Articles tagged "Poetry"


Frail Before the Squalor

Frail before the squalor             squalor being a feeble answer the everyday self gives its own abjections it surprises me to be in a city...

Story

In the fading night sky there are points of light, countless in number, vast in distance—who knows their size, their age? Yet, at one time, people drew imaginary lines between those stars and...

2015 National Translation Award Long List at Words without Borders (Poetry)

Breathturn into Timestead (Farrar Straus and Giroux, 2014), Paul Celan and Pierre Joris (translator) - Romania Paul Celan in the WWB archive: "Last Night," (October 2005: Jaguar Tongues) "Poem...

The Shape of Time: New Palestinian Writing

—Are you there? —Where? —Here? —You mean there? —I mean do you see the sea? —I see sand. —But do you see the sea? —I see time waiting for us....

New Voices in Uruguayan Poetry

With only 3.4 million people, Uruguay is the smallest Spanish-speaking country in South America, but it has always been well-populated with poets. The Uruguayan poet Leo Masliah makes this clear in...

I’m not going to talk

I’ll talk about something else never that I’m not going to tell you enough! I’m going to draw this subtle paradise of paper that doesn’t mention lice or dreams a look back at...

[the nail fell]

the nail fell, making the floor shriek i aim to fix the hole by filling it with paper wad it up a little and stuff it in it can’t fail i push it in deeper it falls through, into a void i try...

Linguistics in the Time of Uruguayan Invasion

I Linguistics in the time of Uruguayan invasion. When nobody cared about linguistics, before France, before Saussure, when nobody could have imagined a human being might ever think about  ...

Syria Speaks: An Interview with Zaher Omareen and Malu Halasa

Malu Halasa and Zaher Omareen are two of the editors of Syria Speaks: Art and Culture from the Frontline.  This new anthology showcases Syrian essays, fiction, poetry, visual art and...

I Am a Refugee

My apologies, Sir, That I come to you As a refugee. Accept me as a human being and not As a slave. Do not look down on me; Do not look me up and down. I am a poet; My testimonies plaster the walls,...

The Art of Expressing One’s Agony: An Interview with M. Raouf Bachir

Mohamed Raouf Bachir was a successful and celebrated writer of short stories in Syria in the sixties and seventies, becoming a member of the state-sponsored Arab Writers Union, on the Story and Novel...

Exile is Born at This Moment

Oh, my love, while you are in my breath, I am a statue of snow at the entrance to Damascus, with eyes closed, nose breathing anger, ears tuned to the noise of death, mouth speechless, trying to say:...

The Poet Cannot Stand Aside: Arabic Literature and Exile

Fourteen hundred years ago and more, the poet-prince Imru’ al-Qais was banished by his father. The king exiled his son, or so the legend goes, in part because of the prince’s poetry. Thus...

Mad Marathon

And my window flees Followed by my doors My chair is in a rush, too I’m left standing in the middle of a bare room The room can’t withstand the volume of the loneliness It starts...

Night

Elusive Night Knowledge was born from night’s womb, And from the same womb was light born This elusive night Stretching into a protracted darkness What, still, Will it bring to life?...

Injeolmi Rice Cakes

Once Maternal Grandmother set off, a basin of injeolmi rice-cakes on her head, to sell in this neighborhood and that, I would pull out scraps of glass, bottle tops, a broken pocketknife, medicine...

Gamak Valley

During wartime the men die, the women survive. Cockerels have their necks twisted and die, hens sit on eggs. Gamak Valley in Yeonsan, north of Nonsan in South Chungcheong is where sharp hills...

My Wife’s Magic

My wife is sad and seeing my sad wife, I too am sad, then as she answers her mother’s phone call, “Sure, we’re fine,” the wife inside my wife grows sadder still. I want to...

War

Men plan wars And women survive in the rubble One day there will be no men And a woman will pursue another In search of the scent of the last man Who touched his lips to her neck. © Manal...

My Body

A body that is the one I borrowed the first night with you . . .  I watch it every night running toward a waveless sea where the sand of age rests in its veins . . . The wearied ships land in...

Mud Flats

She lies there with her hugely pregnant body. At dawn a ship leaves, cutting through her stomach. As it emerges from her body, headed for the sea, trailing its umbilical cord, oh, from within her...

Earning My Keep

Mother, I think I'll go pay a visit to Hell. No matter how far away, I'll set off as if leaving for work in the morning then come back as if coming off work in the evening. Don't skip...

Translation at AWP

Last week’s AWP conference featured an impressive array of panels on translation’s growing presence in the creative writing world. Among those was a panel titled “Double Lives:...

Reflections: Juan Gelman

Yesterday, just before the first full moon of the year, Argentine poet-in-exile Juan Gelman died; and last night, my head was full of extraordinary images of Juan. First, I remembered 1975, when...

Omaira

The question I left you takes a lifetime to answer dear friend whose linen sleeve smells of blood The master’s gaze is bare, I lean back, untroubled my checkmate at hand, a cyanide solitaire in...

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