Translation

  • Issue 39,  Poetry,  Translation

    Five Poems by Grzegorz Wróblewski

    art by Grzegorz Wróblewski

    Translated from the Polish by Peter Burzyński



    Marathon

    Intelligent cities are made on moons.
    If you don’t get there first
    Amazon lockers
    will conquer it all.

    After all, suicide pills
    aren’t available yet.
    There will be hordes of geezers and maniacs…
    It’s just that it’s a terrible disease.
    One which hapless doctors

    inject you with reminders
    to pay your bills.
    We’ve been sent here
    so that you can reach
    a state of cosmic stability.
  • Issue 39,  Poetry,  Translation

    Three Poems by Hendri Yulius Wijaya

    photo by Giovanni Apruzzese

     

    Translated from the Bahasa Indonesian by Edward Gunawan
     
     
     

    Frankissstein

    Victor Frankenstein goes on an excursion to the Cloud.
    His scientist instincts never extinguish.

    Scavenging mutilated bodies:
    Stomachs of the washboards, arms of gladiators,
    Engorged eggplants and sumptuous melons. 
    A cornucopia.

  • Issue 39,  Poetry,  Translation

    Five Haikus by Antonio Guzman Gomez

    photo by Giovanni Apruzzese

    Translated from the Maya Tseltal by Kiran Bhat





    You open your eyes
    and wake up the sun so that
    a new day can start.

    Wik’a asit
    ya xojobaj talel k’aal,
    ya sakub k’inal.

    Abres tus ojos
    y se levanta el sol,
    despierta el d




    Every morning
    at the back of a mountain
    the sun yawns awake.

    Ta jujun sab,
    ta yach’ te’tikil,
    ya sjach’ ye te k’aale.
  • Issue 39,  Translation

    Habors of Pain by Elhassan Ait Elamal

    photo by Giovanni Apruzzese

    Translated from the Arabic by Essam M. Al-Jassim

    The moment his body was laid in the grave, it began constricting, his chest tightening against the suffocating confinement, as though he were being pulled upward into the sky. Comfort eluded him. He resolved to rise from the grave and return home, but the graveyard’s guardians posed a problem—they rarely allowed the dead to leave. When they did, it was only at certain times, and most often that was in the middle of the night.

        

  • 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.