Translated by Andrej Pleterski If I were to write she stood there,in a fast-food restaurant,ordering soft ice cream,with the nearby park in cherry blossoms,if I were to write her pink was more distinct,everywhere: the socks, the cape, the lips, the eyelids,an adorned tree with a lively past,if I were to write she had already ordered…
Translated by Lars Gustaf Andersson and Carolyn Forché When I was about to leave, I was held back by the word “out.” I turned around, always prepared, in a labyrinth of my own. When I was about to enter I was held back by the word “in.”
Translated from the Brazilian Portuguese by Ellen Doré Watson I inherited this house,which has one room I avoid,paralyzed by its icy air.I keep to a smaller spacewhere virtues and laughter,even a few seeds of joy remainintact, retain some life.But when I behold the massive entryway,I stiffen—smiling devil fearhas me in his lap:“Child, you’re very sick,let…
Translated by Kaveh Akbar and Arman Salem صبهكه خانه را ترک مى كنم، جوانم،و شبپير به خانه باز مى گردمبا اندوهاى هزار ساله،چهار ديوارى خانه امآرام و صبورپذيراى پيرمردى است كهسحرگاهان.جوان برمى خيزد In morningWhen I leave my house, I am young And nightI return again to my house, oldHolding one thousand years of grief…
Translated by Boris Dralyuk Why sit like a guestbut not wipe your feet?Every town’s built on bones,not just St. Pete. One should build homes on stone,not on a bog.True enough, but for nowthe work is a slog. My life’s on the scales—the losses won’t cease.Let me dwell in the woods—a big clumsy beast. I’d crawl…
Translated by Grace Mahoney in a country where everyone’s name is fear:it’s good that you don’t see a thingand don’t hear a thing. Say to anyone not a thing.Slip nothing in your bra. Keep nothingin your pocket. In both ears, nothing. In two eyes, nothing. Blind feet. No looking back. Nolooking back. If you look back,…
Translated from the Spanish by Jenny Minniti-Shippey The child searches for his voice.(The king of the crickets had it.)In a drop of water,the child searched for his voice. I don’t want it in order to speak;I’ll make with it a ringthat will carry my silenceon his tiny finger. In a drop of water,the child searched…
Translated from the Swedish by Robin Fulton Macpherson His late style is called baffling,a slap in the face for a publicardent as a pair of worn-out shoes. But the music is tired of reconciliationand seeks refuge in his rage.Let it grind, let it chafe.As when existence contracts in painround his shrinking liver. Perhaps they’ll do…
Translated from the Russian by Olga Livshin and Andrew Janco Seventeen years I’ve worked nights, circling aroundand guarding rivers, walking over riverbanksin uninhabited spaces heated by my breathbehind the stadium, on lumpy soccer soil,seventeen years in boundless air. It all beganwith resin boiling in some distant, vacant lots,among the shadows in military peacoats,with little rail…
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