Translation
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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.
***
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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“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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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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Excerpts from “The Cloud in Trousers” by Vladimir Mayakovsky (translated from the Russian by David Lehman)
The Cloud in Trousers
(From Part One)
Hey!
Gentlemen!
You who,
next to me,
are rank amateurs
in the realms
of sacrilege,
mischief,
and mayhem —
have you laid eyes on
the most terrifying thing
in the world –
my face
when I am totally calm,
cool and collected?I fear
my ego
isn’t big enough
for the rest of me
which
is struggling
to emerge
as a full-born youth
from a Madonna’s womb. -
Excerpt from “Morasses” by André Gide (translated from the French by Tadzio Koelb)
Translator’s introduction: In this chapter the narrator—who claims to be a writer, but never writes—has once again postponed work on his novel, Morasses, this time to attend a salon for men of letters at the home of his good friend Angèle. Gide used the scene as an opportunity to mock the literary world of his day. Readers can look for a caricature of Gide’s correspondent and sometime traveling companion Oscar Wilde, here given the name Valentin Knox.
Morasses
On the days she receives guests,
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“Of Trips, Of Fires,” by Edgar Rincón Luna, Translated by Toshiya Kamei
Of Trips, Of Fires“Only strangers travel owning everythingI have nowhere to go”Leonard CohenI drink a cup of coffee
you drink a cup of fire
behind our eyelids
two tears hit like rain
old photos go through the dust
a cemetery of ashes
a patio filled with our old cadavershave we really built this wasteland for us?
is the tattoo of sand on the skin ours?
