Poetry
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Five micro-poems by Margarita Serafimova (translated from the Bulgarian) Photography by Milen Neykov
L’éternel retour
(Eternal Return)An animal I am when I love you,
and above my face, an aureole of cosmic bodies is spinning –
ringed planets; a star’s glint.
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L’éternel retour
(Вечното завръщане)Животно съм, когато те обичам,
а над лицето ми се върти ореол от космически тела –
планети с пръстени; отблясък на звезда.
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“Between Grief and Nothing” by Linnea Nelson
What interests me takes place in the interval
between two people.
For example, one halfinch from your human body,
I can feel the heat of your life
without touching you.Nothing I learned in school
is as essential as that.
Or that the reverse is true.Or that, between grief and nothing,
there is a broad, bright space.
What happens to me alonenever seems important. Last week,
the dusk draped heavily
on the valley was beautiful, -
“Orange” and “South 2” by Michel Vachey (Translated from the French by S. C. Delaney and Agnès Potier)
ORANGE
Air France stewardesses are in danger
carmine strokes the dried blood near some petals slams into the sink of the crime now softly blazes on crimson curtains
pink only belongs to pink roses
why does orange gall us, revolt us, sicken our stomachs and our hearts to the point of despairing of a varnished and vanquished rage?
color that, henceforth, symbolizes most of all chemistry, which is the plastic reality of modern life beyond any philosophical and political concern,
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“Bartering: Day after Diagnosis” by Cassie Garison
I will give you my horns, hooked& taurean. I will give you my crown,woven from rose-thorns and olivebranch, copper wire & shardsof glass. I have been collectingshells: fastening them togetherwith scraps of twine, wind them tightaround my neck. They drag me deepbeneath a rabid sea. Other days:I press each conch into my skinlet it sting like iron at the hipof a cow. -
Four Poems by Bronka Nowicka from “To Feed the Stone” (translated from the Polish by Katarzyna Szuster) Drawings by Lula Bajek
Box
Mother doesn’t know that heaven exists. She’s getting a double chin from looking down. Her head, as heavy as an iron, presses that fold down.
Father keeps getting in mother’s way. He’s short. To reach grown-up things, he needs to stand on his tippy-toes or get a chair. He just moved it by pressing his belly against the seat. Now he points to the cushions. He needs them stacked to reach the table. He clambers up, props his elbows on the counter covered with an oilcloth, next to a spoon,
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“Come Next Spring” by Paul Bamberger
“the epochal consciousness has turned a somersault in the void”Karl Jaspersfrom: Man in Modern Timescome next spring this category will swing its gate closedyes yes we’re readybut who are they these poetswe have no ideacould they be the wicked little joke we never quite understood but laughed at anywaywe don’t believe somisdemeanors unallotted time and spacemore than thatmuch morea fight to the draw perhapsthat would be too sadcould they be a metaphor lost to an empty conclusiontoo far afieldwhy then don’t we just say they are mercy screaming down a hill after waking the bonesthe scavenging moon in chaseyou might be onto something hereand do they come back oftenyes come in spring so we are toldlooking for whatwho knowsi have heard they suffer bad mood swingswe’ll see*Paul Bamberger received an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Massachusetts Writing Program.