Translation

  • Issue 38,  Prose,  Translation

    “Out of Sorts” by Muzzafer Kale Translated from the Turkish by Ralph Hubbell

    Photo by Giovanni Apruzzese

     

    When you come across someone in one place after only ever seeing him in another place, you’ll likely have trouble remembering how you know him; but that’s not how this was!

    He comes in and takes a seat four or five tables away. I doubt he notices me. He looks preoccupied. One can get a little disheveled sometimes, it’s inevitable; somehow you can’t pull yourself together, which then makes it hard to notice whatever is going on around you. Or maybe he hasn’t woken up yet. There’s a fog in his head and it hasn’t even begun to clear.

  • Issue 38,  Poetry,  Translation

    “Sabbath” by Alfonsina Storni Translated from the Argentinian Spanish by Ulyses Razo

    Art by Adelaide Snow




    I rose early & walked barefoot
    Through the halls. I stole to the gardens
    And kissed the plants.
    I soaked up the clean breath of the earth,
    Thrown on the grass;
    I bathed in the fountain that green achiras
    Surround. Much later, wet with water,
    I brushed my hair. I perfumed the hands
    With scented serum of sampaguita. Squeamish,
    Fine herons
    Stole blonde shreds from my dress.

    Then I put on my bugle suit, lighter
    Than the very same gauze.
  • Issue 38,  Poetry,  Translation

    Two Poems by Chloé Savoie-Bernard from “Royaume Scotch Tape” Translated from the Québécois French by April Yee

    image curtesy of The Public Domain Review


    weather forecast

    saturday night all over again
    girls smoked down to the filter
    bloomed girls craving pollen
    dropping petal by petal
    girls will fall from windows
    shower in villeray mile end hochelaga
    pretty girls with conditioned hair
    wafting clinique happy
    discounted at the department store
    bring your umbrellas
    girls will rain to the ground
    dust ash from their dresses
    to get to their lovers’ homes
    legs twisted from the fall
    elbows knees
    palms bloodied
    gravel-
    bedded wounds
    they’ll get up anyway
    and all those boys
    will cover their injured limbs
    in mickey mouse band aids

    prévision météorologique

    samedi soir une fois encore
    des filles fumées jusqu’au filtre
    des filles fleurs en manque de pollen
    qui s’étiolent pétale après pétale
    des filles tomberont des fenêtres
    crachin dans villeray mile end hochelaga
    de jolies filles aux cheveux hydratés
    sentant le clinique happy
    en solde chez la baie
    sortez vos parapluies
    elles s’écraseront lourdement au sol
    épousseteront la cendre de leurs robes
    pour remonter chez leurs amants
    les jambes tordues par l’impact
    les coudes les genoux
    les paumes en sang
    de la garnotte
    plein leurs blessures
    elles remonteront quand même
    et les garçons qu’elles rejoignent
    mettront sur leurs corps accidentés
    des band aids mickey mouse

    *

    third date

    looking at the ceiling of your room it’s time for confessions the post-coital chalice
    you confess all your exes are screamers the rest of your phrase slipping a sigh I
    want to take back the echo ask what kind of screams gah you reply crazy screams
    i fling on my clothes won’t see you ever again definitely don’t walk me out that’s
    too proper i’d rather take back everything i left behind slamming the door of your
    flat repatriate my residues my shedded cells where you’ll sleep tonight and
    tomorrow and the day after till you decide to dissolve me and wash from your
    sheets the remaining tatters of my skin let them longlive me let them hug you
    sweetly and shush don’t talk about girls like that let my sebum and scent sing you
    to sleep and watch your slumber while exhaling in your ear that all the nutcases
    the psychos the wack jobs that all the crazies are all my sisters

    troisième date

    on regarde le plafond de ta chambre c’est le moment des confessions I guess
    calice de post-coït cave tu m’avoues qu toutes tes ex sont des crisses dans un
    soupir sille le reste de ta phrase je veux récupérer l’echo te demande des crisse de
    quoi han tu me réponds des crisse de folles je me rhabille rapidement ne te
    reverrai jamais ne me reconduis surtout pas ça va être correct mais j’aurais préféré
    reprendre tout ce que j’ai laissé de moi en fermant la porte de ton appartement
    dans de grands mouvement de bras rapatrier mes résidus mes cellules mortes dans
    lesquelles tu te coucheras ce soir et demain et après-demain jusqu’à ce que tu
    décides de me dissoudre en mettant tes draps au lavage puisqu’ils doivent rester la
    les lambeaux de ma peau qu’ils me prolongent qu’ils t’étreignent doucement et te
    chuchotent qu’on ne dit pas ça des filles qu’elles sont folles que mon sébum et les
    restes de mon parfum te bercent et veillent ton sommeil en te soufflant sur la
    nuque que toutes les bâtardes les démentes les étrangères que toutes le folles sont
    mes soeurs


    "Royaume Scotch Tape" is published by L'Hexagone and is available here

    Dr.
  • Cross-Genre,  Fiction,  Hybrid,  LIT at Large,  Poetry,  Prose,  Translation

    New! LIT Monthly Writing Prompt: April Edition

    Happy poetry month everyone!

    Here at LIT we are starting a new series of monthly writing prompts. This month’s prompt is from our nonfiction editor Vicky Oliver:

    Write about a time when you were lost and how you found your way home.

    The hero’s journey is sometimes a parable on the transformation of being: old habits and emotional reactions that are shed out of necessity as they become stumbling blocks to the journey. The old ways are replaced by new strengths or new ideas that have been germinating out of sight, waiting to come into play as fresh discoveries in a moment of crisis,

  • Issue 36,  Translation

    Time Flows Like Water; Sunshine For 10,000 Miles, A Love That Fills The Bed; Hello, September

    Three Poems by A Hua, translated from the Chinese by Xuelan Su and Kathy Z. Fan

     

    Time Flows Like Water

    Use growth rings to tell the story. Get pine resin to seal it in history.
    Leave the stump for egrets to perch on.

    At Weishan Lake, as spring winds blow away the chaos of March,
    wetlands burst with birdsong and flower-scent,

    leaves jostled by rain and pearls of dew become like small boats that bob and sway.

    … later, after lake waters recede,

  • Issue 36,  Translation

    Country Ghosts

    art by Mia Broecke, "eye" 

    by Francesca Diano, translated from the Italian by Laura Valeri 

    The two di Franco sisters lived alone. The younger one, all the same old, was rather short, with a big long nose, eyes like two boiled eggs, and hair dyed a brick red color. The older sister was tall and lanky, with white hair so thin that it showed the rosy hue of her scalp, wore her hair in a bun – a tiny little bun that looked like a bird’s nest. They had a big beautiful house downtown,