well-known singers such as Surinder Kaur and Jagjit Zirvi.  He has won numerous awards in both India and Canada, including the 2007 Lifetime Achievement Award from the Punjabi Writers Forum of Vancouver, as well as the 2009 Achievement Award for Contributions to Punjabi Literature from the University of British Columbia.

 

 

Amritjit Singh, Langston Hughes Professor of English at Ohio University, is a freelance writer, editor, translator, and book reviewer. He has authored and co-edited well over a dozen books, including The Novels of the Harlem Renaissance; Indian Literature in English, 1827-1979: An Information Guide; India: An Anthology of Contemporary Writing; Conversations with Ralph Ellison; Postcolonial Theory and the United States; The Collected Writings of Wallace Thurman; and Interviews with Edward W. Said

 

 

 


Judy Ray
grew up on a farm in Sussex, England, and has lived in Uganda, India, Australia, and New Zealand. Currently she lives in Tucson, Arizona, where she is a volunteer ESL teacher. Her books and chapbooks include Pebble Rings, Pigeons in the Chandeliers, The Jaipur Sketchbook, Tokens, Tangents, Fishing in Green Waters, and To Fly without Wings.  With poet David Ray, she has edited Fathers: A Collection of Poems (St. Martin’s, 1997).

 

 

Ghazal

 

Love smiles when it stumbles.
A star shines throughout its fall.

It takes an age to numb just one pain.
The next moment awakens another hundred.

How can one sleep when longing for the absent one,
And who will sleep on the night of love?

Sadness is my only companion.
Who would befriend me in my melancholy?

The peacocks cry even as they dance.
The swan sings even as it dies.

Beauty yearns for love
as surely as the moon goes around the earth.

One thought contains the universe.
The moon illumines a dewdrop.

 

 


Ghazal

 

I have just burned your letters.
Look, I have bathed in the fire!

Through this pilgrimage to the grave of love
I have revived forgotten pains.

The smooth dark night of your hair –
my fingers have caressed its lush shadows.

I have spent a tearful night
and the dawn is red-eyed.

I have consoled my weeping heart
by imagining scenes of intimacy.

The stars want an encore
though I am done telling my tale.

Life is both sorrow and music,
and I just sang your song.

To light up a glimpse of you in my dreams
I extinguish my own lamp.

Songs, Promises, Tears, Hopes
have won over my estranged lover.
 

 

 

Pet Lies

 

Lies, lies, lies all the time, repeated
until they become today’s truth.
 
A lie sits in the seat of power,
lies are armed with daggers,
lies have many followers.
 
The platform sure is crowded, in thick fog,
with the confused old holy man in command at the center.
A deafening racket blasts all around
and dark clouds of ruthless death
overshadow the skies.
 
Brutality, rage, fear and helplessness prevail,
but we cannot escape the need for food.
The terrifying abyss of need has deepened.
Death lies in ambush at every corner.
 
There is someone walking toward me,
but I don’t know if he is friend or foe.
Should I trust his smile, or is it poison?
I will not make eye contact with him,
weighed down as I am by guilt
of sins I didn’t commit.

These cheats and cowardly braggarts
keep on throwing dust in the people’s eyes,
leading them on with deceitful, well-rehearsed lies.
 
Professional politicians on the one hand
and the ruling elite on the other,
together they have built their empire of lies.

 

Opportunists

 

Yesterday’s friends are today’s foes.

Even a brother has a sinister look about him. 

Now he accuses with stinging words.

Blood relationships are meaningless. 

Today, venomous arrows, daggers, poniards, lances

are plunged into the hearts of one’s own.

 

Yesterday’s enemies are in close embrace today.

With wounds from the sword healed,

these sycophants ignore the poison of hate in their hearts

as they dance to the pipes of self-interest,

kiss and lick each other.

 

Labels pinned on one person yesterday

are now used for another.

Those who were called corrupt

are now held to be virtuous. 

It is easy to line up arguments

to justify any good or bad deeds.

 

Since the dead will not return,

who will want to lose today’s profit for their sake?

In pursuing a dream of ideals,

who will ignore the weight of power?

Who will sacrifice national interests

and ignore the lines that divide communities?

 

Who can beat these sharp villains in glib debate?

So what if they commit awful deeds?

 


Today

 

Yesterday was bearing

a dream called Today.

 

Revolutionary fervor for the dream

powered a restless sleep.

 

The enchanting dream

smiled like a golden dawn.

 

The cursed mother committed

a horrendous crime, killed the newborn dream.

Then with a wild laugh

she went alone and buried the baby.

 

Yesterday bore Today,

but Today also had a dream which the mother killed.

Now the stunned, murderous soul

stares at the empty space.

 

Judith Beveridge: Video translation by Prometeo

 

Featured poet, Judith Beveridge has published four books of poetry: The Domesticity of Giraffes (Black Lightning Press, 1987), Accidental Grace (UQP, 1996), Wolf Notes (Giramondo Publishing 2003), Storm and Honey (Giramondo Publishing 2009). She has won many awards for her poetry including the NSW Premier’s Award, The Victorian Premier’s Award and the Judith Wright Calanthe Award. In 2005 she was awarded the Philip Hodgins Memorial Medal for excellence in literature. She is currently the poetry editor for Meanjin and teaches poetry writing at postgraduate level at the University of Sydney.

This poem was video translated at the  Memoria del Festival Internacional de Poesía de Medellín, Colombia. The International Poetry Festival at Medellin was founded by Feranando Rendón "to oppose terror with beauty, to bring poetry face to face with violent death. We interpreted the love of poetry and the will to live of thousands of people, at the right moment." (Poetry International Web, July 2007) In 2006 the festival was awarded the Alternative Nobel Peace Prize.

La poeta australiana Judith Beveridge interviene en el curso del IX Festival Internacional de Poesía de Medellín, leyendo un poema que contiene una dura metáfora sobre la melancolía y la hecatombe. Judith Beveridge nació en Londres, en 1956. Vive en Australia. Ha publicado los libros de poemas: La domesticidad de las jirafas (1987); Un paracaídas de azul (1995) y La gracia accidental (1996). Ha ganado diversos premios de Poesía en Australia. Se ha desempeñado como docente de Literatura y como colaboradora habitual de revistas y periódicos en su país. Fue incluida en la Antología de Poesía Contemporánea de Australia, editada por Trilce Editores, Bogotá, 1997.

 

 

Gabriela Mistral: translation by Stuart Cooke

Gabriela Mistral (1889-1957) was born in the small northern-Chilean town of Vicuña. She rose from near-poverty to acheive a significant international reputation not only as a poet, but also as an educator, a diplomat and a journalist. In 1945 she became the first Latin American to win the Nobel Prize for Literature.

 

La Bailarina

La bailarina ahora está danzando
la danza del perder cuanto tenía.
Deja caer todo lo que ella había,
padres y hermanos, huertos y campiñas,
el rumor de su río, los caminos,
el cuento de su hogar, su propio rostro
y su nombre, y los juegos de su infancia
como quien deja todo lo que tuvo
caer de cuello, de seno y de alma.

En el filo del día y el solsticio
baila riendo su cabal despojo.
Lo que avientan sus brazos es el mundo
que ama y detesta, que sonríe y mata,
la tierra puesta a vendimia de sangre
la noche de los hartos que no duermen
y la dentera del que no ha posada.

Sin nombre, raza ni credo, desnuda
de todo y de sí misma, da su entrega,
hermosa y pura, de pies voladores.
Sacudida como árbol y en el centro
de la tornada, vuelta testimonio.

No está danzando el vuelo de albatroses
salpicados de sal y juegos de olas;
tampoco el alzamiento y la derrota
de los cañaverales fustigados.
Tampoco el viento agitador de velas,
ni la sonrisa de las altas hierbas.

El nombre no le den de su bautismo.
Se soltò de su casta y de su carne
sumiò la canturía de su sangre
y la balada de su adolescencia.

Sin saberlo le echamos nuestras vidas
como una roja veste envenenada
y baila así mordida de serpientes
que alácritas y libres la repechan,
y la dejan caer en estandarte
vencido o en guirnalda hecha pedazos.

Sonámbula, mudada en lo que odia,
sigue danzando sin saberse ajena
sus muecas aventando y recogiendo
jadeadora de nuestro jadeo,
cortando el aire que no la refresca
única y torbellino, vil y pura.

Somos nosotros su jadeado pecho,
su palidez exangüe, el loco grito
tirado hacia el poniente y el levante
la roja calentura de sus venas,
el olvido del Dios de sus infancias.

The Dancer

Now the dancer is dancing
the dance of losing what she was.
Now the dancer lets it all fall away,
parents, siblings, orchards and idylls,
her river’s murmur, the pathways,
the story of her home, her own face
and her name, and her childhood dreams,
as if letting everything that she was
fall from her neck, her breast, her being.

On the edge of the day the solstice curls
around what remains dancing in a delirious swirl.
Her pale arms are winnowing away the world
that loves and detests, that kills and jests,
the earth crushed into a bloody wine,
the night of the multitudes who don’t sleep,
the pain of those without homes in which to rest.

Without name, race or creed, without relation
to anything nor to her herself, she shows her devotion,
beautiful and pure, with flying feet.
Shaken like a young tree in the tornado’s eye,
the proof emerges and cannot lie.

She isn’t dancing the albatrosses’ flight,
birds covered with playful waves’ salty bites,
nor the uprising and the defeat
of reeds pummelled by the wind,
nor the candles that the wind perturbs,
nor the smiles of the tallest herbs.

They didn’t baptise her with this name.
She broke free of her caste and her flesh;
she buried the soft song of her blood
and the ballad of her adolescence.

Without knowing it we throw our lives
over her like a poisoned red bodice
and she dances like this, snake-bitten,
the vipers swarming over her freely,
leaving her to fall as a forgotten
symbol, or as a garland smashed to pieces.

Sleepwalker, becoming what she despises,
she keeps dancing without thought of the changes,
her expressions and myriad contortions,
exhausted by our own exhaustion,
blocking off the breeze because it doesn’t cool her,
unique and electric, vile and pure.

We ourselves are her panting chest,
her bloodless pallor, the crazy scream
thrown to the east and the west,
the red fever of her arteries,
she has forgotten the God of her infancies.

 

Stuart Cooke’s translations have also appeared in HEAT, Southerly and Overland. His translation of Juan Garrido-Salgado’s Once Poemas, Septiembre 1973 was published by Picaro Press in 2007. A chapbook of his own poetry, Corrosions, is forthcoming from Vagabond Press.
 
 
 

Sarah Kirsch: translations by Peter Lach-Newinsky

Born in 1935 in Limlingerode, a hamlet in the formerly East German part of the Harz Mountains, Sarah Kirsch is considered one of the most luminous figures on the reunited German poetic horizon. She has written several collections of poetry, and has been critical of socialist regimes and anti-semitism. Her awards, include the Georg Büchner, the Friedrich Hölderlin and the Petrarca Prizes; her credo is to live like a poem.

 

 

Raben


Die Bäume in diesen windzerblasenen

Das Land überrollenden Himmeln

Sind höher als die zusammengeduckten

Gluckenähnlichen Kirchen, und Wolken

Durchfliegen die Kronen die Vögel

Steigen von Ast zu Ast kohlschwarze Raben

Flattern den heidnischen Göttern

Hin auf die Schultern und krächzen

Den Alten die Ohren voll alle Sterblichen

Werden verpfiffen schlappe Seelen

Über den Wurzeln und ohne Flügel.

 

 

Atempause


Der Himmel ist rauchgrau aschgrau mausgrau

Bleifarben steingrau im Land

Des Platzregens der Dauergewitter

Die aufgequollenen Wiesen die Gärten

Verfaulen und Hunden sind übernacht

Flossen gewachsen sie tauchen

Nach jedem silbernen Löffel der

Aus dem Fenster fällt wenn augenblicklich

Behäbige Marmeladen bereitet werden

In Küchen bei gutem Wetter durchflogen

Von Bäurinnen Heu im Gewand Dampf

Im Hintern auf Rübenhacken am Mittag.

 

 

Süß langt der Sommer ins Fenster


Süß langst der Sommer ins Fenster

Seine Hände gebreitet wie Linden

Reichen mir Honig und quirlende Blüten, er

Schläfert mich ein, wirft Lichter und Schatten

Lockige Ranken um meine Füße, ich ruh

Draußen gern unter ihm, die Mulden

Meiner Fersen seiner Zehen fülln sich zu Teichen

Wo mir der Kopf liegt polstert die Erde

Mit duftenden Kräutern mein eiliger Freund, Beeren

Stopft er mir in mein Mund, getigerte Hummeln

Brummen den Rhythmus, schöne Bilder

Baun sich am Himmel auf

Heckenrosenbestickt er den Leib mir – ach gerne

Höb ich den Blick nicht aus seinem Blau

Wären nicht hinter mir die Geschwister

Mit Minen und Phosphor, jung

Soll ich dahin, mein Freund auch aus der Welt –

Ich beklag es, die letzten Zeilen des

Was ich schreibe, gehen vom Krieg

Ravens


the trees in these wind-blown

skies rolling over the land

are taller than the churches

hunched up like clucky hens, and clouds

fly through the tree tops the birds

move from branch to branch coal-black ravens

flutter down onto the shoulders

of pagan gods and croak up

the elders’ ears all mortals

dobbed in weak souls

above the roots and wingless.

 

 

Breath Pause


the sky is smoke grey ash grey mouse grey

lead grey stone grey in the land

of sudden showers of continuous thunder

the bloated meadows the gardens

rotting and dogs during the night

have grown fins they dive

after every silver spoon that

falls from the window when instantly

portly marmalades are being made

in kitchens flown through in fine weather

by farmers’ wives with hay in their pants

steam in their bums on turnip fields at noon.

 

 

Sweetly summer reaches through the window


Sweetly summer reaches through the window

His hands spread out like lindens

Serve me honey and spiralling blossoms, he

Puts me to sleep, throws light and shade

Curly tendrils around my feet, I

Love resting under him outside, the depressions

Of my heels of his toes are filled into ponds

Where my head lies the ground cushions

With aromatic herbs my hasty friend, berries

He stuffs into my mouth, tigered bumble bees

Buzz the rhythm, fine images

Build up in the sky

He embroiders my body with wild roses – oh

I’d love to not look up from his blue

If there weren’t brothers and sisters behind me

With mines and phosphorous, young

Am I to leave, my friend, the world too –

I lament the last lines of what

I write run to war

 

 

Landaufenthalt

 

Morgens füttere ich den Schwan abends die Katzen dazwischen

Gehe ich über das Gras passiere die verkommenen Obstplantagen

Hier wachsen Birnbäume in rostigen Öfen, Pfirsichbäume

Fallen ins Kraut, die Zäune haben sich lange ergeben, Eisen und Holz

Alles verfault und der Wald umarmt den Garten in einer Fliederhecke

 

Da stehe ich dicht vor den Büschen mit nassen Füßen

Es hat lange geregnet, und sehe die tintenblauen Dolden, der Himmel

Ist scheckig wie Löschpapier

Mich schwindelt vor Farbe und Duft doch die Bienen

Bleiben im Stock selbst die aufgesperrten Mäuler der Nesselblüten

Ziehn sie nicht her, vielleicht ist die Königin

Heute morgen plötzlich gestorben die Eichen

 

Brüten Gallwespen, dicke rosa Kugeln platzen wohl bald

Ich würde die Bäume gerne erleichtern doch der Äpfelchen

Sind es zu viel sie erreichen mühlos die Kronen auch faßt

Klebkraut mich an, ich unterscheide Simsen und Seggen so viel Natur

 

Die Vögel und schwarzen Schnecken dazu überall Gras Gras das

Die Füße mir feuchtet fettgrün es verschwendet sich

Noch auf dem Schuttberg verbirgt es Glas wächst

    in aufgebrochne Matratzen ich rette mich

Auf den künstlichen Schlackenweg und werde wohl bald

In meine Betonstadt zurückgehen hier ist man nicht auf der Welt

Der Frühling in seiner maßlosen Gier macht nicht halt, verstopft

Augen und Ohren mit Gras die Zeitungen sind leer

Eh sie hier ankommen der Wald hat all seine Blätter und weiß

Nichts vom Feuer

 

 

In the Country

 

Mornings I feed the swans evenings the cats in between

I walk over grass pass by the ruined orchards

Pear trees grow in rusty ovens, peach trees

Collapse into grass, the fences have long surrendered, iron and wood

Everything rotten and the woods embrace the garden in a lilac bush

 

There I stand with wet feet close to the bushes

It has rained a long time, and I see the ink blue umbels, the sky

Is spotty like blotting paper

I’m dizzy with colour and smells but the bees

Stay in the hive even the gaping mouths of the nettle blossoms

Don’t pull them over, perhaps the queen

Suddenly died this morning the oaks

 

Breed gall wasps, thick red balls will probably soon burst

I’d love to lighten the trees but there are too many little apples

They effortlessly reach the crowns and cleevers

Grab me, I distinguish reeds and sedges so much nature

 

The birds and black snails and everywhere grass grass that

Moistens my feet fat-green it squanders itself

Even on the tip it hides glass grows in broken mattresses I flee

onto the artificial cinder path and will presumably soon

return to my concrete city here you’re not in the world

spring doesn’t let up in its bottomless greed, stuffs

eyes and ears with grass the newspapers are empty

before they arrive here the wood is in full leaf and knows

nothing about fire

 

 

 

Peter Lach-Newinsky is of German-Russian heritage, Peter grew up bilingually in Sydney. His awards include the MPU First Prize 2009, Third Prize Val Vallis Award 2009, MPU Second Prize 2008, Second Prize Shoalhaven Literary Award 2008 and the Varuna-Picaro Publishing Award 2009. He has published a chapbook: The Knee Monologues & Other Poems (Picaro Press 2009). His first full-length collection is The Post-Man Letters & Other Poems (Picaro Press 2010). Peter grows 103 heirloom apple varieties in Bundanoon NSW.



Mario Licon Cabrera translates poems by Michael Brennan

 

Mario Licón Cabrera (México, 1949) has lived in Sydney since 1992. His third collection of poetry, La Reverberación de la Ceniza was publshed by Mora & Cantúa Editores in 2005. His work features in an architecture and poetry installation, Metaphors of Space, at this year’s Sydney Writers’ Festival. He has translated the poetry of Dorothy Porter, Judith Beveridge, Peter Boyle, J.S. Harry, Robert Adamson, amongst other Australian poets, into Spanish. His collection, Yuxtas, a bilingual collection (Spanish/English), written with the assistance of a grant from the Australia Council for the Arts/Literature Board. These poems are selected translations from Michael Brennan’s latest collection, Unanimous Night, which is short-listed in the NSW Premier’s Literary Award.

 

Carta a casa /2
 
Llegó Noviembre.
Meses más cáldos en gestación,
bandejas con tuberculos a la vista, tulipanes,
azafrán, lirios, robustas y doradas ofrendas
limpias de la negra tierra del norte,
nombres tan brillantes y extraños como un rezo:
Azul Delft, Juana de Arco, Remembranza,
nombres, los misterios ordinaries,
La señora de John T. Scheepers, Groenlandia,
Perico negrot, El récord del portero,
cada quien a la espera de ásperas manos
para regresarlos a la tierra oscura,
para ser enterrados
en paciente incertidumbre,
y esperar
hasta el fin del invierno.

Letter home

November already.
Warmer months finding form,
trays of bulbs laid out, tulips, crocus,
lilies, fat and golden offerings
brushed clean of black northern earth,
names bright and strange as prayer :
Delft Blue, Jeanne d’Arc, Remembrance,
names, the ordinary mysteries,
Mrs John T. Scheepers, Groenland,
Black Parrot, Doorman’s Record,
each waiting for weathered hands
to give them back to blind earth,
to bury them
in patient unknowing,
and wait
until winter’s end.

 

Carta a casa /3
 
Debo decirles, que no hay nada como el hogar.
Ninguno de ellos piensa que soy un forastero.
Me reciben en sus casas con manos
toscas y me brindan deliciosos manjares.
Después de cada comida, ellos frotan mis cejas
y mi barba, y secan las lágrimas
que por meses han corrido por mis mejillas
al viajar de pueblo en pueblo.
Me dicen que ellos son forasteros aquí,
y en la fresca atmósfera nocturna
cuelgan sus palabras por tal cosa,
entre la suava caricia de la barba
y los tiernos ojos del más viejo de ellos.
Me dicen que pronto me dejaran,
pro que en su ausencia debo seguir con los banquetes
que alguien vendrá y yo debo recibirlo,
no debo hablar de más, pero sí alimentar al invitado
y después secar sus lágrimas. Antes de irme debo decirle
que está en su casa, que él aquí no es un forastero.
Ellos dicen, ninguno de estos es forastero.
Ellos dicen, que esperaran por mí en el próximo pueblo
con sus manos gentiles y sus alegres ojos,
que el tren me llevará allá, y en el camino
podré escuchar el llanto del hombre viejo
y dejar a la tierna noche tocar mi rostro,
podré recordar los manjares caseros,
y esperar a que el silencio tenga lo suyo.
Dicen, cuando nos encontremos en el próximo pueblo,
ellos me lo explicaran todo. bare

Letter home

I should tell you, it’s nothing like home.
Not one of them thinks of me as a stranger.
They welcome me to their houses with rough
hands and feed me delicious feasts.
After each meal, they stroke my eyebrows
and beard, and dry the tears
that have run down my cheeks over months
travelling from town to town.
They tell me they are stranger here,
hanging their word for such things
in the cool night air, between the beard-stroking
and the young eyes of the oldest among them.
They say soon they will leave me,
but I am to keep feasting in their absence,
that someone will come and I must invite him in,
I must not say too much, but feed him and afterwards
dry his tears. Before I leave, I must tell him
this is his home now, that he is no stranger here.
They say, none of this is strange.
They say, they will wait for me in the next town
with their gentle hands and playful eyes,
that the train will take me there, and on the way
I can listen to the old man’s crying
and let the lightness of night find my face,
I can remember the feasts from home,
and wait for silence to have its fill.
They tell me, when we meet in the next town,
they will explain it all.

 

Carta a casa /4
 
Estás cerca,
tu aliento agitándose
entre los cedres
de ochocientos años de edad,
piedras
erosionadas
por cosas invisibles,
particulas de arena
y rocas,
flotantes
en la brisa,
la insignificancia
definiéndolo todo,
aquí donde un poeta
observó
nada
más
que el paso
de una estación,
y el aire otoñal
entibiando
el aliento,
y así
continuamos
nuestro ascenso lento,
un millar y
cuatrocientos
cincuenta escalones 
tallados en piedra
de esta montaña,
erigiéndose,
nombrando el templo
donde nos sentamos.
La vista,
el valle
que emerge,
hojas castañs
dadas
a un frío filoso y quemante,
el verde profundo
de los árboles añejos
en total quietud,
la brisaa ancestral
ahora corriendo veloz,
invisible y suave
a través de las piedras
suave a través
de la superficie
de nuestros ojos,
partículas
invisibles
interminablemente
borrando
cada
cosa.



Letter Home

You are close,
breath drawing
fast amongst
eight hundred
year old cedars,
stones
weathered bare
by invisible things,
specks of sand
and rock,
carried
on the breeze,
insignificance
shaping everything,
here where a poet
noted
nothing
more
than a season
passing
and autumn air
warmed
on breath
and so
we continue
our slow ascent
one thousand
four hundred
and fifty steps
of stone hewn
from this
mountain
rising
naming
the temple
where we sit
the view
the valley
appearing now
russet leaves
given
to a sharp cold fire
the deep green
of ancient trees
holding still,
the ancient breeze
running fast now
smooth and invisible
across stones,
smooth across
the surfaces
of our eyes,
invisible  
flecks
endlessly
erasing 
each
thing.

 

Carta a casa /6
 
La primavera empiiza su lento striptease.
La gente con menos ropa cada día.
 
Los pesados abriigos de lana dan paso al algodón,
a las líneas curvas de caderas, pechos y nalgas.
 
Escucho la música que me enseñaste,
esa que se ubica lentamente entre cada cosa.
 
Esas palabras extrañas –Gentileza, amistad,
afecto –todavía más extrañas al decirlas
 
en la lengua que se habla aquí.
Sentado percibo el oleaje de la gente,
 
a ratos saboreándolo con una sonrisa
o con el trunco lenguaje
 
que estoy aprendiendo, confíanza
y gentileza hablan por todas partes,
 
Atento escucho expresiones de mi país
transformándose en otro lenguaje
 
entre amigos conversando
amontonados, la percusión suave
 
de una pareja joven, protejiéndose
del crudo ambiente invernal.
 
Desplazo mis dedos a lo largo de palabras
como si cada palabra fuera una plegaria.

Letter Home

Spring starts its slow striptease.
Each day people are wearing less,

thick woollen coats give way to cotton,
irmer lines of hips, buttocks and breasts.

I listen for the music you taught me,
one that settles slowly between each thing.

Those strange words — kindness, friendship,
care — stranger  still  spoken

in the language spoken here.
I sit sensing the tide of people,

sometimes testing it with a smile
or with the broken language

I’m learning, trust
kindness speaks anywhere.

I listen carefully to idioms of home
rising in another language

between friends huddled 
in conversation, the gentle percussion

of a young couple sheltering
from late winter air.

I run my finger along words
as if each word was a prayer.

 

Ali Alizadeh translates a poem by Besmellah Rezaee

 

Besmellah Rezaee (Hamta) was born in Afghanistan and is an Australian Afghan who currently studies a double degree in Law and International studies at the University of Adelaide. In addition, He works as a Publication officer for Karawaan Organization; he is the executive Director of “Sokhane-nau” magazine, and hosts a show in radio Adelaide called ‘Dialogue’ every Sunday. He is the founder and president of AATSA (Association of Australian Tertiary Students from Afghanistan) at the present and also works as an interpreter with Multilingua ltd. 

 

 

  

اینجا کابل است! 

          اقیانوس درد 

                      ساحل غم 

قصر دارالمان، کوه آسمایی، پل آرتن، زیارت سخی1 

 روزگاری مهد:   

                حاکمیت، غرور، محبت و نیایش بود!  

 سیاهی وهم آلود جهل 

بر کوی و برزن 

بر در و دیوار 

 بر آدم های این سر زمین   

                               سایه افکنده است 

کبوتران “سخی”2 رنگ باخته اند 

“افشار”3 هنوز بوی خون میدهد 

“ده افغانان”4 سینمای حرص و هوس شده است: 

اینجا یکی در پی لقمه نانی 

روزش آغاز و شبش پایان ندارد 

و دیگری در پی لحظه هوسی 

شبش آغاز و روزش پایان ندارد 

دریای کابل

               بی آب و ماهی و موج

                                        در سکوت ابدی محبوس شده است

 کودکان اینجا

               بعد از زمان خویش به دنیا آمده اند

                                                 آنها علم را در دست فروشی فرا میگریند

 “گودارد”5 هم مرده است

  تا اینبار نیوریالیزم را در کابل احیا میکرد.  

اینجا کابل است !  کابل!!!

 

                          

1 نام جاهای معروف در کابل

 2 سخی نام زیارتگاهی است در کارته سخی کابل

 3 افشار نام منطقه است در قسمت غرب کابل که در جریان جنگهای داخلی کشتار دسته جمعی و قتل عام مردم در آنجا صورت گرفت

 4 نام جایی در مرکز شهر کابل

 5 جین لوک گودارد نویسنده و فیلمساز معروف فرانسوی بود که در بنیان گذاری مکتب بنام آتیریزم و فرنچ نیو ویو سهم بارز داشت

 


 

This is Kabul!

The ocean of pain
                   the shore of sorrow
the Dar al-Man palace, the Asemani mountain, the Arten bridge, the Sakhi shrine (1)
a time of cradle:
                    there was sovereignty, pride, kindness and benediction!
Damn the war…
the fearful blackness of ignorance
                                                has cast a shadow
on every quarter and on every district
on the door and the wall
on the people of this land
The pigeons of the Sakhi have lost their colour  (2)
Afshar still reeks of blood (3)
Dah Afghanan has become a cinema of restriction and caprice (4)
Here a person seeking a bite of bread
never starts the day nor ends the night
and another seeking a moment of caprice
never starts the night nor ends the day
The seas of Kabul
                         without water or fish or waves
                                                           are exiled in eternal silence
The children here
                         have been born after their time
                                                           and will be educted in the future through hawking
Godard is also dead (5)
to once again revive neorealism in Kabul.

This is Kabul! Kabul!!!

[author’s footnotes]
(1) names of famous places in Afghanistan
(2)Sakhi is a name of a shrine in Kabul
(3)Afshar is a name of a district in west of Kabul where massacres took place during the civil war
(4)the name of a place in central Kabul
(5) filmmaker

 

 

Ali Alizadeh

 

Ali Alizadeh is an Iranian-born Australian writer. His books include the novel The New Angel (Transit Lounge Publishing, 2008); with Ken Avery, translations of medieval Sufi poetry Fifty Poems of Attar (re.press, 2007); and the collection of poetry Eyes in Times of War (Salt Publishing, 2006). The main themes of his writing are history, spirituality and dissent. His current projects include a nonfiction novel about the life of his grandfather (to be published in 2009) and, with John Kinsella, an anthology of Persian poetry in translation.

 

 

 

Enoch Ng Kwang Cheng; translations by Yeo Wei Wei

 

Enoch Ng Kwang Cheng is a poet, literary translator and publisher. Since 1997, Ng has been at the helm of firstfruits publications. In 2005 he won the Golden Point Award for Chinese Poetry. In 1991 his first book of poems were awarded Best First Book by the Taiwanese literary journal “The Modernist”.  His poetry has been featured in journals in Singapore, India, Malaysia and Taiwan, and anthologized in China and Singapore. Ng is one of the awardees of the Singapore National Arts Council Arts Creation Fund 2009.

 

 

Yeo Wei Wei is a teacher, literary translator, and writer. Her interest in translation began during her PhD in English at the University of Cambridge. Her translations have recently been published or are forthcoming in journals in India, Taiwan, and the U. S.  She is currently working on a translation volume of Enoch Ng Kwang Cheng’s poems (to be published in 2010). She lives in Singapore.

 

 
 
 
 

书虫                     
 
毛毛虫
吞吐一部份诗行
成可口香叶
 
一部份张贴在蛹
的内壁
 
取光
 
 
Bookworm                
 
The caterpillar
Munches a few lines
Tasty leaves for its repast
 
Lining the walls of its cocoon
With the uneaten parts of the poem –
 
Therein and whence
The light.
 
 
 
家事       
                                       
(一)灯火  
 
水退以后
额头火红
 
犬吠声
篱笆好
一片月
住下, 就是一生:
 
彩电
蕃薯
枪声
女人
齐齐蹲下
 
凝视远方的老鼠
时间似猫眼
 

(二)马戏

 
独眼牛
在杜撰的钢索上
平衡祖先
了无新意的
困境
 
猪在肥
水灾在雷
 
 
() 晚餐
 
武装
                   革命结束之夜
                   摸着石子
                   过河回来的元帅们
                                            
晚餐生蚝
                    佐以京戏:
                    黑猫 白猫
                    穷追老鼠
 
 
 
 
From Family Matters
 
1. lamp light
 
After the flood recedes
foreheads red as fire
 
dogs barking
sturdy fences
a sliver of moon
To stay is to settle down, a lifetime:
 
colour tv
potatoes
gunfire
womenfolk
neatly crouching
 
time spies on mice in the distance
with watchful cat eyes
 
 
 
2. circus act
 
One-eyed bull
on the steel wire of fancy
calibrates the ancestors’
unoriginal
circumstance
 
pigs fatten
floods follow suit
 
 
 
3. dinner
 
In fatigues
the night the revolution ended
stepping on stones
the generalissimos cross the river, returning
 
raw oysters for dinner
peking opera for company
black cat white cat
hunt in vain for mice
 
 
 
 
十二月                
 
 
如常的警笛声
 
果核纹路分明的下午
 
天蓝如此
 
下课以后球就会滚到另一边
 
雨后无辜的蘑菇
 
则不免让人分心
 
地表, 板块, 土拨鼠: 松动的日子
 
说不定难免就是
 
湿翠的菊花无端开落
 
 
 
december                              
 
the police siren makes familiar rounds
through the seed grooves of an afternoon.
thus the blue sky surveys:
a ball rolls from one end of the court to the other, after class.
mushrooms, newborn after the rain,
daintily lead the eye and mind astray.
these days of unwinding, a palpable reprieve tingling soil and sundry:
earth’s surface, tectonic plates, groundhog.
moments, perhaps, for spectatoring and speculation:
chrysanthemum flowers, bursts of moistened jade, bloom and fade, just so.
 
 
 
 

父亲素描                                  
 
 
晚年
他的脸开满菊花
 
南中国海过的眼睛
不再潮汐
耳,继续路往天籁
鼻穴, 深埋梁祝
嘴, 沉默得很大声
 
唯双眉翔不出
翔不出
铁蒺藜,以及
铁蒺藜那边的泥土
 
 
 
Portrait of My Father                 
 
In the twilight years
His face bloomed into chrysanthemums.
 
The eyes that crossed the South China Sea
Were weaned off the tides.
The ears followed still the trail of nature’s sounds.
The nose, buried deep in the legend of the butterfly lovers,
The mouth spoke loudly without words.
 
Time and again his brows made the mad flight
Flailing again and again
before the barbed wire fence,
exiled by the barbed wire fence,
from the land over there.
 
 
 
想起杜甫                                           
 
纪念与梅剑青同游悉尼的日子
 
风停了废墟开始浮出水面
急急急带雨: 床在异地, 前世是码头
天空系在脑后, 我们是风里来火里去的云
高人江湖满地, 踢踏过唐人街, 已是中年
猿声多一阵少一阵, 人倚斜了天涯
啸过冬天漫长的边境
哀伤的头颅内住着完整的瓷

                                        

 
Remembering Du Fu                                  
 
– in memory of the time spent with Boey Kim Cheng in Sydney
 
After the wind died down, ruins rose from the water.
The rain poured, making haste, making haste:
our beds are remote from home; our past lives, a quay.
 
Sprawling behind the mind is the sky –
while we who have no care, we clouds blazing through wind and fire,
what care have we for the masters? Already there are too many in the world –
enough that Chinatown was our playground until middle age caught us playing truant.
 
Marking the rise and ebb of monkey cries, man leans to rest and the horizon slants.
Ranting and raving along the borderlines of winter;
The pained skull shelters a piece of porcelain, perfection no less.
 
 
 
Note:
In July 2006 I was in Sydney for the launch of Boey Kim Cheng’s book After The Fire: New and Selected Poems. It was a holiday as well as a work trip for me. We spent quite a lot of time traveling by car and we listened to his CDs of Du Fu’s poems.
 
 

 

Jorge Palma: translation by Peter Boyle

Jorge Palma, poet and storyteller, was born in 1961 in Montevideo, Uruguay, where he still lives. For many years he has worked for newspapers and radio stations, and has also run creative writing workshops, both poetry and prose. His poetry collections are Entre el viento y la sombra (1989), El olvido (1990), La via láctea (2006), Diarios del cielo (2006) and Lugar de las utopias (2007).

 

 

  

 

 Peter Boyle (b. 1951) lives in Sydney. His first collection of poetry Coming home from the world   (1994) received the National Book Council Award and the New South Wales Premier’s Award. Other collections include The Blue Cloud of Crying (1997), What the painter saw in our faces (2001) and Museum of Space (2004). His most recent book Apocrypha (2009) is an extensive collection of poems and other texts by a range of imaginary authors.

 

 

 

Un Rio Ancho Con Sabor A Otoño

Del rojo al verde
se muere el amarillo    
                   
G.Apollinaire

Tú que tienes la precisión
prendida en la solapa:
¿a cuánto estamos hoy?

El olor de la tierra húmeda
trae en los bolsillos
noticias del mundo:
del rojo al verde
se muere el amarillo;
de mi casa       al mercado
se mueren los niños
en el desierto.

Los noticieros hablan
de la guerra
y el cielo avanza.
Los noticieros hablan
de tormentas de arena
en el desierto
y los pájaros emigran
en mi cielo de otoño.

Mientras enciendo un cigarrillo
mientras la ropa
se seca al sol
se mueren los niños
en el desierto.

Del rojo al verde
se muere el amarillo.

Y las casas son abandonadas
por sus dueños,
y las viudas dejan flores
en la mitad de las camas
y se marchan,
se cubren la piel
con sus trapos de viuda
con sus pañuelos de luto
con sus ropas de humo
y caminan
por el borde del cielo
y caminan por las orillas
del mundo.

En mi patio con macetas
caen flores del cielo
y caen también
pájaros atravesados
por el sonido de la guerra,
y se despiertan las madres
bajo otro cielo
y en los mercados
las frutas, los pescados,
los pregones, no tienen
sonidos de luto,
ni hay viudas huyendo
a las fronteras
ni hay temblores de tierra
ni nadie sacude vidrio molido
de las mantas
ni los curas barren los escombros
de las catedrales y las iglesias
ni en mi cielo de otoño
contemplo esta mañana
la inmensa peregrinación
de ataúdes y pañuelos
que en algún lugar del mundo
se desatan; el polvo, la arena,
el desierto abrasador,
donde dicen estuvo el Paraíso
el Paraíso anhelado
a punto de perderse,
donde un niño sueña todavía
que tiene brazos
una familia, y sus piernas
inquietas de doce años
corren por las inmensas
arenas y salta, busca
nubes, desafía las leyes
de la física, soñando
por las tierras de Ur
a la sombra monumental
de las ruinas de Babilonia.

Del rojo al verde
se muere el amarillo.

Entre tu pecho
y el mío
se muere el amarillo.
entre tus alas y mi sueño
se muere el amarillo.
Entre tus piernas
y las mías
se muere el otoño,
a cuatro metros del cielo
por venir
a cuatro gotas de lluvia
o de rocío
a tres días de un disparo
demoledor y ciego
a dos minutos de la gloria
o el fracaso
a un segundo que aguarda
goteando el alba
tu boca de luz
tu llama
para contrarrestar acaso
ese grito que vuela incesante
entre dos ríos que llevan
la muerte
ese aullido que cruza el cielo
las tormentas el calor
un grito que cruza
el desierto, tu pecho
tu morada
y golpea como un puño
de acero
las ventanas de mi cuarto,
aquí, en mi pequeño cielo
de otoño,
demasiado lejos
de los hombres recién rasurados
que no volverán a sus casas,
de las mujeres
que conversan en la puerta
de un mercado
sin saber que esa noche
dormirán con la muerte;
de los que cantaron
en las duchas
por última vez, hermosas
canciones de veinte siglos,
y no supieron nunca
de nosotros y este río
ni del nombre del río
que nos nombra y atraviesa
con su mansa identidad.

Aquí en el Sur,
donde envejecemos
mirando los ponientes.
 
 

Wide river with autumn fragrance

From red to green
yellow dies.         
                                         
      G. Apollinaire

You with the latest essential
glittering on your lapel,
do you even know what day it is?

In my pockets
the smell of damp earth
brings news from the world:
between red and green
yellow dies;
between my house and the shops
children die
in the desert.

The news speaks of war
and the sky moves forward.
The news talks of sandstorms
in the desert
and birds migrate
in my autumn sky.

While I light a cigarette
while the clothes
dry in the sun
children die
in the desert.

From red to green
yellow dies.

And the houses are abandoned
by their owners,
and widows leave flowers
on the middle of their beds
and walk away,
their skin covered
in widows’ rags
in handkerchiefs of mourning
clothes of smoke
and they walk
along the sky’s edge
and they walk by the shores
of the world.

On my patio with its pots
flowers fall from the sky
and birds fall
transfixed by the sounds of war,
and mothers wake up
under a changed sky
and in the marketplaces
fruit, fish,
the cries of people buying and selling,
don’t bear the weight of any
sound of grief,
there are no widows
fleeing to the frontiers
and no earthquakes
and no one removes ground-up glass
from their shirt-sleeves
and priests don’t sweep rubble
out of churches and cathedrals
and in my autumn sky
this morning I don’t contemplate
the enormous journeys
of coffins and handkerchiefs
that in some place in the world
will fall apart; dust, sand,
burning desert,
where they say Paradise was,
the longed-for about-to-vanish Paradise
where a child still dreams
he has arms
a family and legs,
the restless legs of a twelve-year-old child
who runs across immense sands,
leaps, looks for clouds,
defies the laws of physics, dreaming
in the lands of Ur
in the tremendous shadow
of a ruined Babylon.

From red to green
yellow dies.

Between your breast and mine
yellow dies.
Between your wings and my sleep
yellow dies.
Between your legs
and mine
autumn dies,
in four metres of sky
where four drops of rain
or dew
are falling,
three days from a blind
blast of gunfire,
in two minutes of glory
or disaster,
in one second of watching
dawn fall drop by drop
your mouth of light
your cry
to counterbalance perhaps
the scream soaring without pause
between two rivers
that carry death,
this howling that comes to us
across skies
storms dry heat,
a scream that crosses
the desert, your heart
your dwelling place
and like a steel fist
pounds against
the windows of my room,
here, in my small
autumn sky,
too far
from the freshly shaven men
who will never return home,
from women
chatting in a shop door
not knowing that tonight
they will sleep with death,
from those who have sung in the shower
for the last time, beautiful songs
gathered from twenty centuries,
those who never knew of us
and this river
or the name of the river
that names and crosses us
with its gentle identity.

Here in the South
where we grow old
watching the sunsets.