Circumference, New York, poetry library

Circumference, issue 4, 2007

Ρώτησέ το ο Σωκράτης είπε η Μαίρυλιν Είσαι ο γενικός σκύλος Η πιο μεγάλη η πιο τρομερή φοβερή σκοτεινή αίσθηση της πιο μεγάλης πλατείας. Σκύβοντας λίγο μπροστά ή περισσότερο πίσω Το ξωντανό μέρος και λίγο μαλακό πεθαμένο θ'αφήσει τον πάτο; Ή το δωμάτιο θα γυρίσει ανάσκελα σαν μύτη κουταλιού; Ποιά θα είναι η γενική εικόνα για την κατάσταση; Θα μου κάνεις άλλες ερωτήσεις; Αρχίξει να πρήξεται σε γαλάξιο φόντο το πιο μεγάλο ttio kίtρiνo ttio μαύρo οι πιο πολλές πεταλούδες.

written 1977
*Ersi Sotiropoulos

Ersi Sotiropoulos is a female Greek poet, novelist, and short story writer. Her novel, Zigzag through the Bitter Orange Trees, was awarded both the National Literature Prize and the Book Critics' Award in 2000. She has written scripts for film and television and participated in several exhibitions of Visual and Concrete Poetry.

Ersi Sotiropoulos è stata a Lecce il 20 giugno, corte dei cicala, Libreria Liberrima
Tentare, toccare, odorare: sensi e sensazioni nella prosa di Ersi SotiropoulosTo try, touch, smell: senses and feelings in Ersi Sotiropoulos. The writer was in Lecce, friday 20.6


Ask Socrates Marilyn Said

You are the general dog
The biggest most terrible awful dark
sensation of the greatest square.
Leaning forward a little bit
or
more backwards
the living part and slightly soft dead
will it leave the bottom?
Or will the room turn upside down
like a spoon's tip?
What will the general picture of the situation be?
Are you going to ask anymore questions?

It's starting to swell against a blue background
the biggest most yellow most black
the most numerous butterflies. Translated from Greek by
*Stavros Deligiorgis

Ri kaj We kateq'an puwi' jum ri'j k'isis we katopan pa ri utza'm ri uq'ab', kawilo chi ri uwächulew man naj ta k'o wi che ri kaj. Pa chuwitz'aq katkuwinik kachapo. El cielo Si te encaramás a un viejo ciprés y trepás por sus ramas, verás que la tierra no está lejos del cielo. En Momostenango podrás tocarlo.

written (in Maya Ki'ché and Spanish) 1990—1995

Humberto Ak'abal (whose Mayan name means Storm at Dawn) was born in 1952 in Momostenango, Guatemala. He left school after sixth grade to herd his family's sheep, but he never stopped reading and writing poetry. His first book of poems, El animalero, was published in 1990. A selected volume, Ajkem Tzij/Tejedor de palabras (Weaver of Words), was published in 1996. In 2004 he rejected Guatemala's most prestigious literary prize, the Premio Miguel Angel Asturias, because of racist statements made by the eponymous Nobel laureate.

The Sky If you climb up an old cypress and hang on the highest branch, you will see that the sky is not far from the earth. In Momostenango you can touch it.

Translated from Spanish by
*John Oliver Simon

Smrt na nás čekala jinde

Serrés les uns contre les autres
Les morts sans haine et sans drapeau
Cheveux plaqués de sang caillé,
Les morts sont tous d'un seul côté.
—René Arcos


Ze severu jsme se presunovali
po hlubokých píscitých cestách

Slunce hrálo, žluté a fialové lesy vonely
Všude se červenaly brusinky,

dvakrát jsem spatril bežící ližku,
jednou dokonce vlka žediváka

Tu a tam tetrev, a hodne tetrívku,
škoda, že jsem nemohl na chvíli zastavit a trochu
si zastrílet

Jeli jsme tak rychle, jak jen možno po jemném,
suchém písku,
pásy prokluzovaly

Jelo se hur než po bláto,
ale na místo jsme dorazili o neco drív, než bylo určeno

V nazlátlých vodách Narvy ležely
zrezivelé vraky dlouhých dopravních lodí
Všechno pred námi horelo

Seníky, kamenný statek,
bílé budovy kláštera na mírném svahu nad jezerem
Težký, šedočerný kour se valil i z nedalekého hrbitova

Ukryli jsme tanky v jablonovém sadu
a čekali

Nejdríve prišly deti,
pak se priblížilo také nekolik žen
Domnívaly se, že jsme Nemci

Pod námi
na šterkovém brehu porostlém rídkými trsy trávy
leželi muži zabití v minulých dnech

černali se tam nahí a bosí,
vesnicané jim vzali šaty a boty
V noci je hryzali psi a vepri
Ale co je zvláštní: víc než mrtvolný pach byla cítit rybina

Preletoval nad námi bombardér
bachratý jako nafouklá mržina
Pokaždé se v porádku vracel
zpátky do ruských pozic

Slyšeli jsme kostelní zvony z Dorpatu
a vzápetí se ozvalo vytí,
objevil nás hloubkar
Kulka mi žkrtla o hrbet ruky,
ani me nežkrábla, jen spálila kuži,

odražený kámen promáckl moji prilbu,

vzmal se nákladní automobil,
vybuchla bedna s ručními granáty,
kamarád Gillis se užkvaril
A tím to skončilo

Zranení byla vetšinou lehká
Ruku jsem si ovázal sám

Markýz de Gebelin vytáhl foukací harmoniku,
dva tri hlasy se pridaly
Otevrel jsem si krabičku sardinek. Ó má plavovlásko

Teprve večer, chvíli pred setmením,
se na motorce prihnala spojka s rozkazem
gruppenführera Furluka
vesnici okamžite opustit

Byli jsme k smrti unaveni,
ale smrt na nás čekala jinde

Noc byla bílá a ružová

*Ivan Wernisch

Ivan Wernisch was born in Prague in 1942. He has published over twenty collections of poetry, as well as numerous translations from poets including Paul van Ostaijen, Hans Sachs, and Walther von der Vogelweide, as well as from German and Russian folk poetry. An English translation of his work, In the Puppet Gardens: Selected Poems 1963-2003, published by Michigan Slavic Publications in 2005. "Death was Waiting for Us Elsewhere" first appeared in the 1997 collection Journey to Ashkhabad.

issue 3, 2007

Death was Waiting for Us Elsewhere Serrés les uns contre les autres Les morts sans haine et sans drapeau Cheveux plaqués de sang caillé, Les morts sont tous d'un seul côté. —René Arcos We were relocating from the north along deep sandy roads The sun warmed us, the yellow and purple forests were fragrant The red of cranberries was everywhere, twice I saw a fox run by, once even a gray wolf Here and there a wood grouse, and lots of black grouse, it's a shame I couldn't stop for a while and do a bit of shooting We went as fast as we could on the fine, dry sand, the treads kept slipping It was worse than traveling in mud, but we reached the place somewhat earlier than had been designated The rusted wrecks of long transport ships lay in the gilded waters of the Narva Everything before us was burning Haylofts, a stone farmhouse, the white buildings of a monastery on a gentle slope above the lake Heavy, gray-black smoke even poured out of the cemetery nearby We hid the tanks in an apple orchard and waited First the children came, and then some women approached They thought we were Germans Below us on the gravel shore dotted with sparse tufts of grass were men who'd been killed in previous days They lay there black, naked and barefoot, the villagers had taken their clothes and shoes The dogs and pigs gnawed on them at night But the strange thing was: you could smell fish more than the stench of corpses A bomber flew over us as pot-bellied as bloated carrion Each time it returned intact back to the Russian positions We heard the church bells from Dorpat and soon after a howling sound, a dive bomber had discovered us A bullet grazed the back of my hand, it didn't even scratch me, just burnt the skin, a stone ricocheted and dented my helmet, a truck caught fire, a box of hand grenades exploded, my friend Gillis was burnt to death And that was the end of it Most of the wounds were light I bandaged my hand myself The Marquis de Gebelin pulled out his harmonica, two or three voices joined in I opened a tin of sardines. Oh my fair-haired girl Only in the evening, a bit before dusk, did a messenger rush up on a motorcycle, with an order from gruppenführer Furluk to leave the village immediately We were tired to death, but death was waiting for us elsewhere The night was white and pink

Translated from Czech by
*Jonathan Bolton


issue 5, 2007Sopa de miga de pan
Esto es la gloria,
y si no lo es, son sus migajas más espesas.
Al estilo de las larvas
recordar casi me cuesta el futuro
y aún conectado a una esperanza tan cristalina,
me dejo agobiar por emisoras
con todo tipo de nostalgia o interferencia.
Y así, enjuto,
al buscar su retrato en la música de la nación
transcribo bailes de sociedad, competiciones de pulseo
en una floresta por todos y para el bien de todos
de la cual mi melancolía sale inmune,
esto es la gloria o al menos su aserrín más oloroso,
pero no, que va, esto es la gloria.
Voy traduciendo en planchas de plywood del peso de una mosca
la plenitud de cierta clase de recuerdos,
atiende pues, a este repertorio de espejismos artesanales
que se resisten al matando y salando de la memoria,
inclínate y repite conmigo: esto es la gloria
y si no uno de sus hollejos más dorados,
pero no, que va, esto es la gloria.

written 1984
*Omar Pérez López

Omar Pérez López was born in Havana, Cuba in 1964. "Sopa de miga de pan" is from Algo de lo sagrado (UNEAC, 1996).

Soup from Breadcrumb This is the glory, and if not, these are the thickest of glory's crumbs. Just as for grubs remembrance nearly costs me the future and still attached to such crystalline hope I let radio stations get me down with all matter of nostalgia or interference. This way—gaunt, seeking glory's portrait in the nation's music— I transcribe society balls, armwrestling contests, in a forest for all for the good of all out of which my melancholy emerges immune. This is the glory or at least its most fragrant sawdust, but no, what am I saying, this is glory. I go on translating the plenitude of a certain sort of memory into plywood planks, mothweight; now look at this repertoire of handcrafted mirages that refuse to be killed and salted by memory, lean over and repeat with me: this is glory and if not, well, then one of its most golden skins, but no, what am I saying, this is the glory.

Translated from Spanish by
*Kristin Dykstra