July & August 2019
Vol IV No IV
Not your ordinary poetry magazine!
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Published bi-monthly
Poetry Translations
with Vera Ignatowitsch
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Knight
Rides forth the knight in dark black steel
out into the clamorous world.
And there are all things: the day and the dale
and the friend and the foe and the hall-laid meal
and the May and the maid and the wood and the Grail,
and God in his thousands of selves in all
the roads and streets is installed.
But in the armor the knight wears, deep under,
back of the darkest of rings,
crouches death and must ponder and ponder:
When will the sword blade swing
over the iron hedge,
the blade, strange, unfettering thing
that calls me from here in this nest
where through each hunched-over day,
through so many days, I must cling, —
so I at last may stretch
and play
and sing.
Archaic Torso of Apollo
We did not know his head, denied us here,
in which the two eye-apples ripened. But
his torso shines yet, like a chandelier
in which his gaze, though it is screwed tight-shut,
endures and gleams. If not, the breast’s fine prow
could never blind you, and the silent twist
of loins could not have sent a smile on past
into the parts that were creation’s how.
If not, this stone would stand maimed and not tall
beneath the shoulders’ undisguised downfall
and not glow back thus like a wild beast’s fur;
and would not burst from all its rims, ablaze
as a bright star: for from no angle there
are you not seen. You have to change your ways.
Donald Mace Williams is a retired newspaper writer and editor. His Rilke translations have run in Metamorphoses, Blue Unicorn, and Measure. His book, Wolfe and Other Poems, was published in 2017 by Wundor Editions, London. He lives in the Texas Panhandle.
Ritter
Reitet der Ritter in schwarzem Stahl
hinaus in die rauschende Welt.
Und draussen ist alles: der Tag und das Tal
und der Freund und der Feind und das Mahl im Saal
und der Mai und die Maid und der Wald und der Gral,
und Gott ist selber vieltausendmal
an allen Strassen gestellt.
Doch in dem Panzer des Ritters drinnen,
hinter den finstersten Ringen,
hockt der Tod und muss sinnen und sinnen:
Wann wird die Klinge springen
über die Eisenhecke,
die fremde befreiende Klinge,
die mich aus meinem Verstecke
holt, drin ich so viele
gebückte Tage verbringe, —
dass ich mich endlich strecke
und spiele
und singe.
Archäischer Torso Apollos
Wir kannten nicht sein unerhӧrtes Haupt,
darin die Augenäpfel reiften. Aber
sein Torso glüht noch wie ein Kandelaber,
in dem sein Schauen, nur zurückgeschraubt,
sich hält und glänzt. Sonst kӧnnte nicht der Bug
der Brust dich blenden, und im leisen Drehen
der Lenden kӧnnte nicht ein Lächeln gehen
zu jener Mitte, die die Zeugung trug.
Sonst stünde dieser Stein entstellt und kurz
unter der Schultern durchsightigem Sturz
und flimmerte nicht so wie Raubtierfelle;
und bräche nicht aus allen seinen Rändern
aus wie ein Stern: denn da ist keine Stelle,
die dich nicht sieht. Du muss dein Leben ändern.
Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926) was a Bohemian-Austrian poet and novelist, widely recognized as one of the most lyrically intense German-language poets.
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Prophecy
One day the earth will be no more
Than a blind space which turns
Confounding night and day.
Under an immense sky of the Andes
There will be no more mountains,
Not even a small ravine.
Of all the houses in the world
Nothing will remain but a balcony.
And from the map of all humanity,
A sadness without a ceiling.
From the late Atlantic Ocean
A faint tang of salt in the air,
One flying magical fish
Which will remember nothing of the sea.
From a coupé of 1905
(Four wheels but no road!)
Three young girls of that epoch
Lingering in a vapid form
Will look beyond the car door
Thinking that Paris is not so far
And they will smell only the scent
Of the sky which tickles the throat.
Where there was a forest
A bird's song will rise up
Which no one will place,
Nor prefer, nor even hear,
Except God who, Himself, listening,
Will say, “That? That’s a goldfinch.”
This translation was first published in The Honest Ulsterman.
The Point Of Flame
All his long life
he loved to read
by candle light.
He often passed
his hand through flame
to show himself
he was alive.
He was alive.
Now, since he died
he lies beside
a candle flame
but hides his hands.
This translation was first published in The Honest Ulsterman.
In The Forest
In a forest beyond time
Someone fells a huge tree.
A vertical emptiness
Trembles in the form of a bole
Near the fallen trunk.
Seek, seek, birds,
The site of your nest
In this high memory
While it still rustles.
Conor Kelly is an Irish writer who has had poems published in Irish, British, American, and Canadian magazines. He curates the Twitter site @poemtoday dedicated to the brief poem.
Prophétie
Un jour la Terre ne sera
Qu’un aveugle espace qui tourne
Confondant la nuit et le jour.
Sous le ciel immense des Andes
Elle n’aura plus de montagnes.
Même pas un petit ravin.
De toutes les maisons du monde
Ne durera plus qu’un balcon
Et de l’humaine mappemonde
Une tristesse sans plafond.
De feu l’Océan Atlantique
Un petit goût salé dans l’air,
Un poisson volant et magique
Qui ne saura rien de la mer.
D’un coupé de mil neuf cent cinq
(Les quatre roues et nul chemin!)
Trois jeunes filles de l’époque
Restées à l’état de vapeur
Regarderont par la portière
Pensant que Paris n’est pas loin
Et ne sentiront que l’odeur
Du ciel qui vous prend à la gorge.
A la place de la forêt
Un chant d'oiseau s’élèvera
Que nul ne saura situer,
Ni préférer, ni entendre,
Sauf Dieu, qui lui, l’écoutera,
Disant : “C’est un chardonneret.”
Pointe de flamme
Tout le long de sa vie
Il avait aimé à lire
Avec une bougie
Et souvent il passait
La main dessus la flamme
Pour se persuader
Qu’il vivait,
Qu’il vivait.
Depuis le jour de sa mort
Il tient à côté de lui
Une bougie allumée
Mais garde les mains cachées.
Dans sans heures
Dans la forêt sans heures
On abat un grand arbre.
Un vide vertical
Tremble en forme de fût
Près du tronc étendu.
Cherchez, cherchez, oiseaux,
La place de vos nids
Dans ce haut souvenir
Tant qu’il murmure encore.
Jules Supervielle (1884–1960) was a Franco-Uruguayan poet and writer born in Montevideo. He published ten collections of poetry and was nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature three times. T.S. Eliot said of him and Saint-John Perse, “There are no two poets of their generations of whose permanence I feel more assured.”
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Photographer
The most fearsome enemy
is the closest enemy,
the enemy
who claims to be your friend.
Time, which goes away
is the best photographer
in the world.
He does not need cameras
to portray us.
I have not declared war
on anyone,
even so,
I know well
that I am not lacking enemies.
To Fill the Gap
Some purchase objects
to fill the gap
of lives
without any sense.
It is not easy to admit
that we are
only tourists in this world.
I try to forget it
with poetry,
but on some days
not even poetry
can reassure me.
FOTÓGRAFU
L’enemigu más tarrecible
ye l’enemigu más cercanu,
l’enemigu
que diz que ye’l to collaciu.
El tiempu que degola
ye’l meyor fotógrafu
del mundiu.
Nun-y faen falta cámares
pa retratamos.
Yo nun-y declaré
la guerra a naide,
sicasí
abondu sé
qu’enemigos
nun me falten.
Enllenar El Valeru
Dellos merquen coses
pa enllenar el valeru
d’unes vides
ensin xacíu dalu.
Nun ye fácil almitir
que namái somos
turistes nesti mundiu.
Yo intento escaecelo
cola poesía,
pero dellos díes
nin siquier la poesía
m’asela.
Xe M. Sánchez was born in 1970 in Grau (Asturies, Spain). He is an anthropologist with a PhD in history and three master’s degrees. He has published seven books in the Asturian language. His poems have appeared in journals and reviews worldwide.
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