trans. Swedish Robert Bly We have many shadows. I was walking home one September night when Y. rose from his grave after forty years and joined me on my walk. He seemed blown clean at first except for his name, but his thoughts swam faster than time could run, and they caught up. I fitted…
A white horse, a jade crop, and gilded reins: so easy for a young man to say farewell. The road into the distance is a million miles long. If you're saddened by clouds and water in a strange land, fill your cup with wine, I beg you with tears. …
trans. Danish Alexander Taylor and the author The wine that ripened up along the mountain slopes late that summer we met each other is already golden and full of the aftertaste of an abundance, evaporated like years in the sun and the night breeze looks into me with its poplar leaves: I am tired…
Return deep in the night, drunk out of my mind, I'm helped stagger through the tasselled door-way, still unsobered; pass out cold: wine stench blends with the scent of musk and orchid. I wake up with a start: HA! HA! HA! I've always said, ”How long can a man live?”
How beautiful the letters are we never get mailed compared to the letters we send and how astonishing the answers: The unexpected words that fall together all by themselves forming perfect solutions to problems we only then discover. For instance, I knew nothing about Venezuela before I began writing these lines and now I've already…
Bell and drum cold, pavilion tower dark, moon shines on the golden well by the ancient pawlonias, deep compound locked, small courtyard empty, fallen flowers pink in the fragrant dew. Misty willows sombre, spring haze light, lamp behind the crystal window in the tall pavilion; quietly rests against…
trans. Norwegian Nadia Christensen The railway station has laid its ears to the tracks Every window is open this summer night. The sky And the train. Like a far-away cry . . . Come Crossings. Stratospheric bells. Signal lights coupled to the sunrise. An undertow of rumbling trains cutting gaps in valleys and time ….
trans. Hungarian Jascha Kessler and Maria Körösy You're so brave, you camp-followers of Cain — after Baudelaire, yet! Shit-shoveling first father, your visa was validated when that cretinous cudgel whammed the wandering flock's shepherd, that day-dreaming pastor, the smoke of whose sacrifice could rise up, while yours charred on the ground. Murder — sanctified as…
Little girls riding bikes on the sidewalk back and forth past each other, scampering in rapid figure-eights on their small bikes. I don't have words that ride bicycles But sparrow-light fluttery joyful dart like drops of clear laughter from leaves after rain . . .
No products in the cart.