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trans. Serbian Charles Simic with Morton Marcus Just pop into my head My thoughts the better to claw your cheek Just step in front of me My eyes the better to snap at you Just open your big mouth My silence the better to crack your jaws Just remind me of what you are My…
Scene Two: Hippolytus, Aricia, Ismene Hippolytus Madam, I felt, ere leaving here, That I should make your altered fortunes clear. My sire is dead. My fears divined, alas, By his long absence, what had come to pass. Death only, ending all his feats and frays, Could hide him from the world so many days. The…
After a talk with my would-be publisher I myself don't know who's the author of my book. (The state, the paper allocations, the moon's pull, or other circumstances?) It'll only be half an answer: The author of my book is the Polish language 1973/1975
Poplars, embankments, the Loire behind them. The upper Danube's not so broad, from river to river the light's so different. One doesn't need geography for feelings. Birds fly up the branches. Watch us. Feelings are vulnerable. Strange bodies rub together, our bodies. Someone plants a kiss between navel and shame. A doorknob turns on a…
trans. Arabic James Kenneson with Soad Sobhi and Essam Fatouh 9. At home and in the alley, you hear the gossip over and over. A neighbor asks my mother, "Oh, by the way, did you hear the strange news?" My mother begs her to go on. The woman says, "About Tawheeda, daughter of Um Ali…
In memory of Barbara Loden Sometimes, when I see people like Rose, I imagine them as babies, as young children. I suppose many of us do. We search the aging skin of the face, the unhappy eyes and mouth. Of course I can never imagine their fat little faces at the breast, or their cheeks…
Like a coffin in a procession whose corpse leaves A stealthy trickle of violets in its wake While Attica bids it a soft Good evening. Like some harrassed gardener bending down Among the cables and the skinflint stones Without hearing the passion of the bitter-orange When it cloaks itself in wind and beckons with the…
trans. Italian Ruth Feldman and Brian Swann Mariarosa be good; I am leaving and deserting you* I'll never hear the May song again, daughter of oak and underbrush. You dressed in flowers of the broom, grown back on the uncultivated slope. You were inviolate, shut like a bittr blossom. Your frightened eyes were white beanflowers,…
"Ellie, listen to this: In the evening after sunset, when according to my habit I was contemplating the stars in a clear sky, I noticed that a new and unusual star, surpassing all others in brilliancy, was shining almost directly above my head, and since I had, almost from boyhood, known all the stars in…
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