Languages

The work of German photographer Karl Blossfeldt and his relationship to plants is reimagined in this poem by 2019 Poems in Translation Contest winner Alba Cid from her collection Atlas. Light is choral and comes from another world: we ripple Alba Cid And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone. Edgar Allan Poe   1. A catalog for Karl Blossfeldt. 2. A creation that can only be seen head-on, one which celebrates the detail: fingers plucking petals and sepals to discover...

Memories of family unfold in fragments in this excerpt from Susana Sanches Arins' novel And They Say.   [under]construction stories are always being constructed. the words work like hands, setting brick after brick in its place. a wall that protects us. birthday my father was born in 1949, the year after the war had come to an end. my mother came into the world in 1952 and the Maquis still roamed the hills. the war seemed far away, but it was there. and it is still there....

Faced with the imminent death of her mother, Emma Pedreira's narrator reflects on how little they know one another. Mamá will die tomorrow. Or maybe the day after tomorrow, I’m not sure, but I don’t want to stop to think about it. What I do know is that I’ll get a call and there’ll be a quiet voice, used to these types of things, and in such a schematic way that it’ll sound like a note jotted down on a Post-it: Your mother is dead. In accordance...

A mother-daughter conversation and a child's search for her origins lead from the grandiose to the dreary in this poem by Luisa Castro.   My mother works in a cannery. One day my mother said to me: love is a canned sardine. Do you know how canned food is prepared? One day my mother said to me: love is a work of art in a can. My dear, Do you know where you come from? You come from a mussel nursery— canned. Behind the cannery, where the shells rot along with the fish...

In this fantastical story of a man and his horse by Álvaro Cunqueiro, it becomes increasingly unclear who holds the reins.    One lovely summer afternoon Alberte Merlo gave his horse a little fresh grass, then sat himself down on his chopping block to read the newspaper. The horse, chewing, leaned over his master’s shoulder, and in the voice of a man, inquired: “What’s new in the world today?” So began many long months of conversation between...

An unexpected encounter on a train turns into a deeper discussion about love and desire in this poem by Antón Lopo. We bumped into each other on the train. Antonio, returning from A Coruña: me, heading to Vigo. We greet with air kisses         —smooch, smooch— and he soon asks after Oscar. I lie to him,                     “haven’t seen him in a...

Causality and chance collide in this poem by Samuel Solleiro.   So, there are a lot of things you can’t see, like evil or vitamins. Other things you can: love, which is like bearing a giant heart emoji on your back. It’s just so embarrassing. What does it matter if we believe in it or not, it rules our lives one way or the other, and we’re more or less ok with it. Later, when it gets dark, I’ll get back to thinking that the days seem to drag on, or that they...

Two maladroit lovers search for the meaning in childhood games, their parlay capturing the awkward transition from youth to intellectual and emotional adulthood, in this comical excerpt from Xurxo Borrazás’s novel I Is. That night, in one second, the alarms ring out like crickets in heat, simultaneously. The sheets take on the shape of the bodies beneath them, and on wrists, in towers, on tables and walls, time is told in a single direction. Their bodies lie slack, submerged...

"An Apocryphal History of the Discovery of Migration, or The Sacrifice of the Pfeilstörchenn" is one of four winning poems selected by the editors and guest judge Mónica de la Torre for the Words Without Borders—Academy of Americans Poets Poems in Translation Contest. Listen to Jacob Rogers read his translation of Galician poet Alba Cid's "An Apocryphal History of the Discovery of Migration, or The Sacrifice of the Pfeilstörchen." Listen to Alba Cid read...

The hour of the dawn When the bedsheets conspire To wage anarchy. * A glutton for you: When my mealtime is over I lick my finger . . . * Ill-mannered, ill-bred: I am ever inclined to Eat with my fingers. Spit mixed with spittle, Late-flowering figs, shellfish, wine . . . Drink, and drink again. Ill-mannered, ill-bred: When I yearn to address you I talk with my mouth full . . . * Inside your vessels There simmer viscid juices, Drought-stricken desert. The forefinger seeks The...