All posts filed under: Translation

Merry Christmas 2018 Dear Poethead Readers ♥

Poetry publishing will resume in January 2019. I will be reading and responding to your submissions in the intervening period. Thank you for your emails, your queries, your support and responses over this year of 2018. As always, the site remains open and accessible. Please visit An Index Of Women Poets and Contemporary Irish Women Poets during the season.  My thanks to Salma Caller, whose wonderful artistic response to my 2018 publications graces this message, her work can be found throughout Poethead. Thanks to the many poets who submitted during 2018. Your tremendous work was an utter joy to read. Thank you for your patience in waiting for publication. I am delighted to have welcomed first-time poets, poet-translators, and work from experienced poets through this past year. Merry Christmas and best wishes for the season. The image accompanying this short post reminds me that in January, the first flowers begin appearing, something wonderful to look forward to.  (Image details) Chris Murray December 2018 Contemporary Irish Women Poets An Index Of Women Poets Recent features on Poethead  …

How to Hide Unhappiness / Cum Ascundem Nefericirea by Ștefan Manasia translated by Clara Burghelea

The Miracle The red leaves struggle in the glass- angels whose name I don’t know I press them among the pages of the dead poet’s book, whose name I promise to unlearn. A little water (glittering like vodka) and their torture seems attractive to me. From the bus, I showed Estera the red tree like the one in Kim-Ki-duk’s Spring, Summer, Fall…Winter and Spring. I was afraid the driver might increase speed and she will per sempre miss the miracle. *Published, Waxwing Literary Journal MIRACOLUL Frunzele rosii Rezista in paharul de sticla- Ingeri al caror nume nu-l cunosc. Le presar intre paginile cartii Poetului mort, De-al carui nume Promit sa ma dezvat. Putina apa (sticleste ca vodca) Si tortura lor imi pare Atragatoare Din autobuz i-am aratat Esterei Copacul rosu ca-n Anotimpurile lui Kim-Ki-duk. Mi-era teama ca o sa accelereze soferul iar ea va pierde per sempre miracolul. *Published, Waxwing Literary Journal   Haiku My father sends off black energy also under the Moons of another planet.   HAIKU Tata emite energie neagra si sub …

“Muiris” and other poems by Victoria Cosgrove

Killaclug IV I sat in a river in the land of the bad faeries up the country somewhere in County Cork When I dove in, the cold water stung my skin like an angry wasp— or a punishing whip— before settling me into it’s cool embrace. Calm. I tried to swim but the river bed is too shallow; filled with silt and stones and the bodies of warring brothers and changeling babies that washed in during the winter storms. Shallow graves in a shallow riverbed in the land of the Bad Faeries. When the river speaks it tells me the secrets the locals keep; but you have to listen. No one listens anymore. I sit on the bed of the brothers and the changeling babies and the water is cold and the breeze is sharp and the river speaks.   Muiris I am not a poet; words do not flow freely from my brain to a pen to a page. I am not a poet. My vocabulary is academic and varied, but my words arrange …

‘The House That Don Built’ by Kevin Higgins

“The sky is high / We shit on earth / We look up the sky / The earth gives birth / To our future”                                                                     Yoko Ono, Poetry (July/August 2018) (i) The Christmas lights which bat their eyelids all year round on the screaming pink terracotta roof are classy as Demis Roussos’s ground-breaking retranslation of the Odyssey. The gold-plated giant front gate tasteful as the prison raps of Bill Cosby and Orenthal James Simpson combined. The foundation wobbly as the sestina sequence Access Hollywood says, Miley Cyrus, is currently sweating over. The walls and internal supporting beams solid as a verse novel by Big Bird of Sesame Street. The water faucets in the vast bathroom he had purpose built for himself understated as the last line of the Haiku Admiral Tojo wrote the morning he was hanged. (ii) In cases made of …

‘Fire relies on the leaves of gum trees’ and other poems by Dominique Hecq

Hushed   Light pours down the unrelenting sky to earth ribbed and ridged with the tough stroke of Drysdale’s brush I track down words for hues and shades in books envy the skill of artist-explorers who forged new ways of seeing The cries of crows fall Through blues onto rusty ochres pulsing with raven dust This place stills my tongue   Pulse   1   Somewhere in this night lives a light that turns in the open throat of time.  2   When the sky waits for rain birds squat in silence and longing is but one great sweeping movement that makes the earth quake.   3   The clock stands still in the heat, and I fear the mimicry of clichés— like a comma usurping all punctuation.   4   No, I don’t believe in the silence drying up on your lips.   5   I dream the wish that inhabits you is a space opening up a gap into the night.   6   What I write gleams like the moon pulsing in …