All posts filed under: Translated Poetry

microliths 240-241 by Paul Celan

Excerpts from microliths by Paul Celan translated by Pierre Joris ____________ [These are Celan’s first notes toward the conference project “On the Darkness of Poetry” which remained unfinished.] Pjoris 240 240.1 || Mysticism as wordlessness Poetry as form 241.2 The poem is inscribed as the figure of the whole language, but language remains invisible; what is actualizing itself — language — steps, as soon as it has happened, back into the realm of the possible.“Le poème,” writes Valéry, “est du langage à l’état naissant;” /“Poetry,” writes Valéry, “is language in the state of being born;”/ Language in statu nascendi, thus, language freeing itself. 241 241.1 Yesyes, not only the Geiger-, the “syllable-counters ” too, though despised by a literature that calls itself engaged, register something. ———————————— ↑ → 241.2 aesthesis is not enough; the… ;noesis is not enough; … ; what’s needed is personal presence, what’s needed is conversation; conversation and entertainment are different things; conversations are demanding, straining. 241.3 ——–——– Idea of the bracket (voicedness) syncope also the this vibrato of the words has se- …

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 …

‘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 …

Poems by Valentina Colonna translated by Pawel Sakowski

  Ho raccolto un’ombra quando salivo le scale. Stava giusto scendendo.   Mentre toccavo le tegole ho perso un’idea. Rotolava avvolta tra i panni. Poi il vento ha smosso le fila: è scivolata travolta di vuoti.   Il carro stava giusto passando. – Flatus Fluit Ad Fortunae Fossam –   Ho appena cambiato l’acqua ai fiori.˜ I picked up a shadow when I was going up the stairs. It was just going down.   While I was touching the tiles I lost an idea. It rolled down wrapped in cloths. Then the wind moved the strings: and the idea slid away overwhelmed with emptiness.   A cart was just passing by. – Flatus Fluit Ad Fortunae Fossam –   I have just watered my flowers. Mentre cammino in terrazza la banda suona e ti dico “La senti?” Mi insegue da una parte all’altra del perimetro di confine al mio riso perché non sentano i vicini quest’allegria dei miei anni spaiati al vento. Così suona nella casa di fronte poi dietro in piazza, davanti al secondo piano …

A Celebration of Women’s Poetry for International Women’s Day 2018

  ‘A History of Love Letters’ by Seanín Hughes   Miss said every time I told a lie, Baby Jesus had a nail hammered into his hand. She said I had a sad mouth, corners downturned, pointing to hell.   Stephen with the p-h had a mouth like sunshine. I gave him a token: a tiny toy dinosaur egg, pale blue and gold. I wrote his name on my hand and hoped the egg would hatch.   My body grew and Granny said, never shave your legs, so I did. Better bald spring chicken; better descaled and plucked bare for boys to touch with their nervous fingers, and work me open.   The one who wrote love letters spilled his entrails in black Bic biro, telling me in no particular order the parts of me he liked best — some illustrated.   When Napoleon begged his Josephine to lay herself bare, he meant for her flaws to fold her into neat and precious squares — for her to be less than his clenched-fist heart could hold.   …