Archive
Two Poems by Blaise Cendrars
translated by Dick Jones
Chinks
Sea vistas
Waterfalls
Trees long-haired with moss
Heavy rubbery glossy leaves
Glazed sun
High burnished heat
Glistening
I’ve stopped listening to the urgent voices of my friends discussing
The news that I brought from Paris
On both sides of the train close by or along the banks of
The distant valley
The forest is there watching me unsettling me enticing me like
a mummy’s mask
I watch back
Never the flicker of an eye.
* * *
Journal
Christ
There goes another year in which I haven’t thought about You
Since I wrote my penultimate poem Easter
My life has changed so much
But I’m the same as ever
I still want to become a painter
Here are the pictures that I’ve done displayed here on the walls this evening.
They reveal to me strange perspectives into myself that make me think of You.
Christ
Life
See what I’ve unearthed
My paintings make me uneasy
I’m too passionate
Everything is tinted orange.
I’ve passed a sad day thinking about my friends
And reading my diary
Christ
A life crucified in this journal that I hold at arm’s length.
Wingspans
Rockets
Frenzy
Cries
Like a crashing aeroplane
That’s me.
Passion
Fire
A serial
Diary
No matter how much you try to stay silent
Sometimes you have to cry out
I’m the other way
Too sensitive
Editor’s note: In four months of trying, we were unable to contact the current copyright holders of the French originals (“Trouees” and “Journal”). We will of course be happy to accommodate their wishes should they ever decide to contact us.
The iconoclastic poet and novelist Blaise Cendrars (Wikipedia page) was born Frédéric Louis Sauser in Switzerland in 1887. After fighting in the First World War he travelled extensively, drawing on (and embellishing considerably) the experiences that he had around the world for his surreal documentaries in verse and prose. Cendrars’ best-known poem is the epic La Prose du Transsibérien et de la Petite Jehanne de France, which documents in vivid, sometimes dreamlike detail his journey on the Trans-Siberian Railway at the time of the Russian Revolution. His two novels Sutter’s Gold and Moravagine have been translated into twenty languages. Blaise Cendrars died, celebrated throughout France, in 1961.*
Initially wooed by the First World War poets & then seduced by the Beats, Dick Jones (blog) has been exploring the vast territories in between since the age of 15. Fitfully published in a variety of magazines throughout the years of rambling, grand plans for the meisterwerk have been undermined constantly either by a Much Better Idea or a sort of Chekhovian inertia. So Dick Jones has no prize collection to his name; he has masterminded no radical creative writing programmes in a cutting edge university department; he has edited no recherché poetry magazines with lower case titles. However, work has been published in a number of magazines, print and online, including Orbis, The Interpreter’s House, Poetry Ireland Review, Qarrtsiluni, Westwords, Mipoesias, Three Candles, Other Poetry, Rattlesnake and Ouroboros Review.
A Cold December Night by Mu Dan
translated by Huiwen (Helen) Zhang
在寒冷的腊月的夜里
北方的田野是枯干的,大麦和谷子已经推进了村庄,
岁月尽竭了,牲口憩息了,村外的小河冻结了,
在古老的路上,在田野的纵横里闪着一盏灯光,
一副厚重的,多纹的脸,
他想什么?他做什么?
在这亲切的,为吱哑的轮子压死的路上。
木格的窗子堆着沙土,我们在泥草的屋顶下安眠,
谁家的儿郎吓哭了,哇——呜——呜——从屋顶传过屋顶,
他就要长大了渐渐和我们一样地躺下,一样地打鼾,
从屋顶传过屋顶,风
这样大岁月这样悠久,
我们不能够听见,我们不能够听见。
我们的祖先是已经睡了,睡在离我们不远的地方,
所有的故事已经讲完了,只剩下了灰烬的遗留,
在我们没有安慰的梦里,在他们走来又走去以后,
在门口,那些用旧了的镰刀,
锄头,牛轭,石磨,大车,
静静地,正承接着雪花的飘落。
*
A Cold December Night
A cold December night, the wind sweeps the northern plains, The northern fields wither; wheat and corn are wheeled into the village, Months and years end, mules and oxen fall asleep, the river outside the village freezes, On the ancient road, amid the field’s crossing patterns, a lamp sparkles, A thick, wrinkled face, Thinking what? Doing what? On this trusted road, pressed to death under the groaning wheels. The wind blows to the east, the wind blows to the south, the wind swirls over the sunken narrow streets, The paper pane of the wooden lattice window piled with sand, we sleep calmly under the muddy grass roof, Whose boy is crying out in fear? wa—wu—wu—, roof to roof, He is about to grow up and, with time, just like us, lie down, just like us, snore Roof to roof, the wind So wide and months and years so long, We cannot hear, we cannot hear. Is the fire out? Is the red coal flame quenched? A voice: Our ancestors are already asleep, somewhere close to us, All the stories are already told, only ashes left behind, In our disconsolate dreams, once they’ve come and gone, At the gate those tired-out scythes, Hoes, yokes, millstones, and carts Quiet, treasuring snowflowers as they fall. 1941
Download the podcast
(thanks to Vic Udwin for the English reading)
Mu Dan 穆旦(1918-1977) is widely considered one of the most significant Chinese poets of the 20th century. He was driven by a passion and a talent for poetry since the age of 13; compelled by the Cultural Revolution to cease at 40, he was reborn as a poet at 57. During the war, he walked a circuitous 3000 miles from Peking to Kunming to attend the provisional wartime university, and joined the Chinese Expedition Army to Burman (now Myanmar). T.S. Eliot and W.H. Auden were strong influences on his early work. He translated poetry from Russian and English, developing a Chinese voice for Pushkin, Blake, Byron, Keats, and Shelley.
Huiwen (Helen) Zhang 张慧文 (website, blog) is a curious mind wandering in search of every possible experience and adventure from China through Germany to the United States; a limber voice rendering Chinese, German, and English into one another in quest of the seemingly unattainable congenial; an unyielding spirit striving in the wilderness of philosophy and poetry; and a faithful soul writing under the sign of blue flower and red coral. This translation is a companion to her earlier piece in the issue, “Meditation on the Road: Chinese Wartime Sonnets by Feng Zhi,” which were also written in 1941.
BEOWULF: A Retelling With Children In Mind
by Joshua Gray
For Zachary, whose fantasy world sent me on a quest of my own
Here, let me tell you of the time Hrothgar,
king of Denmark, built a hall in his castle.
When it was complete, he named it Heorot.
Heorot was a hall where the people in the palace
ate supper and then slept when it was time for bed.
Nearby there lived a beast who lurked in the dark.
He was called Grendel, and was grand and gruesome.
Grendel abhorred Heorot (no one knows why);
one night he went to the hall, broke through a wall,
and found many men to feast on. Grendel growled
ferocious and loud, and his red eyes glared in the dark.
The noise awoke all who slept in the hall
and the knights were poised for battle. But the beast
Grendel showed his horrible teeth and grabbed
the first knight he found and gnashed him
with one big bite. The monster roared
and everyone ran, leaving Grendel loudly laughing
as he went back to his lair where he soundly slept.
The monster managed to raid Heorot for eleven years.
Finally it became clear King Hrothgar needed help
killing the beast in battle, because his warriors were dying
one by one in this gruesome Grendel War. The Danes
prayed to the gods to keep the monster from preying on them.
Their prayers were answered when a ship sailed to their shores.
Beowulf was aboard the boat, and he came from across the sea
to help Hrothgar from the terror of Grendel’s teeth. Beowulf
announced himself to Hrothgar, and the King welcomed him
with open arms. Hrothgar fed his guest a feast in his hall,
and Beowulf announced he planned to fight Grendel with his fists.
Unferth, Hrothgar’s bravest knight, questioned Beowulf’s skill.
Unferth asked, “Are you the legendary Beowulf, who took part
in a swimming contest with a friend in the ocean? As I have heard
the story, you both challenged each other and the sea for seven nights,
swimming as far out as you could, beating the cold and angry waves,
but in the end your friend won the race, you fell behind humiliated.”
Beowulf bawked. “You’re right brave Unferth, I am that Beowulf.
But you have heard wrong. For five days and nights
we swam shoulder to shoulder against those cold and angry waves.
I was pulled under by a sea-monster. Armed with a sword,
I killed the sea-monster and eight others after it. It was a hard fight
under water with those terrible beasts, and I was weakened
but I swam to the surface and made it to the other shore.
Not since my fight with the sea-monsters have my people perished
at the mouths of them. I lost, but I was honored, not humiliated.”
When the feast was over, it was bedtime for the brave
Beowulf. He laid in bed awake, waiting for Grendel to strike.
Grendel stormed through the stone wall, grabbed
a startled soldier with his cruel claws and bit him to the bone.
The monster moved toward Beowulf, and lifted him
out of bed. But before the beast could open its mouth,
Beowulf put Grendel in an arm lock no man or beast
had ever witnessed, and the monster let out a horrible howl.
The two tumbled about the hall until the sound of the scream
from the loser lifted everyone out of their beds. The monster
had been manacled from a man stronger than him,
and the beast ran recklessly back to his den to die.
Grendel’s arm was torn off by Beowulf’s grasp and
he could not live much longer. Beowulf picked the arm off
the floor, evidence of the fight, and stood among his men victorious.
The next day word got around that the beast had been beaten
by Beowulf. The damaged wall in the hall was repaired,
and Hrothgar gave Beowulf gifts for his courage.
A victory feast was served for supper, and everyone
was the happiest they’d been since Grendel started
running his raids. That night as they settled in for sleep,
it felt great to not worry about Grendel again.
Beowulf went to bed elsewhere. But as soon as
everyone was asleep and silence swept the night,
a second terror lurked in the moonlight. Grendel’s mother
had come to Heorot to avenge her son’s death.
She was just as gruesome as Grendel. The sleeping were startled
awake, and they all went for their swords. Grendel’s mother
killed a counselor, Hrothgar’s right-hand man. She grabbed
Grendel’s arm, gave an angry growl, and disappeared.
After her attack, Beowulf was brought to Hrothgar’s hall.
The crowd in the castle knew Grendel’s mother
lived under the mere, so Beowulf decided to go to her instead
of waiting for her to come back to him. He brought a boat
to the wet mere, even though the waters were infested
with all sorts of beasts. He took a crew with him, and
on their way, through the dark moor, they found her footprints,
and followed them to the water. In the water and on the rocks
they found reptiles of all kinds: they found snakes and sea-dragons,
monsters and wild things. They waded through them
to where Grendel’s mother lived below the waters.
Beowulf wore a wet suit and prepared for battle.
A special sword was given to him by Hrothgar’s men,
and he placed it in his holster. Beowulf told the men
to wait for him; he would be back victorious. With that,
he dove into the deep waters, and descended to the monster’s den.
Grendel’s mother sensed Beowulf approaching.
She waited for him, hungry. When he came close,
she captured him and dragged him down to her den.
Beowulf searched for the special sword,
heaved it out of his holster, and struck his opponent.
But the sword failed to do damage. The blade broke
off the handle and Beowulf was left using his two bare
hands. He attempted another arm lock, but the beast’s
strength was too brutal. Beowulf managed to break free,
and fought bare-handed against the furry beast. But Beowulf’s
bare hands were no match for the monster’s might.
And for a moment he thought he had lost. Right then,
Beowulf saw a mighty weapon, a sword of some sort,
hanging on the cave wall, glistening with gold.
He raised the heavy sword and with one swift blow
Beowulf killed the beast. As he stopped to rest, he realized
Grendel himself laid in the lair, lifeless. His arm
was placed neatly next to him by his mother. Beowulf
grabbed Grendel’s arm, and swam back to the surface
of the water, leaving his special sword in the lair.
Beowulf returned to Hrothgar and told the king Heorot
was free once again of those monsters in the night.
Hrothgar thanked Beowulf, praised his strength
and courage, but warned him that his strength and courage
could also endanger his life. “Do not give way to pride,”
said Hrothgar to Beowulf, “your strength is in bloom,
but blossoms only a short while. Grendel was king
of this country for eleven years, even though
I wore the crown, because I didn’t bring my pride to battle
against him. I knew better. I laid low instead, and prayed
for someone with courage to fight him. The day you arrived
on my shores I knew my prayers were answered.
I say this because you are fit to be King, and will be, someday.”
Beowulf thanked him for the fatherly advice, and told him
it was time to sail the seas again, to go back home.
He gathered his men, prepared his ship, and said goodbye
to Hrothgar and Heorot. When Beowulf and his ship arrived
at shore, he was welcomed at once by his Uncle Hygelac.
Hygelac was king of this country, ruler of the Geats.
He ruled the Geats well, and years later when Hygelac
died of old age, Beowulf himself became king.
For fifty years Beowulf ruled his kingdom well,
but in his old age, Beowulf was faced with another terror
of the night. A dragon, which lived in a cave on a nearby cliff,
awoke angry, because someone came into his cave
while he soundly slept, and stole some treasure
off his treasure pile. It happened not once, but twice.
The dragon found footprints the second time,
and he flew over the kingdom like a living torch,
burning buildings down to their bones.
Beowulf believed the dragon performed these deeds
because of something he had done. So the king
decided to fight the dragon himself. He gathered
an army of men and made for the cave, the dragon’s den.
With his men waiting outside, Beowulf entered
the cave and called for the dragon, who responded
with a breath of fire. Beowulf, the old king,
raised his shield and sword and the two battled.
The heat inside the cave made it hard for the old king
to focus. He stabbed the dragon’s scales with his sword,
and the dragon cried in pain. But the puncture
wasn’t deep enough, and it upset the dragon even more.
Outside the army heard its cry, and all but one ran
for safety. Only Wiglaf ran inside the cave to help
Beowulf, who was fighting without his sword.
The dragon turned and sunk its teeth into Beowulf’s neck.
The dragon focused on Beowulf so the battle was easier
for young and strong Wiglaf, who gave the dragon
a deadly blow. The dragon cried in pain once again,
blew his last fiery breath, and fell hard on the floor.
Wiglaf ran to Beowulf’s aid, and attempted to treat his wound.
“Wiglaf,” said Beowulf, “bring me some treasure, so I can see
what I’ve been fighting for.” Wiglaf ran around the fallen dragon,
and fetched a piece of treasure, something simple he could carry.
Beowulf’s eyes fell on it. “Ah,” he said, “Wiglaf, I name you
the new king of the Geats, you have shown your courage. I will die
of my wound.” And soon, the old king closed his eyes,
breathed his last breath, and peacefully passed away.
Joshua Gray lives just outside Washington DC with his wife and family. He writes monthly articles for Zouch Magazine on the culture of poetry and is a contributor to the blog for 32poems. His own poetry Web site is joshuagraynow.com, where he explains the sympoe, a poetry form he created.
A and B, from Pastoral Emergency (with Romanian translations)
by Gene Tanta
A
all that glitters is ax
across arbor
in approximate action
authoring another
anybody ancient
as the ABCs accordion
at half-past Ann Curry
aroused by the rainwater ahem
air announces
almighty sniffing arches
Arafat combs astral
alone he emigrated abroad
asking heard anything
the adjusted bells long adieu
anchormen see anchorwomen
asses aching
atomic strawberries dance angels on TV
applesauce feels like applause
Attila with his head addling
afterwards he all
apologies amen
Art folded her arms
anyone for awhile
a book opened up by asterisks
apprentice avoid cigarette butts
ammo around
to ante up awake
at every achoo
a chip off the old axiom
Autumn to ash
alphabet uncovers ah-ha
abracadabra arrowheads
a time ago
ahead anyway of the clouds
aiming at us the bright rent
as far as the atlas
*
A
tot ce străluceşte este topor
asupra arborelui
într-o acţiune aproximată
un alt autor
un orcine antic
ca şi acordeonul ABC-ului
la şi jumate după Andreea Esca
stârnit de apa de ploie hmm
aerul anunţă
atotputernicul adulmecând arcuri
Arafat pieptănînd astral
singur a emigrat peste hotare
întrebând s-a auzit ceva
un adio lung al clopotelor ajustate
aliaţii si aliatele
frecându-şi cururile
căpşuna atomică dansează îngeri la TV
aplauzele sânt compot de mere
Attila cu capul lui aburit
după toate el plin
de scuze amin
Arta şi-a pliat braţele
orcine o vreme
o carte facută lată de asteriscuri
ucenicule apără-te de mucuri de cigară
amuniţia pe-aproape
a plusa deştept
la fiecare hapciu
o aşchie nu sare departe de axiomă
tomna spre cenuşă
alfabetul descoperă aha
abracadabra vârfuri de săgeată
cu ani în urmă
înainte oricum de aceşti nori
ţintind către noi o crăpătură de lumină
până la atlas
* * *
B
balance of power wait on the bus
brushed and braided
beardless like a bridegroom
budding into breath
bowed over a broomstick
back and forth of nobody’s business
burning she lowers where hearts blink
back room bounce
bold as beasts
all bring-bring and brooding
bam bam
blast that tunnel bang
bragging of roughshod beauty
boo-hoo bombers
beige to beige
and bones to bury
the poor get bleeped blending details
boneyard under the bridge
bonk that striker in your bell
blazing belfries
burry the hatchet by that
and begin to pronounce with a bolt cutter
beer-loud beerhouse
blanking on the brand name
bluebirds and whiskey babble
budging your buttery
backwoods still bobbing away
begging blah
buzz off in the blink
beak stiff in the news because
Burt Reynolds in a film blooper
bowwow Belgian
Dom DeLuise brandishes his better angels
barking dogs seldom bite
bite as beforehand
bracketing fat from believe me
*
B
balanţă de putere stai cuminte-n banca ta
bântuită şi împletită
fără barbă ca şi-un mire
cu suflarea îmbobocită
băbită peste o coadă de mătură
înainte şi înapoi de traba nimănui
arzând aplecată unde inimile fac cu ochiul
ţopăiala din spatele casei
curajos ca dracu-n patru
tot cling-cling şi întunecat
poc poc
aruncă in aer tunelul bumm
laudându-se cu o frumuseţe potcovită
îhî îhî bombardierule
bej pe bej
şi oase de-ngropat
cei săraci devin editaţi mai mult sau mai puţin
grădina de oase sub pod
trage limba aia de clopot băi
clopotniţa în flăcări
îngroapă securea lîngă aia
şi începe să pronunţi cu târnăcopul
berărie bere tare
bocind numele de marcă dacă nu l-ai fi uitat
păsările albastre îmi bombăneau de wisky
clintindu-ţi untul bătut
într-un codru nemişcat băgat departe
cerşind gură-spartă
zboară din clipă în clipă
ciocu mic în ştirile de seară ca şi
Dem Rădulescu într-un film scurt de gafe
ham ham Belgianul
iar Birlic îşi flutură în aer cei mai buni îngeri
câinii care latră nu prea muşcă
muşcă ca şi înainte
pun în paranteză grasimea de pe cuvântul meu
Gene Tanta is a poet, visual artist, and translator of contemporary Romanian poetry. His two poetry books are Unusual Woods (BlazeVOX 2010) and Pastoral Emergency (unpublished). Tanta earned his MFA in Poetry from the Iowa’s Writers’ Workshop in 2000 and his PhD in English from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee in 2009 with literary specialization in twentieth-century American poetry and the European avant-garde. His journal publications include: EPOCH, Ploughshares, Circumference Magazine, Exquisite Corpse, Watchword, Columbia Poetry Review, The Laurel Review, and Drunken Boat. Currently, he teaches creative writing online for UC Berkeley Extension.
In Other Words
Desembocar: to take
the mouth out,
to make wordless.
As in you ripped
the mouth out of me.
Peeled away my lips, loosened
and unhinged my every
tooth, severed and wrenched
my tongue until not even
its heavy, muscular base
remained.
This is what I wanted
it to mean.
But not so violent, see.
More like you took
the words from me.
I had no need for words
or I swallowed them—
they were useless.
Meaning slid away from each
and every attempt at stringing
the pieces of language together.
You took
the mouth out of me.
But that’s not it at all.
It has its own meaning.
To flow, to lead to, to culminate.
If you follow
this road, this river, this line of thought,
you somehow arrive in a new place—
You are in the mouth of
something new.
Marina Hope Wilson’s poems have appeared in small-press journals, including Coconut, La Petite Zine, MiPoesias and FourW. She lives in Brooklyn.
Three poems by Jean-Claude Renard
translated by Hélène Cardona
Incantation du sang
À peine au bord du puits,
Ce jeune feu de ceps allumé sur la neige,
Devant la mer,
Quel sang beau comme un abricot
Parle-t-il de sa soif d’un mystère, d’un sacre, d’une métamorphose
Qui n’arment le désire qu’en l’habitant déjà,
Lorsque la mort l’éveille
De ce qu’il doit sans trêve, pour sortir de soi-même et entrer dans soi-même
En s’inventant sans cesse,
Accueillir et fonder comme une ville neuve,
Une commune langue,
Le seul espoir de demeurer vivant puis de combler de sens, partout, sous la falaise,
Les labyrinthes vides,
—Et dans ce voeu d’atteindre la plénitude d’être,
Dans ce pur mouvement de sève et de rivière où peut-être mûrit une fête essentielle,
Lui donnent le pouvoir, s’ils sont plus que ses fables,
D’accomplir avec eux la création du monde?
La braise et la rivière: poèmes et proses (Éditions du Seuil, c1969)
*
Blood Incantation
Barely by the well
This young fire of vinestocks lit on snow,
Facing the sea,
What blood beautiful as an apricot
Speaks of its thirst for a mystery, consecration, metamorphosis,
Which only arm desire by already inhabiting it,
When death awakens it,
With what it relentlessly must, to quit itself and enter itself,
Inventing itself incessantly,
Welcome and found like a new city
A common language,
The only hope able to survive then fill with meaning, everywhere, under the cliff,
The empty labyrinths,
—And in this vow to reach plenitude of being,
In this pure movement of sap and river where perhaps an essential feast ripens,
Do they give it the power, if they are more than its fables,
To achieve with them the creation of the world?
* * *
Parole 1
La même fête patiente sous les tilleuls roses,
Dans la parole d’interrogation.
J’oserai veiller près des pierres.
Quand l’enfance les aura lavées,
Elles prophétiseront le sacre.
Déjà, dans le secret simple des îles,
Un seul sanctuaire rassemble,
Comme de grandes laines fraîches et vertes,
Toutes figures du dieu sur la mer.
Les oiseaux rusent.
Mais quel corps n’a prescience qu’un texte très blanc dans le sable
Indique le savoir d’être un?
S’il s’avance un peu,
L’eau habite la mort.
*
Spoken Word 1
The same feast awaits beneath pink linden trees,
In the word of questioning.
I will dare keep watch by the stones.
When childhood has bathed them
They will prophesy the sacrament.
Already in the simple secret of the islands
A single sanctuary gathers,
Like great fleeces cool and green,
All figures of the god upon the sea.
Birds use cunning.
But what being doesn’t foresee that a very white text in the sand
Indicates the knowledge of oneness?
If he moves slightly forward,
Water inhabits death.
* * *
Parole 2
La grêve brûlée
(Mais chaque fois les oiseaux reviennent)
D’autres algues montent de la mer.
Elles tracent les signes qui luisent – qui s’interrogent.
Je ne cesserai pas d’y marcher.
S’enfouir dans le silence du sable,
Comme les bucardes,
Sans chercher la demeure possible: l’éventuel lieu d’alliance,
Abîme l’être.
Quand l’eau dégage la caverne,
—S’il n’y a rien
N’est pas une preuve.
Plus tard (ailleurs dans l’identique espace)
La parole peut encore sourdre,
Attirer encore les racines
—Jusqu’à la fin.
Même le vide prodigue une naissance.
*
Spoken Word 2
Burned strand
(But each time the birds return)
More seaweed rises from the sea.
It traces glistening, questioning signs.
I will forever walk there.
To bury oneself in the sand’s silence,
Like cockles,
Without seeking the possible dwelling: the potential place of alliance,
Damages being.
When the water clears the cave
—If there is nothing,
That’s no proof.
Later (elsewhere in the selfsame space)
The spoken word may still rise,
Still lure the roots,
—Until the end.
Even emptiness is prodigal with birth.
Jean-Claude Renard (1922-2002), born in Pontoise and educated at the Sorbonne, was a prolific French poet and writer. His work is filled with mystery and spirituality. He won the Prix Sainte-Beuve (1966), the Golden Eagle of Poetry (1970), the Prix Max Jacob (1974), the prix Guillaume Apollinaire (1978), the Grand Prix de poésie de l’Académie française in 1988 and the Prix Goncourt de la poésie in 1991. He was literary director of Editions du Seuil and Editions Casterman. His books include Notes sur la poésie (Le Seuil 1970), Le Dieu de Nuit (Le Seuil 1973), Notes sur la foi (Gallimard 1973), La Lumière du Silence (le Seuil 1973), Dix runes d’été (Mercure de France 1994), and Ce puits que rien n’épuise (Le Seuil 1993). He also wrote many essays.
A citizen of the U.S., France and Spain, Hélène Cardona (website) is a poet, actor and translator. She studied English Philology in Cambridge; Spanish at the International Universities of Santander and Baeza; and German at the Goethe Institute in Bremen. She writes and translates in English, French and Spanish. She attended Hamilton College, New York, where she taught French and Spanish, and the Sorbonne, where she wrote her thesis on Henry James for her Master’s in American Literature. She worked as a translator/interpreter for the Canadian Embassy and the French Chamber of Commerce and taught at the Ecole Bilingue in Paris and LMU in Los Angeles. She is the author of the bilingual collections Life In Suspension, forthcoming from Tupelo Press, The Astonished Universe (Red Hen Press) and Breeze Rider forthcoming from Salmon Poetry.
Norse Code
by Sarah Neely
If you really look you see the simmering foam
unfurling between sky and earth.
You see the birds dive upwards to the clifftop’s edge
and the Norseman’s message, that drifted there
over time, fallen from the Broch of Birsay.
If you really listen you hear it in the breath from the North
as it whistles through faultlines of basalt
and groans from the deep rising surges of the sea.
The Norseman’s message is hidden there
between clouds as they shift against the horizon,
between the gasps of wind, first long then short,
and the tap, tap, tap at the window.
The Norseman’s message is written in blue lines
between edges of horizon and sea,
and the low cosmic hum stretched out
like strings on the ancient violin,
between sand bars and the whistling wind.
The Norseman’s message is in the Westray stone,
etched out by the delicate claws of the sea eagle.
In fine tracks of glitter that wind their way around its edges:
hinting at the light within.
But you have to look.
You must stand at the cliff’s edge
over algae slick rock and quaking bog,
against temperamental winds
and the gulls sweeping forth from under your feet,
circling you the way you’ve seen them do at the very top of Storr.
You must, if you wish to see the great tumult of water and light
and the energy that drives it that just is.
Sarah Neely lives in Glasgow, Scotland and is currently writing a book on the Orcadian filmmaker and poet, Margaret Tait.
Dear Old Stockholm
by James Brush
We communicated in images. Flickering moments on dueling monitors. Shoes on cobbled pavement. Clothes rustle in the wind. Wind? We both understand this thing, wind. The colors are suddenly blinding. I can’t even name them. The view of open parkland and a blue pond widens to almost 360 degrees. My stomach drops as the ground falls away, earth tumbling into a pit of sky, images bleeding off the monitors now. We’re flying again. It’s all she thinks about, the only thing she’ll show. I rip the cables from my temples. She flaps them from her wings. We stare at one another across the sterile distance of the research lab. Going nowhere. Again. A white feather floats on the air-conditioned current. We’re as alien and far apart as ever. Three feet away yet separated by species and the awkwardness of the now-severed connection with its illusion of understanding and love. Can she feel it too? She doesn’t blink, her avian eyes as incomprehensible as the machines humming in this lab. I glance at the security cameras and lean in. Please, I whisper, please. Don’t make me leave. I’ll show you everything. Outside, I hear engines and the wind of ten thousand wings beginning to flap.
A flight of egrets
glides toward the setting sun—
the moon rises.
James Brush lives in Austin, Texas with his wife, cat and two rescued greyhounds. He teaches English in a juvenile correctional facility. You can find him online at Coyote Mercury where he keeps a full list of publications.
from Ode to the Dove by Avrom Sutzkever
translated by Zackary Sholem Berger
אָדע צו דער טויב
(פּאָעמע אין צען טיילן)
אברהם סוצקעווער
1954
III
בלעטל פּאַפּיר, ביסט אַ דענקמאָל, אַ נעסט בויט די טויב אין דײַן חומר,
בלעטל, אין דיר, ניט אין מאַרמאָר, איז אייביק דאָס פּנים פֿון טרוימער,
דאָ, צווישן אָפּקלאַנגען רויע, פֿאַרזונקענע, ליימענע פֿאָרמען,
זאַמל איך זילבערנע זילבן, צו קענען מײַן טײַבעלע קאָרמען.
זונפֿאַרגאַנג זינגט אין אַ לעמפּל. און אונטערן מאַגישן לעמפּל
בוי איך פֿון ביינערנע קלאַנגען, באַגאָסן מיט בלוט מײַנס – אַ טעמפּל.
ע ר האָט דאָס וואָרט ניט דערזונגען, אַזוי איז דאָס וואָרט ניט-דערשליפֿן!
גליט דער וווּלקאַן פֿון פּאָעזיע פֿאַרזיגלט אין בראָנזענע טיפֿן.
דאָ, מיט דער פּען, דיריזשיר איך אַן אייגענע, שטילע קאַפּעליע:
קומען אין רעגן נשמות און טריפֿן אַרײַן דורך דער סטעליע.
קאַרשן, פֿאַרמויערט אין ביימער, באַפֿעל איך צו בײַטן די ערטער,
קומען אויף פּורפּורנע פֿיסלעך צו לעבן ווי קאַרשן אין ווערטער.
ווײַזט זיך אין טעמפּל אַ וואָרעם, אַזאַ צויבערײַ איז אים פֿרעמדלעך.
אמתע קאַרשן אין ווערטער צעראַצן זײַן גומען ווי זעמדלעך.
וואָרקעט די טויב ווי אַ שוועסטער: באַפֿעל, זאָלן קומען די קאַרשן,
ד ו ביסט דער מאָס און דער מעסטער, פֿאַרשוווּנדענע זעונגען ירשן
Ode to the Dove
(poem in ten parts)
by Avrom Sutzkever
1954
III
Dove builds a nest in your substance, paper: you are a memorial.
Paper, in you, not in marble, the face of the dreamer’s immortal,
Here, among the raw echoes, among the sunken clay forms
I collect silvery syllables to bring to my dear dove and feed her.
Sunset is in a lamp singing. Under that magical lamp
I’m building with bonesounds, watered with my blood — a temple.
He hasn’t yet sung the last word! So the last word’s not sharpened yet.
Under seal, the volcano of poetry glows in bronze depths.
Here with this pen I’m conducting my own quiet band:
They’re dripping down in through the ceiling: souls in the rain.
Change places! I order the cherries walled up in the trees.
Purple legs rise up to live in the words like the cherries.
In the temple a worm now. To him such enchantment is foreign.
Genuine cherries in words are scratching his palate like sandgrains.
Sisterly coos the dove: Make cherries come, give the order!
You are the measure and measurer, of all vanished visions the heir!
Avrom Sutzkever (Wikipedia entry) was the greatest Jewish poet of his time. He spent his childhood in Siberia and emerged as a writer in the youthful literary flowering of Jewish Vilna. As poet and Jew in the Vilna Ghetto, he was transformed into a living remnant of a people’s near death, writing immortal works and helping to conceal Jewish cultural treasures for later rescue. After the war, he became a prophetic symbol and a cultural-historical institution, founding Yiddish literature’s greatest journal in Israel. A committed Zionist, he earned his country’s highest literary honor even as its powerful never abandoned their suspicion of Yiddish literary creativity. He died in 2010.
Zackary Sholem Berger (English blog, Yiddish blog) is a poet and translator in Baltimore who writes in Yiddish and English. His bilingual Yiddish and English book of poetry, Not in the Same Breath/Zog Khotsh Lehavdl, will be published in 2011. He and his wife, Celeste Sollod, are the forces behind Yiddish House LLC, which publishes Yiddish translations of classic English-language children’s books.
Call for Submissions: Imprisonment
Submissions are now open for the Imprisonment issue, which will begin to appear on the site on June 1. The editors are Ken Lamberton and Ann E. Michael.
Theme Description
Is a prisoner simply in the lock-up, or locked up in a multitude of ways? Penned, caged, in the slammer, shut off, closed down, barred and gated, captive, detained, committed, incarcerated, in custody, kidnapped, impounded, seized, snagged, pinched, restrained, jailed… English offers hundreds of ways to name kinds of imprisonment — physical, emotional, intellectual, metaphorical — perhaps because something very basic within us rebels against containment, even when it has its benefits. Like the seedling tree that pushes through cliffside rock to reach sunlight, barriers are things we instinctively push against and try to overcome. Perhaps we are all prisoners.
What are the objects, desires, laws, thoughts, that imprison us? Why do we withhold ourselves; what holds us back? Must punishment be linked to constraints; and where are our prisons of the mind, heart, and place? Might there even be times when imprisonment is welcomed? The editors ask writers and artists to engage in an exploration of the idea and the physical experience of containment and to send work to us that surprises and expands the notion of what it means to be a prisoner.
Submission Details
The deadline for submissions is April 30. All submissions should go through our submissions manager. If you’ve submitted to other publications that use the same system, Submishmash, you’ll need to log in with the same username and password. Otherwise, you’ll create a new account as part of the submission process. People without easy access to the internet, such as prisoners, may get someone else to submit on their behalf. For this issue, we may be able to accommodate postal submissions from prisoners as well, but please query first: qarrtsiluni[at]gmail[dot]com.
As always, we consider contributions of nonfiction, poetry, short fiction, photographs, digitized artwork, short films, original musical compositions, spoken word recordings, and collaborative works. The size limits per submission this time are 3 poems, 4 images, 2 prose pieces at 1000 words maximum each, or any combination thereof.
The Editors
Poet, essayist, librettist and occasional radio commentator Ann E. Michael is also Writing Coordinator at DeSales University in eastern Pennsylvania. She is the author of four chapbooks of poetry, most recently The Capable Heart (Foothills Publishing). An avid gardener and an advocate for the arts, she is a past recipient of a Pennsylvania Council on the Arts fellowship in poetry. With Jessamyn Smyth, she edited qarrtsiluni’s New Classics issue, and we are delighted to have us with us again.
Ken Lamberton went to prison in Arizona in 1987, where he joined the creative writing workshop of poet and author Richard Shelton and began publishing articles and essays about two subjects he knew well: prison and the natural history of the Southwest. During his incarceration, his articles and essays began appearing in national magazines and literary journals such as Alligator Juniper, Puerto Del Sol, the Gettysburg Review, and David Quammen’s anthology The Best American Science and Nature Writing 2000. In January 2000, Mercury House published his first book, Wilderness and Razor Wire: A Naturalist’s Observations from Prison, to critical acclaim. The book won the 2002 John Burroughs Medal for outstanding nature writing. After release from prison, he completed an MFA in creative writing at the University of Arizona. The University of Arizona Press has published four of his books, most recently Time of Grace: Thoughts on Nature, Family, and the Politics of Crime and Punishment (2007), which won a Soros Justice Fellowship, and Dry River: Stories of Life, Death, and Redemption on the Santa Cruz. He’s currently the managing editor of the prison journal Walking Rain Review.
Note to readers: the Translation issue is still a month from completion, and will resume serialization here on Monday.
