Babel 2015 - Sarah Lawrence College

V I I I / 201 5
· VIII ·
Babel
a student translation publication
V I I I / 201 5
=
 
Contents
ixEditor’s Note
xAcknowledgments
3‫ · سعدی‬Niayesh Jamshidi
۵۰۹ ‫ · غزل‬Ode 509
sarah lawrence college
Bronxville, NY
Babel: A Student Translation Publication
issue viii
Copyright © 2015 by Sarah Lawrence College Student Senate
Individual works are copyright by their respective authors
All rights reserved. Published 2015
Printed in the United States of America
Contact the editor: [email protected]
Future inquiries: [email protected]
Find us online:
my.slc.edu/ICS/Campus_Life/Campus_Groups/Babel
No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any
manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the
case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Designed and typeset by Joshua Langman
JL Typographic Design
Set in Skolar (David Březina, 2008–14) and Hypatia Sans
(Thomas Phinney, 2002–7), among many others.
5 José Asunción Silva · Natalia Vargas-Caba
Nocturno · Nocturne
9大塚愛 · Aislinn Garner
プラネタリウム · Planetarium
12 Heinrich Heine · William Shullenberger
Der Kaiser von China · The Emperor of China
16 Παῦλος ὁ ἀπόστολος · Brian Fox
Προς Ρωμαιους · The Epistle to the Romans
18覚和歌子 · June Jungreis
いつも何度でも · Each and Every Time
21 Publius Vergilius Maro · Daniel Alexander Nadelman
Aeneid
28 নিয়ন্তা নাহিয়া চ�ৌধুরী
বাংলায় যাকে বলে হাইকু · Bengali Haiku
33 Virgilio Piñera · Maria Caputo
La montaña · The Mountain
c ontents v
35 Petrarca · Katie Lee
Voi ch’ascoltate · You, Who Listen
60 Louise Glück · Victoria Silva
The School Children · Les écoliers · Los escolares
37 Pellegrino Artusi · Katie Lee
La scienza in cucina e l’arte di mangiar bene
Science in the Kitchen and the Art of Eating Well
62 Μάτση Χατζηλαζάρου · Mary Kairidi
Αντίστροφη Αφιέρωση · Dedication in Reverse
40 Luis Britto García · Úrsula Fuentesberain
Maximanual del minicuento
The Big Manual for the Short Short Story
43 Franz Kafka · Nicole Harvey
Tagebuch · Diary Entries
71 Paulo Leminski · Henrique Romoff
Aviso aos náufragos · Call to the Castaway
73 Conceição Evaristo · Henrique Romoff
Vozes-mulheres · Voices-women
47 新川和江 · Leah Ogawa
わたしを束ねないで · Don’t Bind Me Up
76 Gloria Posada · Gina Caputo
Medusa
Santa Lucía · Saint Lucy
Alicia · Alice
50 José Martí · Roberto A. Rochin & Gina Caputo
Cultivo una rosa blanca · I’ll Raise a White Rose
80 Racine · Zoe Moore
Bérénice · I Love You, But
51 Dante Alighieri · Alayna Barrett
La Porta dell’Inferno · The Gate of Hell
82 ‫ · אגי משעול‬Rachel Ariel Lesel
‫ · שוב אבי מדבר‬My Father Speaks Again
‫ · אמי מוסיפה‬My Mother Adds
52 Sοφοκληs · Rebecca Shepard
Ἀντιγόνης · Antigone
54 Ovid · Rebecca Shepard
Quintus Elegia · Elegy V
56 Rebecca Shepard
The Oxymoronic Nature of Fluency in Translation (essay)
v i c o ntents
85 ‫ · גילי חיימוביץ‬Rachel Ariel Lesel
‫ · ֵא ֶפר וְ ָאפֹר‬Ashen Ashes
86 Author unknown · Ben LoPiccolo
Physiologus
88 Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche · Michael Feinberg
Götzen-Dämmerung · Twilight of the Idols
c ontents v ii
90 ‫ · فرح شام‬Nora Nesheiwat & Laith Aqel
‫ · فكيف أؤمن‬How Must I Believe?
92 Cesar Vallejo · Simone Rogers
Ascuas · Embers
94 ‫ · חנוך לוין‬Gal Eldar
‫ · שיץ‬Schitz
97 林柳波 · !NippoN! Club
うみ · The Ocean
99 額賀誠志 · !NippoN! Club
とんぼのめがね · Dragonfly’s Glasses
100 Author unknown · !NippoN! Club
雪 · Snow
101 Peter Bichsel · The Beginning German Class
Der Milchmann · The Milkman
104 Various authors · The Japanese III Class
Haiku
107 Campus Translation Events
108 Event Photos
 
Editor’s Note
Dear Reader,
You have before you a collection of rare objects from over a dozen
languages. They have been brought from the time of the ancients,
from the time of Atabak, from the 1980s and from last November.
There are roses and toothpaste and constellations within. If you
keep quite still, you will find cicadas, fireflies, dragonflies, and a
fantastic beast called Honocentaurus. Moving further through
the shelves, you’ll spot St. Lucy, an emperor, unrequited lovers, a
mother, mimes, and a man who swallows a mountain. A closer look
will reveal songs, a list, diary entries, an epistle, and the preface
to a cookbook among the myriad-shaped objects. And inevitably,
there are declarations of love, and sorrow, and dedications in
reverse among the gems.
Translation can be a mysterious business, hidden behind the
shelves of more obvious pursuits. It takes effort, patience, and
sometimes sheer wit to remake a work of words using another set
of rules. Translations can be slippery things, not always crystalline, not always flawless. Nevertheless they are precious, for they
reach into unexpected veins and corners for unseeable objects and
render them visible to you.
We have been working on this collection for some time, gathering and polishing and getting it ready for display. Along the way it
has taken the work of many hands, pencils, eyes, emails, and ears.
I hope you will enjoy your journey through our rare objects and
delight in the shimmering uniqueness of each.
With thanks,
Gina Caputo
Editor-in-Chief
v i i i c o ntents
ed itor’s note i x
 
Acknowledgments
This year Babel would like to acknowledge the generosity of Student
Senate, the Office of the Dean of the College, the Joseph Campbell
Chair in the Humanities, and the Modern and Classical Languages
departments. Babel individually thanks Associate Dean Kanwal
Singh, Dean Jerri Dodds, Judith McNatt, Prof. Bella Brodzki, Prof.
William Shullenberger, Prof. Jason Earle, Samantha Gordon, Valerie
Romanello, Jesenia Fuentes, María Fernanda Snellings, Zoe Moore,
Simone Rogers, and Lingua Franca.
The editor would like to give special thanks to Prof. Isabel de Sena
for her guidance and strong ear for sonority; to Joshua Langman
for his artistic initiative and unflagging attention to detail; to all
the faculty members who helped vet and edit submissions; and to
all our contributors for their wonderful work. It could not have
been done without you.
x ac kn o w led g m ents
· BABEL ·
‫ ‬
‫‪JA MSHIDI‬‬
‫‪ [ S A A D I ] · N I AY E S H‬سعدی‬
‫‪In this poem, couplets are split across columns, with the first line of each‬‬
‫‪couplet in the right column and the second line in the left.‬‬
‫غزل ‪۵۰۹‬‬
‫من ندانستم از اول که تو بی مهر و وفایی عهد نابسنت از آن به که ببندی و نپایی‬
‫دوستان عیب کنندم که چرا دل به تو دادم! باید اول به تو گفنت که‪ :‬چنین خوب چرایی؟‬
‫ما کجاییم در این بحر تفکر‪ ،‬تو کجایی!؟‬
‫ای که گفتی مرو اندر پی خوبان زمانه‬
‫رسیست خدایی‬
‫که‬
‫برد‪،‬‬
‫نظر‬
‫اهل‬
‫دل‬
‫که‬
‫ن‬
‫‬
‫پریشا‬
‫آن نه خالست و زنخدان و رس زلف‬
‫ّ‬
‫پرده بردار‪ ،‬که بیگانه خود این روی نبیند تو بزرگی و در آیینه کوچک ننامیی‬
‫این توانم که بیایم رس کویت به گدایی‬
‫حلقه بر در نتوانم زدن از دست رقیبان‬
‫عشق و درویشی و انگشت منایی و مالمت همه سهلست‪ ،‬تحمل نکنم بار جدایی‬
‫روز صحرا و سامعست و لب جوی و متاشا در همه شهر دلی هست که دیگر بربایی!؟‬
‫چه بگویم؟ که غم از دل برود چون تو بیایی‬
‫گفته بودم چو بیایی غم دل با تو بگویم‬
‫شمع را باید از این خانه به دربردن و کشنت تا به همسایه نگوید که تو در خانه مایی‬
‫(كشنت شمع چه حاجت بود از بيم رقيبان؟ پرتو روي تو گويد كه تو در خانه مايي)‬
‫سعدی آن نیست که هرگز ز کمندت بگریز د که بدانست که دربند تو خوشرت ز رهايي‬
‫نکنم خاصه در ایام اتابک دو هوایی‬
‫خلق گویند برو دل به هوای دگری ده‬
‫=‬
‫‪Ode 509‬‬
‫‪I didn’t know at the start that you lack kindness and fidelity‬‬
‫‪Better to not promise than to tie an oath and break it‬‬
‫‪Friends fault me that I’ve given my heart you‬‬
‫‪The question should first be put to you: why are you this‬‬
‫?‪good‬‬
‫‪You who said to not mingle amongst the beauties of the age‬‬
‫‪/ j a msh id i 3‬‬
‫سعدی‬
Where are we in this sea of thoughts, where are you?
It’s not the beauty mark, nor the chin, nor the head with its mess
of hair
That stole the heart of the learned, it’s a godly secret
Remove the curtain, the stranger himself won’t see your face
Your greatness could never shine in a modest mirror
I can’t hit the knocker of your door over my rivals’ hands
What I can do is come to your alley as a beggar
Love and being a Dervish and being a laughingstock
They’re all easy, what I can’t bear is the burden of separation
A day in the desert, for dancing and spectating at the head of the
creek
In the whole city is there a heart left for you to steal?
I had said that if you came I’d tell you my heart’s woes
What can I say? Woes leave my heart when you come
The candle must be taken out of the house and killed
So as to not let the neighbors know that you’re at our house
What’s the use of killing the candle for fear of rivals
The glowing light of your face will reveal that you are in our
house
Saadi is not the man who’d ever flee from your flowing locks
For he knows that slavery to you exceeds freedom
People say go, give your heart to another
I would not go two ways, now, in the time of Atabak
4 ‫ سعدی‬/ j a m shi d i
J O S É A S U N C I Ó N S I LVA · N ATA L I A VA RG A S- C A B A
Nocturno
Una noche,
una noche toda llena de murmullos, de perfumes y de músicas
de alas;
una noche
en que ardían en la sombra nupcial y húmeda las luciérnagas
fantásticas,
a mi lado, lentamente, contra mí ceñida toda, muta y pálida,
como si un presentimiento de amarguras infinitas
hasta el fondo más secreto de las fibras te agitara,
por la senda que atraviesa la llanura florecida
caminabas;
y la luna llena
por los cielos azulosos, infinitos y profundos esparcía su luz
blanca;
y tu sombra
fina y lánguida,
y mi sombra,
por los rayos de la luna proyectadas,
sobre las arenas tristes de la senda se juntaban;
y eran una,
y eran una,
y eran una sola sombra larga,
y eran una sola sombra larga,
y eran una sola sombra larga, . . .
Esta noche
solo; el alma
llena de las infinitas amarguras y agonías de tu muerte,
separado de ti misma por el tiempo, por la sombra y la distancia,
silva / va rg a s- c a ba 5
por el infinito negro
donde nuestra voz no alcanza,
mudo y solo
por la senda caminaba . . .
Y se oían
los ladridos de los perros a la luna,
a la luna pálida,
y el chirrido
de las ranas . . .
Sentí frío. Era el frío que tenían en tu alcoba
tus mejillas y tus sienes y tus manos
adoradas,
entre las blancuras níveas
de la mortuorias sábanas.
Era el frío del sepulcro, era el frío
de la muerte,
era el frío de la nada.
Y mi sombra,
por los rayos de la luna proyectada,
iba sola,
iba sola,
iba sola por la estepa solitaria;
y tu sombra esbelta y ágil,
fina y lánguida,
como en esa noche tibia de la muerte primavera
como en esa noche llena de murmullos, de perfumes y de
músicas de alas,
se acercó y marchó con ella,
se acercó y marchó con ella,
se acercó y marchó con ella . . . ¡Oh las sombras enlazadas!
¡Oh las sombras de los cuerpos que se juntan con las sombras de
las almas!
¡Oh las sombras de los cuerpos que se juntan en las noches de
negruras y de lagrimas!
6 si lva / va rg a s- c a ba
=
Nocturne
A night,
A night, whole, full of murmuring, perfume, and the song of
wings;
A night
Where fantastic fireflies burned in the nuptial shadow
Humid, by my side, slowly clinging to me, mute and pale,
As if foreshadowing infinite sorrow
Agitating you to your most secret
Core,
You strolled
Through the path across the flowering plain;
And the full moon
Scattered its white light, infinite and deep,
Into the bluish skies;
And your shadow,
Thin and languid,
And my shadow
Stretched over the somber sand
Made one by the moonlight
Becoming one,
Becoming one,
Becoming one in the long shadow
Becoming one in the long shadow,
Becoming one in the long shadow . . .
This night
Alone; my soul
Full of the infinite sorrow and agony of your death,
You, removed from yourself, through time and shadow
through the infinite darkness
our voices cannot reach.
silva / va rg a s- c a ba 7
Mute and alone,
I strolled along the path
I heard the sound of dogs barking
barking at the moon,
the pale moon,
and the frogs
croaking.
I felt cold. It was the cold I felt in your room
Your cold cheeks, your temples, your adored
Hands
Within the snow white
Funeral shroud.
It was the cold of the tomb,
It was the cold of death,
It was the cold of nothingness.
And my shadow
Stretched over by the moonlight
Moved alone
Moved alone
Moved alone through the solitary plain;
And your shadow, slender, agile,
Thin and languid,
Like spring in that mild night of death
Filling that night with murmurs, perfumes, and the song of
wings
Drew near, and strolled away with it
Drew near, and strolled away with it,
Drew near and strolled away with it . . . Ah, those joined
shadows!
Ah, those shadows of bodies intertwined with ghostly souls,
Ah, the shadows of bodies intertwined in those nights of
darkness and weeping.
8 si lva / va rg a s- c a ba
 
大 塚 愛 [ ŌT S U K A A I ] · A I S L I N N G A R N E R
プラネタリウム
夕月夜顔だす消えてく子供の声
遠く遠くこの空のどこかに君はいるんだろう
夏の終わりに二人で抜け出したこの公園で見つけた
あの星座何だか覚えてる?
会えなくても記憶をたどって
同じ幸せを見たいんだ
あの香りとともに花火がぱっと開く
行きたいよ、君のところへ
今すぐかけだして行きたいよ　まっ暗で何も見えない　怖くても大丈夫　数えきれない星空が今もずっとここにあるんだよ
泣かないよ。
昔、君と見たきれいな空だったから
あの道まで響く靴の音が耳に残る
大きな自分の影を見つめて想うのでしょう
ちっとも変わらないはずなのにせつない気持ちふくらく
どんなに想ったって、君はもういない
行きたいよ、君のそばに
小さくても小さくても
一番に君が好きだよ。強くいられる
願いを流れ星にそっと唱えてみたけれど
大塚
/ g a rner 9
泣かないよ。
届くだろう、
きれいな空に
会えなくても、
記憶をたどって　同じ幸せを見たいんだ
あの香りとともに花火がぱっと開く
行きたいよ、
君のところへ
小さな手をにぎりしめて
泣きたいよ − それはそれはきれいなそらだった
願いを流れ星にそっと唱えてみたけれど
泣きたいよ、
届かない想いを　この空に...。
=
Planetarium
The moonlit evening reveals its face, children’s voices disappear
Far away, far away, you must be somewhere in this sky
At the end of summer, we snuck away to a park we found
Do you still remember those constellations?
Even if I cannot meet you, I trace my memories
And it seems like the same happiness
Along with that scent, the fireworks burst
Far away on that path I can hear it, the sound of your steps
remains
You think of it too, on looking at your shadow
Nothing may seem to change, yet even so my suffering grows
No matter what I feel, you are no longer here
I want to go, right to your side
I am small, I may be small
But I love you more than anything, so I can be strong
I tried softly wishing upon a shooting star, but
I will not cry.
Has it reached you — in this beautiful sky?
Even if I cannot meet you, I trace my memories
And it seems like the same happiness
Along with that scent, the fireworks burst
I want to go, you grasping my hand toward you
I want to cry — it was such a beautiful sky
I tried softly wishing upon a shooting star, but . . .
I want to cry, my thoughts will not reach you . . .
here in this sky.
I want to go, and run to where you are — I want to run there
now
In the pitch darkness I see nothing
even if I am afraid, it will be alright
The sky with its countless stars is still with me, now and forever
I will not cry.
Long ago, I looked at this beautiful sky with you.
10 大塚
/ g a r n er
大塚
/ g a rner 1 1
 
H E I N R I C H H E I N E · W I L L I A M S H U L L E N B E RG E R
Der Kaiser von China
Mein Vater war ein trockner Taps,
Ein nüchterner Duckmäuser,
Ich aber trinke meinen Schnaps
Und bin ein großer Kaiser.
Das ist ein Zaubertrank! Ich habs
Entdeckt in meinem Gemüte:
Sobald ich getrunken meinen Schnaps,
Steht China ganz in Blüte.
Das Reich der Mitte verwandelt sich dann
In einen Blumenanger,
Ich selber werde fast ein Mann
Und meine Frau wird schwanger.
Allüberall ist Überfluß,
Und es gesunden die Kranken;
Mein Hofweltweiser Confusius
Bekömmt die klarsten Gedanken.
Der Pumpernickel des Soldats
Wird Mandelkuchen – O Freude!
Und alle Lumpen meines Staats
Spazieren in Samt und Seide.
1 2 h ei n e / shullen berger
Die Mandarinenritterschaft,
Die invaliden Köpfe,
Gewinnen wieder Jugendkraft
Und schütteln ihre Zöpfe.
Die große Pagode, Symbol und Hort
Des Glaubens, ist fertig geworden;
Die letzten Juden taufen sich dort
Und kriegen den Drachenorden.
Es schwindet der Geist der Revolution
Und es rufen die edelsten Mandschu:
Wir wollen keine Konstitution,
Wir wollen den Stock, den Kantschu!
Wohl haben die Schüler Äskulaps
Das Trinken mir widerraten,
Ich aber trinke meinen Schnaps
Zum Besten meiner Staaten.
Und noch einen Schnaps, und noch einen Schnaps!
Das schmeckt wie lauter Manna!
Mein Volk ist Glücklich, hats auch den Raps,
Und jubelt: Hosianna!
=
The Emperor of China
My father was a dry old clown,
A sober mousing simperer,
But I, when I my schnapps drink down,
Become a greater emperor.
h eine / sh ullenberger 13
This is a magic drink, I’ve found,
That clears my mind of fume:
As soon as I my schnapps drink down,
All China bursts in bloom.
Away with the spirit of revolution;
The noblest Manchus shout,
‘We want no part of a constitution,
Bring rod and whip back out!’
The Middle Kingdom changes then
To a flowery pasture mild,
And I am almost made a man;
My wife grows big with child.
Aesculapius’ strict pupils warn
My drinking must abate,
But I to drink my schnapps am sworn
For betterment of State.
And everywhere it overflows,
And all the sick are healed;
Confusius* my court sage bestows
His clearest thoughts revealed.
And one more schnapps! And one more schnapps!
It tastes like purest manna!
My happy people madly claps,
And jubilates ‘Hosanna!’
The soldiers’ pumpernickel turns
To almond cake — hurray!
My State’s riffraff in velvet gowns
Stroll forth with silk array.
The knighthood of the Mandarin,
Those doddering elders weak,
Now gain the strength of youth again,
And grizzled pigtails shake.
Symbol and shield of faith, there stands
Complete the Great Pagoda;
There baptize Jews left in the land,
Let them join the Dragon Order.
* Heine’s pun on Confucius
1 4 h ei n e / shullenberger
h eine / sh ullenberger 1 5
The Epistle to the Romans 8:31–39
Π ΑῦΛ Ο Σ Ό Ά Π ΌΣ ΤΟ Λ ΟΣ [ PA U L T H E A P O ST L E ]
BRI AN FOX
In this beautiful passage from Romans, Paul reflects on God’s power and
grace so as to encourage believers facing persecution. The two Greek
particles ὑπὲρ and κατὰ are typically translated to describe relational
interest (for and against), but they also simultaneously evoke a spatial
relationship (above and downwards). English cannot preserve the
holographic effect rendered by the more flexible Greek words, so my
translation emphasizes this spatial sense in order to convey the passage’s
vivid theological imagery.
Προς Ρωμαιους 8:31–39
Τί οὖν ἐροῦμεν πρὸς ταῦτα; εἰ ὁ θεὸς ὑπὲρ ἡμῶν, τίς καθ’ ἡμῶν; ὅς
γε τοῦ ἰδίου υἱοῦ οὐκ ἐφείσατο, ἀλλὰ ὑπὲρ ἡμῶν πάντων παρέδωκεν
αὐτόν, πῶς οὐχὶ καὶ σὺν αὐτῷ τὰ πάντα ἡμῖν χαρίσεται; τίς ἐγκαλέσει
κατὰ ἐκλεκτῶν θεοῦ; θεὸς ὁ δικαιῶν· τίς ὁ κατακρινῶν;
Χριστὸς ὁ ἀποθανών, μᾶλλον δὲ ἐγερθείς, ὅς καί ἐστιν ἐν δεξιᾷ
τοῦ θεοῦ, ὃς καὶ ἐντυγχάνει ὑπὲρ ἡμῶν.
τίς ἡμᾶς χωρίσει ἀπὸ τῆς ἀγάπης τοῦ Χριστοῦ; θλῖψις ἢ στενοχωρία
ἢ διωγμὸς ἢ λιμὸς ἢ γυμνότης ἢ κίνδυνος ἢ μάχαιρα; καθὼς γέγραπται ὅτι « Ἕνεκεν σοῦ θανατούμεθα ὅλην τὴν
ἡμέραν, ἐλογίσθημεν ὡς πρόβατα σφαγῆς.»
ἀλλ’ ἐν τούτοις πᾶσιν ὑπερνικῶμεν διὰ τοῦ ἀγαπήσαντος ἡμᾶς. πέπεισμαι γὰρ ὅτι οὔτε θάνατος οὔτε ζωὴ οὔτε ἄγγελοι οὔτε ἀρχαὶ οὔτε
ἐνεστῶτα οὔτε μέλλοντα οὔτε δυνάμεις οὔτε ὕψωμα οὔτε βάθος
οὔτε τις κτίσις ἑτέρα δυνήσεται ἡμᾶς χωρίσαι ἀπὸ τῆς ἀγάπης τοῦ
θεοῦ τῆς ἐν Χριστῷ Ἰησοῦ τῷ κυρίῳ ἡμῶν.
Therefore, what will we say to these things? If God is above us, who
brings us down? He who did not spare his own son but gave him
up for us all, how will he not also with him grace all things to us?
Who will bring an accusation down on the chosen of God? God is
justifying; who is bringing down judgment?
Christ the one dying, but more so the one rising, who also is at
the right hand of God, who also intercedes above us.
Who will divide us from the love of Christ? Oppression, or dire
straits, or pursuit, or famine, or nakedness, or danger, or sword?
As it has been written that, “On account of you we die for the
whole day, we were reckoned as cattle for slaughter.”
But in all these things let us overcome through the one who
loves us. For I have been persuaded that neither death, nor life,
nor angels, nor authorities, nor things now, nor things later, nor
powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else created will be able
to separate us apart from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.
=
1 6 Π αῦλος ὁ ἀ π όσ τολος / fox
Π αῦλος ὁ ἀ πόσ τολος / fox 1 7
 
覚 和 歌 子 [ WA K A KO K A KU ] · J U N E J U N G R E I S
This song is the ending theme from the 2001 film 千と千尋の神隠し
[Spirited Away] by 宮﨑駿 [Hayao Miyazaki].
いつも何度でも
呼んでいる　胸のどこか奥で
いつも心躍る　夢を見たい
かなしみは　数えきれないけれど
その向こうできっと　あなたに会える
繰り返すあやまちの　そのたび　ひとは
ただ青い空の　青さを知る
果てしなく　道は続いて見えるけれど
この両手は　光を抱ける
さよならのときの　静かな胸
ゼロになるからだが　耳をすませる
生きている不思議　死んでいく不思議
花も風も街も　みんなおなじ
呼んでいる　胸のどこか奥で
いつも何度でも　夢を描こう
かなしみの数を　言い尽くすより
同じくちびるで　そっとうたおう
18 覚
/ jun gr eis
閉じていく思い出の　そのなかにいつも
忘れたくない　ささやきを聞く
こなごなに砕かれた　鏡の上にも
新しい景色が　映される
はじまりの朝の　静かな窓
ゼロになるからだ　充たされてゆけ
海の彼方には　もう探さない
輝くものは　いつもここに
わたしのなかに　みつけられたから
=
Each and Every Time
Calling out from somewhere deep inside my heart
I want to dream, always, with excitement and joy
My sadness is beyond measure
But once I have overcome it, I will surely be able to meet you
Every time a person repeats a mistake, that person
Will realize the blue of a simply blue sky
Although I can see the road continuing endlessly
These two hands can cradle this light
My quiet heart at the time of goodbye
My body, which will become nothing, lets me listen carefully
The mystery of living, the mystery of dying,
Flowers and the wind and even cities — they’re all the same
覚
/ jungreis 1 9
Calling out from somewhere deep inside our hearts
Let’s envision our dreams, always, each and every time
Rather than speak of all the sadness we have
Let’s use those same lips to sing softly
Inside the memories that are fading away, I will always
Hear the whispers of what I don’t want to forget
Above the mirror that was smashed to pieces
A new landscape will be reflected
A quiet window on the first morning
The body, which will become nothing — make sure it is fulfilled
I won’t look for them across the sea anymore
The things that shine
Because I was able to find them here, always inside myself
 
P U B L I U S V E RG I L I U S M A RO
DANIEL ALEX ANDER NADEL M AN
excerpta ex | selections from
Aeneid
Vergil’s Aeneid tells the story of Trojan leader Aeneas and his struggle to
establish a colony in Italy (Latium), as fated by the gods. In the opening
lines of the poem, Vergil calls upon the Muse to relate how Juno’s wrath
was the cause of Aeneas’ long wanderings.
1. 1 – 3 3
Arma virumque cano, Troiae qui primus ab oris
Italiam, fato profugus, Laviniaque venit
litora, multum ille et terris iactatus et alto
vi superum saevae memorem Iunonis ob iram;
multa quoque et bello passus, dum conderet urbem,
inferretque deos Latio, genus unde Latinum,
Albanique patres, atque altae moenia Romae.
Musa, mihi causas memora, quo numine laeso,
quidve dolens, regina deum tot volvere casus
insignem pietate virum, tot adire labores
impulerit. Tantaene animis caelestibus irae?
Urbs antiqua fuit, Tyrii tenuere coloni,
Karthago, Italiam contra Tiberinaque longe
ostia, dives opum studiisque asperrima belli;
quam Iuno fertur terris magis omnibus unam
posthabita coluisse Samo; hic illius arma,
20 覚
/ jun gr eis
v ergil / n a d el m a n 21
hic currus fuit; hoc regnum dea gentibus esse,
si qua fata sinant, iam tum tenditque fovetque.
Progeniem sed enim Troiano a sanguine duci
audierat, Tyrias olim quae verteret arces;
hinc populum late regem belloque superbum
venturum excidio Libyae: sic volvere Parcas.
Id metuens, veterisque memor Saturnia belli,
prima quod ad Troiam pro caris gesserat Argis —
necdum etiam causae irarum saevique dolores
exciderant animo: manet alta mente repostum
iudicium Paridis spretaeque iniuria formae,
et genus invisum, et rapti Ganymedis honores.
His accensa super, iactatos aequore toto
Troas, reliquias Danaum atque immitis Achilli,
arcebat longe Latio, multosque per annos
errabant, acti fatis, maria omnia circum.
Tantae molis erat Romanam condere gentem!
=
J U N O ’S W R AT H
I sing of arms and a man, a man exiled by fate, the first who came
from the coasts of Troy to Italy and to the Lavinian shores. Oh, that
man has undergone so much, tossed both on the lands and in the
deep sea by the will of the gods, all on account of the eternal anger of
harsh Juno! He also endured so much in war, in his efforts to found
a city and bring his own gods to Latium: from that city sprung the
whole Latin race, the Alban fathers, and the walls of high Rome.
Muse, tell me the causes, in what way was the Queen of the
Gods’ divinity spurned, or what was she resenting, that made her
drive a man, so distinguished in his virtue, to undergo so many
22 v ergi l / n a d el m a n
misfortunes and to enter upon so many labors? Are there really
such great angers present in celestial minds?
There was once an ancient city then held by Tyrian colonists,
Karthage, opposite Italy and far away from the mouths of the Tiber,
overflowing with riches and most fierce in the pursuits of war.
They say that Juno loved and cherished this one city more than
all others, even more than her favorite Samo: here she kept her
weapons, here was her chariot. At that time the goddess endeavored
to grant that city which she nurtured dominion over all races, if
in any way the fates might permit her. But in fact she had heard
that there existed an offspring, born from Trojan blood, which
would one day overthrow the Tyrian citadels of Karthage; from
this offspring she heard that a people, widely ruling and proud in
war, would come to cause the destruction of Libya: thus the Fates
decided. Saturnian Juno, fearing this and ever-mindful of the old
war at Troy which she had first waged for the sake of her dear Argos, (even now, not yet had the causes of her angers and the harsh
pains shaken themselves from her mind; all her grievances still
remained stored up in her heart: the judgment of Paris, the injury
to her rejected beauty, the hateful race and the honors of Trojan
Ganymedes snatched into heaven), enraged over these things, the
goddess was keeping the Trojans, the ones spared death by fierce
Achilles and left behind by the Greeks, tossed in all the sea far off
from their destined Latium. For many years they wandered, driven
by the fates around all the seas of the earth. Of so great an effort
it was to found the Roman race!
■ ■ ■
In Book 6, Aeneas travels to the Underworld to see his father Anchises.
His guide, Sibyl of Cumae, describes punishable evil deeds in Tartarus
that he and his heirs ought to avoid.
v ergil / n a d el m a n 23
6.6 0 8 – 6 2 4
hic, quibus invisi fratres, dum vita manebat,
pulsatusve parens et fraus innexa clienti,
aut qui divitiis soli incubuere repertis
nec partem posuere suis (quae maxima turba est),
quique ob adulterium caesi, quique arma secuti
impia nec veriti dominorum fallere dextras,
inclusi poenam exspectant. ne quaere doceri
quam poenam, aut quae forma viros fortunave mersit.
saxum ingens volvunt alii, radiisque rotarum
districti pendent; sedet aeternumque sedebit
infelix Theseus, Phlegyasque miserrimus omnis
admonet et magna testatur voce per umbras:
“discite iustitiam moniti et non temnere divos.”
=
T H E FAT E O F T H E W I C K E D
Here are those men who, while living their lives, hated their brothers or beat a parent. Some craftily wove deceit to a client. Others
brooded alone over riches they found, without placing aside a
share for their own people — they encompass the largest crowd.
Here are those evil shades who were killed on account of adultery,
now here are those who treacherously bore disloyal arms against
their rightful lords, without fearing the consequences of deceiving the right hands of their trusting masters. All these criminals
lie enclosed here, awaiting their punishment. Do not seek to be
taught which penalty they shall receive, or which form of crime
or fortune sunk them into this dreadful world. Some endlessly roll
a huge stone, others hang stretched out by the spokes of revolving
wheels. Miserable Theseus sits here, and always will for eternity.
2 4 v ergi l / n a d el m a n
Wretched Phlegyas warns all and testifies to them, calling out with
a dreadful voice through the gloomy shadows: “Learn justice, you
have all been warned by me now. And do not disdain the divine gods!”
■ ■ ■
After hearing of the punishments of the wicked in Tartarus, Aeneas
passes into the underworld and views the fate of the righteous rewarded
for their virtue in Elysium:
6.6 4 0 – 6 6 5
Largior hic campos aether et lumine vestit
purpureo, solemque suum, sua sidera norunt.
pars in gramineis exercent membra palaestris,
contendunt ludo et fulva luctantur harena;
pars pedibus plaudunt choreas et carmina dicunt.
nec non Threicius longa cum veste sacerdos
obloquitur numeris septem discrimina vocum,
iamque eadem digitis, iam pectine pulsat eburno.
hic genus antiquum Teucri, pulcherrima proles,
magnanimi heroes nati melioribus annis,
Ilusque Assaracusque et Troiae Dardanus auctor.
arma procul currusque virum miratur inanis;
stant terra defixae hastae passimque soluti
per campum pascuntur equi. quae gratia currum
armorumque fuit vivis, quae cura nitentis
pascere equos, eadem sequitur tellure repostos.
conspicit, ecce, alios dextra laevaque per herbam
vescentis laetumque choro paeana canentis
inter odoratum lauris nemus, unde superne
plurimus Eridani per silvam voluitur amnis.
hic manus ob patriam pugnando vulnera passi,
v ergil / n a d el m a n 25
quique sacerdotes casti, dum vita manebat,
quique pii vates et Phoebo digna locuti,
inventas aut qui vitam excoluere per artis
quique sui memores aliquos fecere merendo:
omnibus his nivea cinguntur tempora vitta.
=
beloved country. Here too are the ones who were chaste priests
while living their lives, here are those who were righteous seers
and spoke words worthy of Phoebus Apollo. Others have enriched
mankind by their novel arts. All these are the shades who have
earned the admiration of others, making them mindful of their
praiseworthy deeds: each of their foreheads is encircled with a
snowy white garland.
T H E FAT E O F T H E R I G H T E O U S
Here a more spacious atmosphere bathes the lands with a purple
light; those here know their own sun and their own starry constellations. Some of the shades exercise their limbs, wrestling together
in the grassy fields, striving to win the contest as they struggle for
victory on the yellow sand. Others strike the ground with their feet
in joyful dances, singing songs and poems. Orpheus, the Thracian
priest in his long robe, accompanies the dancers and singers with
a seven note scale every measure. He plays his lyre, sometimes
plucking with his fingers, other times strumming with an ivory
pick. Here is the ancient clan of Teucrus, the most splendid of
offspring, great-hearted warriors, born in the better days of old;
there is Ilus, Assaracus, and Dardanus, the founder of Troy. From
afar Aeneas marvels at the arms and chariots of the men: they lie
idle, unengaged in war. Their spears stand fixed upside down in
the ground; their horses graze throughout the land, loosened from
their bridles. If while alive the men had a fondness for chariots or
for arms, or had a desire to graze their shining horses, the same
sentiment follows them under the earth. Behold! Aeneas sees
shades on the left and on the right; they eat the nourishing plants,
and sing a song of praise in a chorus within the fragrant grove of
laurel. The source of the river Po twists and turns through this
forest, making its way to the world above. In these parts live the
band of those men who suffered wounds while fighting for their
2 6 v ergi l / n a d el m a n
v ergil / n a d el m a n 27
 
নিয়ন্তা নাহিয়া চ�ৌধুরী [ N I YO N TA C H O W D H U RY ]
(translated by the author)
বাংলায় যাকে বলে হাইকু
বাইরে পাতলা আকাশ, হালকা মেঘ
ঘন সুর্য, র�োদের মেলা।
আমার বৃষ্টি আমার ঘরে।
ত�োমার আধা বলা বাণীর মাঝে
আমার দু’চারটি প্রশ্নব�োধক চিহ্ন
ভাসতে ভাসতে হয়ে গেল অচিহ্ন।
টেবিলটি তার এক পায়ে খ�োঁড়াতে খ�োঁড়াতে
কাঁদে, আর আমি তার সেই পায়ের তলায়
একটি ভাঁজ করা কাগজ গুঁজে দেই।
ফুলের পাপড়ি, চ�োখের পাপড়ি
নাচে রংধনুর রঙ্গে ভেজা
দ�োলনার গায়ে দাঁড়িয়ে।
আমার মা র�োজ রাতে আমার জন্য ঘুম পাড়ানি গান গায়।
আমি মাকে কালকে দারুন ক�োন উপহার দিতে চাই।
কাল মা’র পয়্তাল্লিশতম মৃত্যু বার্ষিকী।
ত�োমার ঠ�োঁটের স্বাদ আমার ভয়ের মত.
অনুগ্রহ করে অন্য ক�োন টুথপেষ্ট
ব্যবহার করতে পারবে?
28 চ�ৌধুরী
বনসাই গাছটি আমার কাছে
প্রশ্ন রেখেছিল গতকাল,
“ত�োমার ছেলেমেয়েরা আজ কত বড়?”
আমি অভিভাবকত্বে
ব্যর্থ হলে কি পরীক্ষাটি
আরেকবার দিতে পারব?
আমি মায়াবন বিহারীনি হরিনীদের
সাথে খেলতে চাই, কিন্তু তারা
ভাবে আমি খুনী।
পাতা নড়ে,
বুড�়ো কাঁপে,
বায়ু কাঁদে।
যখন আমি সমস্ত আল�ো
নিভিয়ে দেই, তখন ত�োমাকে
দারুন সুন্দর লাগে।
শাপলাটি যখন ভাসছিল,
হাজার সমুদ্র শৈবাল
ভুরু কুঁচকে রাগ প্রকাশ করছিল।
প্যাঁচা বলে হেমন্তে যাব,
শেয়াল বলে থাক না শরৎ।
পলাশ মুচকি হেসে তার পাতা দ�োলায়।
র�োজ রাতে তুমি ঘুমিয়ে যাবার পর,
আমি কল্পনা করি
আমি এক বিশাল ঘন জঙ্গল।
চ�ৌধুরী 29
যখন জিগেশ করা
হল�ো কেন, বাচ্চা
একটা ফ�োকলা হাসি দিল।
যখন জিগেশ করা
হল�ো কখন, দাদী
একটা ফ�োকলা হাসি দিল।
Your lips taste like my fears.
Would you please use
another toothpaste?
=
Bengali Haiku
The sky is full of light, and bare
Against the sun, a flare
My rain is in my room.
In between your half-uttered words,
two-fourths of my question mark
float into obscurity.
The table whimpers and wobbles,
hobbles on one leg.
I look for a wedge.
Flower petals, eyelids
dance on the swing sets
painted colors of rainbow.
My mother sings to me every night.
I wonder what to give her tomorrow.
It is her 45th death anniversary.
30 চ�ৌধুরী
The bonsai tree in the living room
asked me yesterday,
“How tall are your children today?”
If I fail
as a parent
can I retake the exam?
I want to play with the deer,
But in their minds
I am a murderer.
The leaves fluttered,
the old man shivered,
the wind wept.
When I switch off
all the lights,
you look beautiful.
While the water lily floated,
a thousand seaweed
frowned.
The owl wants to go to Spring,
the fox wants to stay in Autumn.
Jasmine waves her leaves with a smile.
চ�ৌধুরী 31
Every night, after you
fall asleep, I like to pretend
that I am a rainforest.
When asked why,
the baby gave
a toothless smile.
When asked when,
the grandmother gave
a toothless smile.
 
V I RG I L I O P I Ñ E R A · M A R I A C A P U TO
This is a short story from Virgilio Piñera’s anthology El que vino a
salvarme [The One Who Came to Save Me].
La montaña
La montaña tiene mil metros de altura. He decidido comérmela
poco a poco. Es una montaña como todas las montañas: vegetación,
piedras, tierra, animales y hasta seres humanos que suben y bajan
por sus laderas.
Todas las mañanas me echo boca abajo sobre ella y empiezo a
masticar lo primero que me sale al paso. Así me estoy varias horas.
Vuelvo a casa con el cuerpo molido y con las mandíbulas deshechas.
Después de un breve descanso me siento en el portal a mirarla en
la azulada lejanía.
Si yo dijera estas cosas al vecino, de seguro que reiría a carcajadas o me tomaría por loco. Pero yo, que sé lo que me traigo entre
manos, veo muy bien que ella pierde redondez y altura. Entonces
hablarán de trastornos geológicos.
He ahí mi tragedia: ninguno querrá admitir que he sido yo el
devorador de la montaña de mil metros de altura.
=
The Mountain
The mountain is three thousand feet high. I have decided to eat
it bit by bit. It’s a mountain like any other mountain: vegetation,
stones, earth, animals and even human beings who travel up and
down its slope.
32 চ�ৌধুরী
piñer a / c a puto 33
Every morning I throw myself facedown on top of it and begin
chewing the first thing that comes my way. I’m like this for many
hours. I come home with my body worn out and my jaws shattered.
After a quick rest I sit at the door to stare at it in the bluish distance.
If I were to tell my neighbor these things, I’m sure he would
roar with laughter or take me for a lunatic. But me, I know what
I’m up against: I see very clearly that it is losing its roundness and
height. Then they’ll talk of geological disturbances.
Here is my tragedy: no one will ever admit that it is I who have
been the devourer of the three-thousand-foot mountain.
P E T R A RC A · K AT I E L E E
Voi ch’ascoltate
Voi ch’ascoltate in rime sparse il suono
di quei sospiri ond’io nudriva ’l core
in sul mio primo giovenile errore
quand’era in parte altr’uom da quel ch’i’ sono,
del vario stile in ch’io piango et ragiono
fra le vane speranze e ’l van dolore,
ove sia chi per prova intenda amore,
spero trovar pietà, nonché perdono.
Ma ben veggio or sí come al popol tutto
favola fui gran tempo, onde sovente
di me medesmo meco mi vergogno;
et del mio vaneggiar vergogna è ’l frutto,
e ’l pentersi, e ’l conoscer chiaramente
che quanto piace al mondo è breve sogno.
=
You, Who Listen
You, who listen to the sound of scattered rhymes
of those sighs which nurture my heart!
From the first error of my vagrant youth,
in a time when I was another man,
34 p i ñ er a / c a p uto
petr a rc a / lee 35
the varied ways in which I wept and reasoned
between vain hopes and sorrows —
where those who intended to test love,
I hoped to find pity, and forgiveness.
But I see clearly now, that I have become
a grand old fable amongst the people
that brings shame upon me;
and my wandering shame is the fruit
of my repentance, the clear knowledge
that the world’s pleasure is a brief dream.
36 p e tr a rc a / lee
P E L L E G R I N O A RT U S I · K AT I E L E E
selezioni di
La scienza in cucina e l’arte
di mangiar bene
La cucina è una briccionella, spesso e volentieri fa disperare, ma
anche da’ piacere, perche’ quelle volte che riuscite o che avete
superata una difficolta’, provate compiacimento e cantate vittoria.
Diffidate dei libri che trattano di quest’arte: sono la maggior
parte fallaci o incomprensibili, specialmente quelli italiani; meno
peggi i francesi: al piu’ al piu’, tanto dagli uni che dagli altri potrete
attingere qualche nozione utile quando l’arte la conoscete.
Se non si ha la pretesa di diventare un cuoco di baldacchino non
credo sia necessario per riuscire, di nascere con una cazzaruola
in capo basta la passione, molta attenzione e l’avvezzarsi precisi:
poi scegliete sempre per materia prima roba della piu’ fine, che
questa vi fara’ figurare.
Il miglior maestro è la pratica sotto un esercente capace; ma anche
senza di esso, con una scorta simile a questa mia, mettendovi con
molto impegno al lavoro, potrete, io spero, annaspar qualche cosa.
[. . .] La cui materia, già preparata da lungo tempo, serviva per
solo mio uso e consumo. Ve l’offro dunque da semplice dilettante
qual sono, sicuro di non ingannarvi, avendo provati e riprovati
più volte questi piatti da me medesimo; se poi voi non vi riuscirete
alla prima, non vi sgomentate; buona volontà ed insistenza vuol
essere, e vi garantisco che giungerete a farli bene e potrete anche
migliorarli, imperocché io non presumo di aver toccato l’apice
della perfezione.
[. . .]
a rtusi / lee 37
Non vorrei però che per essermi occupato di culinaria mi gabellaste per un ghiottone o per un gran pappatore; protesto, se mai,
contro questa taccia poco onorevole, perché non sono né l’una né
l’altra cosa. Amo il bello ed il buono ovunque si trovino e mi ripugna
di vedere straziata, come suol dirsi, la grazia di Dio. Amen.
=
selections from
Science in the Kitchen
and the Art of Eating Well
at first you do not succeed, do not be dismayed; with goodwill and
persistence, I guarantee you that you will fare well and eventually
manage to make something much better. Even I do not presume to
be perfect, or that I will ever reach the apex of perfection.
[. . .]
Nevertheless I am not involved in the culinary arts so that
people believe me a glutton or an incessant parrot. I protest this
dishonorable reputation, for I am neither. I admire beauty and
good wherever I can find them, and it disgusts me to see anyone
frivol away, as they say, the bounty of God. Amen.
The kitchen is a rascal. It can drive you to despair very quickly, but
it can also create extraordinary pleasure. The reward when you
overcome a particular difficulty is indeed a triumphant victory.
It is easy to distrust most books about this particular art. They
are for the most part fallacious or incomprehensible; especially
the Italians. The French are slightly better. But at the very least,
the information you will gather from any of these books is only
useful if you already know the art.
If you don’t have the pretense of learning the ‘nouvelle cuisine’,
you don’t have to be born with a saucepan for a head to learn how to
cook. The few necessary ingredients are passion, care, and attention
to detail. These, along with a sharp eye for choosing only the best
materials, will always serve you well. The best teacher is practice,
and only practice will create a capable cook. But even lacking this,
my guidance combined with devotion to your labors, I hope, will
assist you in putting something nice on the table.
[. . .] The material, already having long been prepared for some
time, served for my use alone until now. I offer it to you now, the
dilettante that I am, but I am certain that I will not disappoint you
as I have tested and re-tested these dishes myself many times. If
38 a rtusi / lee
a rtusi / lee 39
 
LU I S B R I T TO G A RC Í A · Ú R S U L A F U E N T E S B E R A I N
un extracto de
• La comunicación comienza donde termina la redundancia [. . .]
• Resuma todo lo anterior en una frase, una palabra, un signo.
• Llegará el Fin de los Tiempos con el aforismo que haga
redundante al mundo.
Maximanual del minicuento
• Salvo la vida, todo debería ser breve.
• Contemporaneidad es segmentación [. . .]
• La religión se depura en el proverbio, el ensayo en el
aforismo, la poesía en el haiku, la rebelión en el graffiti,
la plástica en el minimalismo, el amor en el piropo, la
experiencia en la máxima, la muerte en las últimas palabras,
la ficción en el minicuento.
• Toda culminación de un género es indagación sobre sus
mínimos elementos constitutivos.
• Por ley de la paradoja sólo lo mínimo puede hacernos
comprender lo desmesurado.
• Dadme un minitexto como punto de apoyo y moveré el mundo
de lo imaginario.
• Que sea toda creación como la memoria, que sólo recupera
instantes.
• Hiere la espada porque su punta ha sido reducida al mínimo
que concentra la estocada.
• Sólo el relámpago justifica la tormenta.
• Sólo existe el instante y lo demás es memoria o esperanza.
• Matemática y minicuento simplifican ecuaciones hasta
despejar la incógnita; el fárrago confunde hasta sepultarla
ininteligiblemente.
• La microficción es el hilo de Ariadna que nos libra del
laberinto de la exhaustividad.
• Teseo decapita al Minotauro de la profusión con la espada de
la elipsis.
40 brit to g a rcí a / fuentesber a i n
=
an excerpt from
The Big Manual for the Short Short Story
• Excluding life, everything else should be brief.
• Contemporaneity is fragmentation [. . .]
• Religion refines itself in the proverb; the essay, in the
aphorism; poetry in the haiku; visual art in minimalism; love
in the flirtatious remark; experience in the maxim; death in
the last words; fiction in the short short story.
• The culmination of a genre is an inquiry on its minimal
constituent elements.
• A paradoxical law: only the minimal can help us understand
the excessive.
• Give me a flash fiction piece as a fulcrum and I shall move the
world of the imaginary.
• Let every creation be like our memory that recovers only
instants.
• If the sword wounds it is because its tip has been reduced to
the minimum that concentrates the stab.
• Only the lightning justifies the storm.
• Only the instant is real, the rest are memories or hopes.
• Math and flash fiction simplify equations by solving the
variable; whereas farrago renders it unintelligible.
• Flash fiction is Ariadne’s thread and it liberates us from the
labyrinth of exhaustiveness.
• Theseus beheads the Minotaur of Profusion with the Sword
brit to g a rc í a / fuentesber a in 41
of Ellipsis.
• Communication begins where redundancy ends [. . .]
• Sum up all of the above in one phrase, one word, one sign.
• The End of Time will come when the aphorism that makes
the world seem redundant is written.
 
F R A N Z K A F K A · N I C O L E H A RV E Y
Tagebuch
9. Januar 1920
Aberglaube und Grundsatz und Ermöglichung des Lebens:
Durch den Himmel der Laster wird die Hölle der Tugend erworben. So leicht? So schmutzig? So unmöglich? Aberglaube ist einfach.
Ein segmentartiges Stück ist ihm aus dem Hinterkopf herausgeschnitten. Mit der Sonne schaut die ganze Welt hinein. Ihn macht
es nervös, es lenkt ihn von der Arbeit ab, auch ärgert er sich, daß
gerade er von dem Schauspiel ausgeschlossen sein soll.
Es ist keine Widerlegung der Vorahnung einer endgültigen
Befreiung, wenn am nächsten Tag die Gefangenschaft noch unverändert bleibt oder gar sich verschärft oder, selbst wenn ausdrücklich erklärt wird, daß sie niemals aufhören soll. Alles das
kann vielmehr notwendige Voraussetzung der endgültigen Befreiung sein.
16. Januar 1922
Es war in der letzten Woche wie ein Zusammenbruch, so vollständig wie nur etwa in der einen Nacht vor zwei Jahren, ein
anderes Beispiel habe ich nicht erlebt. Alles schien zu Ende und
scheint auch heute durchaus noch nicht anders zu sein. Man kann
es auf zweierlei Arten auffassen, und es ist auch wohl gleichzeitig
so aufzufassen.
Erstens: Zusammenbruch, Unmöglichkeit, zu schlafen, Unmöglichkeit, zu wachen, Unmöglichkeit, das Leben, genauer die
Aufeinanderfolge des Lebens, zu ertragen. Die Uhren stimmen nicht
überein, die innere jagt in einer teuflischen oder dämonischen
4 2 g a rc í a / fuentesber a i n
k a fk a / h a rv e y 43
oder jedenfalls unmenschlichen Art, die äußere geht stockend
ihren gewöhnlichen Gang. Was kann anders geschehen, als daß
sich die zwei verschiedenen Welten trennen, und sie trennen sich
oder reißen zumindest auseinander in einer fürchterlichen Art.
Die Wildheit des inneren Ganges mag verschiedene Gründe haben,
der sichtbarste ist die Selbstbeobachtung, die keine Vorstellung
zur Ruhe kommen läßt, jede emporjagt, um dann selbst wieder als
Vorstellung von neuer Selbstbeobachtung weitergejagt zu werden.
Zweitens: Dieses Jagen nimmt die Richtung aus der Menschheit.
Die Einsamkeit, die mir zum größten Teil seit jeher aufgezwungen
war, zum Teil von mir gesucht wurde – doch was war auch dies
anderes als Zwang –, wird jetzt ganz unzweideutig und geht auf das
Äußerste. Wohin führt sie? Sie kann, dies scheint am zwingendsten, zum Irrsinn führen, darüber kann nichts weiter ausgesagt
werden, die Jagd geht durch mich und zerreißt mich. Oder aber
ich kann – ich kann? –, sei es auch nur zum winzigsten Teil, mich
aufrechterhalten, lasse mich also von der Jagd tragen. Wohin komme
ich dann? »Jagd« ist ja nur ein Bild, ich kann auch sagen »Ansturm
gegen die letzte irdische Grenze«, und zwar Ansturm von unten,
von den Menschen her, und kann, da auch dies nur ein Bild ist, es
ersetzen durch das Bild des Ansturmes von oben, zu mir herab.
Diese ganze Literatur ist Ansturm gegen die Grenze, und sie hätte
sich, wenn nicht der Zionismus dazwischengekommen wäre, leicht
zu einer neuen Geheimlehre, einer Kabbala, entwickeln können.
Ansätze dazu bestehen. Allerdings ein wie unbegreifliches Genie
wird hier verlangt, das neu seine Wurzeln in die alten Jahrhunderte
treibt oder die alten Jahrhunderte neu erschafft und mit all dem
sich nicht ausgibt, sondern jetzt erst sich auszugeben beginnt.
=
4 4 k a fk a / h a rv e y
Diary Entries
January 9, 1920
Superstition and principal and the possibility of life;
Through the heaven of vice a hell of virtue is acquired. So easily? So dirtily? So unbelievably? Superstition is easy. A piece of the
back of his head has been cut out. With the sun, the whole world
looks in. It makes him nervous, it distracts him from his work, it
also irritates him that he should be barred from the spectacle. It
is no falsification of one’s premonition of a final disentanglement,
if the next day the imprisonment stays unchanged or intensifies
itself even it is it explicitly explained that it should never stop. All
this can be a rather necessary requirement of the final liberation.
January 16, 1922
I had in the last week a breakdown so complete like the one in
the night two years ago, another example I have not experienced; all
seems over, and today seems also absolutely not yet any different.
One can understand this in two different ways, and it is probably
also good to understand them simultaneously.
First, the breakdown: impossibility to sleep, impossibility to
wake, impossibility to bear life, especially life’s successions. The
clocks do not match, the inner runs wild in a devilish or demonic
or in any case inhuman way, the outer goes haltingly through its
usual course. What else can happen as the two different worlds
separate, and they separate or rip from each other in an appalling
way. The wildness of the inner motion might have different reasons,
the most apparent is the introspection which doesn’t let any idea
come to rest, incites every idea, in order to be chased on against
itself as an idea of a new self introspection.
Second: this pursuit takes the direction from humanity. The
loneliness that has always been for the biggest part forced on me
but in part searched for by me, what is this but another compul-
k a fk a / h a rv e y 45
sion that loneliness is very clear to me and becomes an extreme.
Where does it go? It can, it seems, coercively drive one to insanity,
about which nothing further can be said, the chase goes through
me and eats at me, or, but I can, can I? Preserve myself also only to
the smallest piece, let me be carried by the chase. Where do I come
then? “Chase” is not only a picture, I can also see “rush against the
last earthly border” and indeed rush under from the people, since
this is also only an “image”, replace it through a picture of the rush
from above down to me.
All this writing is an attack against his own limits, if the Zionist does not come between them it can easily develop into a new
esoteric doctrine, Kaballah. First beginnings of this exist already.
Indeed it requires an incomprehensible genius to drive a new, his
roots in the old centuries, or recreate the old centuries and with all
that he does not give out, instead only beginning to spend himself.
 
新 川 和 江 [ K A Z U E S H I N A G AWA ] · L E A H O G AWA
わたしを束ねないで
わたしを束ねないで
あらせいとうの花のように
白い葱のように
束ねないでください　わたしは稲穂
秋　大地が胸を焦がす
見渡すかぎりの金色の稲穂
わたしを止めないで
標本箱の昆虫のように
高原からきた絵葉書のように
止めないでください　わたしは羽撃き
こやみなく空のひろさをかいさぐっている
目には見えないつばさの音
わたしを注がないで
日常性に薄められた牛乳のように
ねるい酒のように
注がないでください　わたしは海
夜　とほうもなく満ちてくる
苦い潮　ふちのない水
わたしを名付けないで
娘という名　妻という名
重々しい母という名でしつられた座に
坐りきりにさせないでください　わたしは風
りんごの木と
泉のありかを知っている風
46 k a fk a / h a rv e y
新川
/ og awa 47
わたしを区切らないで
,コンマや.ピリオドいくつかの段落
そしておしまいに
「さようなら」
があったりする手紙のようには
こまめにけりをつけないでください　わたしは終わりのない文章
川と同じに
はてしなく流れていく　拡がっていく　一行の詩
=
Don’t Bind Me Up
Don’t bind me up
Like the gillyflower
Like the white scallion
Please don’t bind me up I am an ear of rice
Fall Vast land warms my heart
Endless rice field with ripe golden ears
Don’t label me
Like “daughter” Like “mother”
Like “mother” that has an expectation to achieve
Please don’t let me be tied down to it I am the wind
Wind that knows where Apple tree and
Source of water is
Don’t package me
With a comma, period. In different paragraphs
Like the letter that ends with “good-bye”
Please don’t end my thoughts I am a sentence that has no
ending
Same with the river
Moving limitlessly expanding like one poem
Don’t imprison me
Like the insects that are displayed in a specimen box
Like a picture postcard from the highland
Please don’t stop me I am a flapping wing
Flying endlessly to search for the eternity in the sky
Sound of wing that cannot see
Don’t pour me
Like the milk that is diluted for daily use
Like lukewarm sake
Please don’t pour me I am ocean
Night Endless rising tide
Bitter tide Water that has no boundaries
48 新川
/ o g awa
新川
/ og awa 49
 
J O S É M A RT Í · RO B E RTO A . RO C H I N & G I N A C A P U TO
 
D A N T E A L I G H I E R I · A L AY N A B A R R E T T
Cultivo una rosa blanca
In Canto III of the Inferno, Dante reads the inscription on the gate to Hell.
La Porta dell’Inferno
Cultivo una rosa blanca
en junio como en enero
para el amigo sincero
que me da su mano franca.
Y para el cruel que me arranca
el corazón con que vivo,
cardo ni ortiga cultivo;
cultivo la rosa blanca.
=
PER ME SI VA NE LA CITTÀ DOLENTE,
PER ME SI VA NE L’ETTERNO DOLORE,
PER ME SI VA TRA LA PERDUTA GENTE.
GIUSTIZIA MOSSE IL MIO ALTO FATTORE;
FECEMI LA DIVINA PODESTATE,
LA SOMMA SAPÏENZA E ’l PRIMO AMORE,
DINANZI A ME NON FUOR COSE CREATE
SE NON ETTERNE, E IO ETTERNO DURO.
LASCIATE OGNE SPERANZA, VOI CH’INTRATE.
I’ll Raise a White Rose
I’ll raise a white rose
at any time of year
for any friend sincere
who shakes hands as he goes.
To the cruel man who’d dispose
the heart that lets me live
thorn nor thistle will I give;
I’ll raise the same white rose.
50 m a rtí / ro c hi n & c a p uto
=
The Gate of Hell
THROUGH ME THE WAY INTO THE SORROWFUL CITY,
THROUGH ME THE WAY INTO ETERNAL TORMENT,
THROUGH ME THE WAY AMONG THE PEOPLE FALLEN.
JUSTICE MOVED MY SUBLIME CREATOR;
MY MAKER THE HEAVENLY POWER,
THE SUPREME WISDOM AND THE FIRST LOVE,
BEFORE ME NOTHING CREATED BUT MATTERS ETERNAL,
AND I ETERNALLY ENDURE.
ABANDON ALL HOPE, YOU WHO ENTER.
da nte / ba rret t 51
 
S Ο Φ Ο Κ Λ Η S [ S O P H O C L E S ] · R E B E C C A S H E PA R D
an excerpt from
Antigone
shaft of sun, bringing forth the most eminent light of
all before
to seven-gated Thebes, at once revealed itself — oh eye
of golden day — rushing, sparkling
along the flowing Dirke, urging on with a sharpened bit
the white-shielded Argive man, exile in full
armor, advancing
headlong
ἕν ἀπόσπασμα
Ἀντιγόνης
ἀκτὶς ἀελίου, τὸ κάλλιστον ἑπταπύλῳ φανὲν
Θήβᾳ τῶν προτέρων φάος,
ἐφάνθης ποτ᾽, ὦ χρυσέας
ἁμέρας βλέφαρον, Διρκαίων ὑπὲρ ῥεέθρων μολοῦσα,
τὸν λεύκασπιν Ἀργόθεν
ἐκβάντα φῶτα πανσαγίᾳ
φυγάδα πρόδρομον ὀξυτέρῳ
κινήσασα χαλινῷ·
ὃν ἐφ᾽ ἁμετέρᾳ γᾳ̑ Πολυνείκης
ἀρθεὶς νεικέων ἐξ ἀμφιλόγων
. . . . . . . . . . . . . ὀξέα κλάζων
ἀετὸς εἰς γᾶν [ὣς] ὑπερέπτα,
λευκῆς χιόνος πτέρυγι στεγανός,
πολλῶν μεθ᾽ ὅπλων
ξύν θ᾽ ἱπποκόμοις κορύθεσσιν.
whom Polyneices drove to our land, carried by both-sided
feud — as an eagle shrieking shrilly
against our land
covering it with a wing of bright
snow and countless weapons and helmets
adorned with flowing
horse hair
=
52 S ο φ ο κ λ ηs / shepa r d
Sο φ οκ λ η s / sh epa rd 53
 
O V I D · R E B E C C A S H E PA R D
Quintus Elegia
Aestus erat, mediamque dies exegerat horam;
Adposui medio membra levanda toro.
Pars adaperta fuit, pars altera clausa fenestrae;
Quale fere silvae lumen habere solent,
Qualia sublucent fugiente crepuscula Phoebo,
Aut ubi nox abiit, nec tamen orta dies.
Illa verecundis lux est praebenda puellis,
Qua timidus latebras speret habere pudor.
Ecce, Corinna venit, tunica velata recincta,
Candida dividua colla tegente coma —
Qualiter in thalamos famosa Semiramis isse
Dicitur, et multis Lais amata viris.
Deripui tunicam — nec multum rara nocebat;
Pugnabat tunica sed tamen illa tegi.
Quae cum ita pugnaret, tamquam quae vincere nollet,
Victa est non aegre proditione sua.
Ut stetit ante oculos posito velamine nostros,
In toto nusquam corpore menda fuit.
Quos umeros, quales vidi tetigique lacertos!
Forma papillarum quam fuit apta premi!
Quam castigato planus sub pectore venter!
Quantum et quale latus! quam iuvenale femur!
Singula quid referam? nil non laudabile vidi
Et nudam pressi corpus ad usque meum.
Cetera quis nescit? lassi requievimus ambo.
Proveniant medii sic mihi saepe dies!
5 4 ov i d / shepa r d
=
Elegy V
It was hot, and day had passed the middle hour;
I sprawled my limbs lazily across the bed.
Some of the windows were wide open, others closed;
The light almost the kind that forests hold,
Forests that glow faintly at dusk, with Phoebus fleeing,
Or when night has gone, but day has not yet risen.
The kind of light that must be offered to modest girls,
so that their timid shame may hide in shadows.
Look, Corinna comes, concealed only by a loosened tunic,
her shining neck covered by scattered hair —
Just as renowned Semiramis goes into her bedchamber,
It is said, or Lais, adored by many men.
I tore at her tunic, so thin it barely stood in the way of much,
yet nevertheless she fought to be covered by it.
But as she struggled, it was as though she did not wish to win,
and betraying herself she gave in, not reluctantly.
So, with her covering ripped away, she stood before my eyes,
and there was not one blemish on her whole body.
What shoulders, what curves of muscle I saw and touched!
The form of breasts like they were made to be squeezed!
How flat and even the stomach, beneath the slender ribcage!
How perfect the sides! How young the thighs!
Why report each thing? Everything I saw was praiseworthy
and I pressed her naked body continuously to mine.
Who doesn’t know the rest? Exhausted, we rested together.
Let afternoons like this come to me often!
ov id / sh epa rd 55
 
R E B E C C A S H E PA R D
The Oxymoronic Nature of
Fluency in Translation
In my second year at Sarah Lawrence I stumbled across an interview
with Anne Carson, published in The Iowa Review in 1997. At the time,
I was flirting with the idea of Classics, infatuated with the way in
which my philosophy professor’s lectures would hinge around one
Greek word, its minimal curves and lines scratched on the board
breathtakingly plural in translation, elicit in implications. In the
interview, Carson claims that Classics are “intrinsically interesting.” She goes on to say, “When you’re traveling around in Greek
words, you have a sense that you’re among the roots of meanings,
not up in the branches.”
Two years later, the majority of my studying consists in picking
my way through Greek and Latin texts, word by word, line by line.
When I tell people that I study Classics, the first response is always
the same: a hesitant, “Oh, so can you speak Greek and Latin?”
This reaction, always paired with a self-consciousness, a doubt,
points to something fascinating behind our current perception
of Greek and Latin. Language, we believe, is the vessel of communication, of speech. It exists as a tool, which is sharpened by
speed and efficiency. One learns a language in order to understand
immediately, to be able to respond as soon as one is addressed. But
we also, somewhere in the back of our minds, know that there is
something different about Greek and Latin. They exist in a fuzzy,
primordial place. When someone asks, “Can you speak Greek or
Latin,” what they mean to say is, “I thought these languages were
dead,” which is to say, “What constitutes the life of a language no
longer spoken?”
56 sh epa rd
Troubled by this question in my first year of studying Greek,
I asked my professor why we are always recommended recent
translations of Homer, or tragedy, or philosophy. Surely, scholars
in the medieval ages, or men educated in England in the last couple
hundred years, having rigorously studied Greek and Latin since
childhood, had just as good, if not a better, understanding of the
language. Her answer: “We need a new translation of Homer every
fifty years.” Not because we understand the language better, but
because Homer is made relevant generation by generation, and
because as English morphs and changes, it consequently reveals
as much about the translator and their place in time as about the
original text. What I understood this to mean, perhaps on a poetic
level, is that what appears dead to us is given life by our looking
at it. The very act of turning our gaze to something gives it an
irrevocable relation to the present.
There are many implications in this gaze, which touch on the
fundamentally problematic character of all translation: is the
truth of a work brought out in an almost-scientific extraction and
parallelism of each word, or in the poetic interpretation of mood,
tone, rhythm, style, and, most difficult of all, a trans-linguistic
interpretation not of meaning itself but of the meaning to which
a work may point itself? The first method is often heralded as the
“literal” translation. Despite the irreconcilable issues of sentence
structure (subject verb object of English versus the possibility of
entirely different word order available in languages with noun
and adjective declensions), the emphasis of a literal translation
is to add as little as possible; each word is translated as directly
as possible, poetic license is minimalized. But the issue plaguing
this method is that of subtraction: how much of a work is lost by
filtering it through this sieve?
The word literal comes from the Latin littera, meaning simply “letter, alphabetic sign, literature, account,” but by the 14th
century comes to mean “taking words in their natural meaning,”
which was originally used in opposition to mystical or allegorical
sh epa rd 57
interpretations of scripture. The question to be asked here is: to
what extent can an extraction and direct translation of words ever
preserve their natural meaning? After all, they are literally taken
out of their natural environment, and their natural meaning implies more than a definition, but a relationship not only to ‘truth’
proper, but to beauty. Are we so preoccupied in trying to translate
truth that we forget or deem impossible the translation of beauty?
The second method sees this extraction as inherently a deconstruction, which begs a re-construction. The work was originally
the end product of thought, of an action rather than an immediate
and pure transmission of truth to paper. Therefore, a translation
must strive to see this original action and imitate it, knowing that
the by-product, because it will be in a different language, will
necessarily be an imperfect reflection. The necessity of subjective
interpretation is exemplified in the vast variation of vocabulary
between different languages. William Harris writes in An Intelligent
Person’s Guide to Latin that “Latin has a relatively small vocabulary,
with less than four thousand words in general, current use. Greek
has three times that number, modern English prescribes 10,000 for
a college student, 50,000 for a teacher, and there are half a million
words available one way or another.”
My first brush with the translator’s helplessness to the extent of
word choice in English came when working on a Latin poem with
a professor, who pointed out that I was translating the Latin words
umeros, lacertos, and femur — words roughly corresponding to
shoulders, arm muscle, and thighs — as though the woman described
were an animal on a butcher’s block. “The truth is,” my professor
said, “the language a butcher would use for these body parts would
most likely be the same words, as Latin is so limited in vocabulary
in comparison to English. But the extent of our choice corresponds
to a great responsibility in interpreting the correct tone.”
The choice of what to attempt to preserve in translation is a
timeless one, and nothing I have argued here is radically different
58 sh epa rd
from the discussions that have been ongoing within the field for a
long time. But while the struggle between the “literal” on the one
hand, and the beauty, or the feeling behind it, may seem like a
lose-lose situation, I would argue that this uncomfortable position
of prioritization and compromise forced upon us necessitates a
wholly other relationship to language. In short, it reminds us that
language is not just a tool, or a means. In my mind, the goal of
Greek and Latin, treated properly, is not fluency, fluency coming
from the Greek phluein, “to bubble up, boil over,” and later through
the Latin fluentem, “lax, relaxed.” Language is not lax, it does not
flow from an eternal, pure source. It is constantly wading through
the mire of history and context, one word building upon another,
layering meaning upon meaning. When one reads Greek or Latin
well, one does not gain understanding by speeding up, but by
slowing down, by staring each word in the face. One scrabbles
around in the roots of things, and looks up knowing where they
stand, rather than looking out from the branches, unaware that
their gaze is not purely outwards, but that a whole world exists
below, holding them up.
sh epa rd 59
 
LO U I S E G LÜ C K · V I C TO R I A S I LVA
The School Children
The children go forward with their little satchels.
And all morning the mothers have labored
to gather the late apples, red and gold,
like words of another language.
And on the other shore
are those who wait behind great desks
to receive these offerings.
How orderly they are — the nails
on which the children hang
their overcoats of blue or yellow wool.
And the teachers shall instruct them in silence
and the mothers shall scour the orchards for a way out,
drawing to themselves the gray limbs of the fruit trees
bearing so little ammunition.
=
Les écoliers
Les enfants avancent avec leurs petits cartables.
Et tout le matin les mères ont travaillé
à cueillir des pommes mûres, rouges et dorées,
comme les mots d’une autre langue.
6 0 glü c k / si lva
Et sur l’autre rivage
sont ceux qui attendent derrière de grands pupitres
pour recevoir ces offrandes.
Comme ils sont ordonnés — les clous
auxquels les enfants pendent
leurs pardessus de laine bleue ou jaune
Et les professeurs devront les instruire en silence
et les mères devront ratisser les vergers pour trouver une sortie
tirant à elles les branches grises des arbres fruitiers
qui portent si peu de munitions.
=
Los escolares
Los niños se adelantan con sus maletines pequeños.
Y toda la mañana las madres se esforzaron
para juntar las manzanas maduras, rojas y doradas,
como palabras de otra lengua.
Y en la otra costa
están los que esperan detrás de grandes escritorios
para recibir estas ofrendas.
Tan ordenadas que son — las puntillas
donde los niños cuelgan
sus abrigos de lana azul o amarilla.
Y las maestras los enseñarán en silencio
y las madres recorrerán las huertas para encontrar una salida,
bajado hacia ellas las ramas grises de los árboles frutales
cargando tan poca munición.
glüc k / silva 6 1
 
Μ ΆΤ Σ Η Χ ΑΤ Ζ Η Λ Α Ζ Ά Ρ ΟΥ [ M AT S I H AT Z I L A Z A RO U ]
M A RY K A I R I D I
The impossibility of this translation stems from Χατζηλαζάρου’s utter,
cataclysmic defiance of grammatical and syntactical rules. The poet
wishes, at the apogee of her amorous longing for a lover long gone, to
rip syntax apart. She bends verbs and molds them to serve her fervor,
willingly violating laws of language in order to sculpt her feeling into
words. A unique case in Modern Greek literature, Χατζηλαζάρου is often
regarded as the priestess of female desire.
Αντίστροφη Αφιέρωση
για τον Αντρέα Εμπειρίκο
Για κείνον με την αντρίκια φωνή-ματιά και με χέρια μεγάλες
φτερούγες που
δεν τις ξεχνάω το απόγεμα είπες τριάντα χρόνια σε περίμενα κι
ένιωσα
πρώτη φορά «le vierge le vivace et le bel aujourd’hui» μετά
έντονος αέρας
αγάπης άνοιξε διάπλατα ένα παράθυρο μέσα μου και μπήκανε
μεγάλες
σταγόνες αγαλλίασης καθώς ο νοτιάς έστριβε βουίζοντας απ’ τη
γωνιά της
καρδιάς μου το σώμα είναι χώμα διψασμένο από σένα έμαθε τις
πλημμύρες του έρωτα πολλά νομίζω θα μιλήσω τώρα πολλά που
φύλαγα
σε μια κρυψώνα θα τ’ απλώσω εδώ όσο μπορώ καλύτερα και ό, τι
θέλει ας
γενεί στοές θα σκάψω κάτω πάνω μέσα απ’ τα λόγια τι
62 Χ ατ ζη λ α ζ ά ρ ου / k a i r i d i
συνεννόηση θα’
χουμε αλλιώτικα ήρθανε βλέπεις κι έδεσαν στις δικές μας
σημαδούρες
ξένοι με διαφορετικές γλώσσες πως τρυπώνω τα χέρια μου
παραμάσχαλα
αναμένοντάς σε τις νύχτες όταν κρυώνω έτσι αυτή τη στιγμή
έχωσα εδώ
και θα χώνω αλλού λέξεις κλεμμένες ή δικές μου που σου αρέσανε
για να σε
χαϊδεύει η μουσούδα του γραφτού μου πάλι ό, τι βρω δικό σου θα
το φάω
θα το τραγανίσω θα το καταπιώ ώσπου μιαν ώρα μες στο λιοπύρι
θα μου
βγει αχνός ίδρωτας πάνω απ’ το στόμα θα’ θελα ν’ ακουμπήσω
δίπλα σου
κι άλλα της εκλογής μου μέρη μέρη διάσπαρτα με ασφόδελους ή
μεγάλες
άγριες μαργαρίτες και πιο πέρα έναν τεράστιο κέδρο του Λίβανου
αλλού
πάλι να’ χει αμμόλοφους με σπόνδυλους από δωρικές κολόνες
αραδιασμένους χάμω θα’ σου έρθει κείνο το κυβικό κλουβί που
σου’ χω
τάξει με μικρά κόκκινα γαρίφαλα μέσα να πετάνε πέρα δώθε
τραγουδώντας
φλογερά και σαν λαχανιάζω από τον πολύ οίστρο θα’ θελα τότε οι
κουβέντες μου να’ ναι για σένα ξόμπλια όμοια με πέρδικας φτερά
θα’ θελα
μερικά από τ’ αστεία που μαζί ξαναφέρναμε (α εκείνες οι
συμπαιγνίες) να
χαμογελάνε ακόμα με λακκούβες στην άκρη των χειλιών θα’
θελα να
είχαμε πάει οι δυο μας στην πόλη άλλοθι όλων των σύννεφων θα’
θελα
Χ ατ ζη λ α ζ ά ρου / k a irid i 63
όταν τα σανίδια κάτω στο πάτωμα τρίζουνε ξαφνικά τη νύχτα την
ίδια ώρα
που τα έπιπλα και η κασέλα αντιλαλούν θα’ θελα να
δημιουργείται το
γνωστό έργο της συγκεκριμένης μουσικής που λέγεται
«κοντσέρτο για έναν
άνθρωπο μόνο» θα’ θελα εσένα που η καρδιά σου πιάνει από την
διώρυγα
του Μπέριγκ μέσα απ’ όλη τη Ρωσία και απ’ το φαράγγι Λονδίνο
Παρίσι
Γενεύη για να φτάσει ως το Αιγαίο θα’ θελα όποιοι και να’ ναι οι
πόθοι που
έχεις να σου τους φέρνει ο γέρο άνεμος μπροστά σου εκεί που
στέκεις να
πέφτουνε βροχή όπως τα βατράχια τα σαλιγκάρια και άλλα μικρά
ζώα που
μας έρχονται έτσι από μακρινές περιοχές υπερπόντιες να σε
κοιτάει ο
κόσμος και να σαστίζει βλέποντας τον εσαεί ευδαίμονα άντρα
μαζί δεν
λέγαμε ότι για την τύχη μας οι πόθοι σαν χορταίνουν άλλους
πόθους
γεννάνε
θα’ θελα μα πόσο θα’ θελα ναι θα’ θελα αμέσως τώρα τώρα
θέλω να ξεμαλλιάσω λίγο τη σύνταξη για να σε τραγουδήσω
όπως
έμαθα στο Παρίσι
εσένα σ’ έχω Δεινόσαυρο από τους πιο εκπληκτικούς
εσένα σ’ έχω βότσαλο φρούτο απαλό που τ’ ωρίμασε η θάλασσα
σ’ ερωτεύω
σε ζηλεύω
σε γιασεμί
σε καλπασμό αλόγου μες στο δάσος το φθινόπωρο
με φοράω νέγρικο προσωπείο για να μας θέλεις εσύ
64 Χ ατ ζη λ α ζ ά ρ ου / k a i r i d i
με κεντρίζεις μεταξένια άσπρο μου κουκούλι
με κοιτάζεις πολύ προσεκτικά
tu m’ abysses
tu m’ oasis
je te gougouch
je me tombeau bientôt
εσένα σ’ έχω δέκα ανθρώπους του Giacometti
σ’ έχω κόνδορα καθώς απλώνεσαι πάνω από τις Άνδεις
σ’ έχω θάλασσα γύρω τριγύρω από τα νησιά του Πάσχα
εσύ σπλάχνο μου πως με γεννάς
σε μίσχος
σε φόρμιγξ
με φλοισβίζεις
σε ζαργάνα α μ’ αρέσει
δυο κροταλίες όρθιοι στρίβουν και ξαναστρίβουν γλιστρώντας ο
ένας γύρω
απ’ τον άλλο όταν σταματήσουν η περίπτυξή τους είναι το μονόγραμμά σου
tu m’ es Mallarmé Rimbaud Apollinaire
je te Wellingtonia
je t’ocarina
εγώ σε Τσεπέλοβο Πάπιγκο Ελαφότοπο
εγώ σε Βίκο με τα γιοφύρια του κει που διαβαίνει ο χρόνος
σ’ έχω πει και ψέματα για να τους ξεγελάσουμε
εγώ σ’ έχω άρωμα έρωτα
σ’ έχω μαύρο λιοντάρι
σε ονειροβάτησα μαζί μου ως το γκρεμό
εσέ ασύλληπτο θυμάμαι και τον ύπνο μου χάνω
εσύ μάχες και ένσαρκα άλογα του Uccello
εσύ δωρητής (δεξιά κάτω της εικόνας) εκείνου του μικρού
κίτρινου αγριολούλουδου
εσύ κένταυρου ζέση
εσύ συντεχνία ολάκερη που έργα ποιείς διαβαίνοντας εν τη
Χ ατ ζη λ α ζ ά ρου / k a irid i 65
ανωνυμία
je te ouf quelle chaleur
tu m’ accèdes partout presque
je te glycine
εσύ φεγγάρι που ένα σύννεφο αναβοσβήνει
εσύ δε βαριέσαι παράτα το το σύμπαν έτσι που το’ χουμε
αλαζονήσει
και δαύτο πώς να συναντηθούμε ποτέ
εσύ σε τρυφερό λόγο με το λόγο έτσι δεν είναι πες
εσύ σελίδα μου
εσύ μολύβι μου ερμηνευτή μου
σε ανοίγω συρτάρια
πώς γιατί δεν ήρθες τόσες φορές
σε ξεμάκρυνα εγώ λέω τώρα
δίχως τέλος λυπάμαι
σε κρυάδα γνώρισες ποτέ την καρδιά μου
σε μιαν έκπαγλη χρονιά ανταμώσαμε
σε ληστεύω από αλλουνού τα χέρια
σε ακούω από δω από κει
σε σιωπώ μες στην απέραντη τρυφερότητα
σιγά σιγά να καταλαγιάσουμε
όλα δεν τα’ χω πει
ΜΕ ΕΚΡΙΖΩΝΕΙΣ
=
Dedication in Reverse
for Andreas Embirikos
For him with the manly voice, gaze and hands big like wings
I don’t forget the afternoon you said thirty years I waited and felt
for the first time le vierge le vivace et le bel aujourd’hui then the
ferocious wind
6 6 Χ ατ ζη λ α ζ ά ρ ου / k a i r i d i
of love opened wide a window within me and let inside vast
drops of delight while southerly winds were coming down
whirring from the corner
of my heart the body the thirsty soil from you learned the
inundations of love so much I want to say now so much I have
been cherishing
in a secret place I will spread them all out the way I can and let
them
be arcades I will spade all over and within the words what
understanding
will we achieve otherwise they came you see and tied
themselves with our own buoys
strangers speaking foreign tongues how do my hands take
shelter in your underarms
waiting for you the nights when I am cold like this moment I
buried here
and I will bury elsewhere words stolen or words of mine which
used to please you words
to nuzzle you again anything I find of yours I will eat
I will crunch I will swallow till one day amidst the burning sun
light sweat will spring on my lip I would like to lean in close to
you
and to other of my fantasy’s places sporadic places sown with
asphodels or big
wild marigolds while further down a huge cedar of Lebanon
elsewhere
again I would like sand dunes with vertebrae like Doric columns
lined up right there you will receive this cubic cage I have to you
promised with little red carnations within to fly singing
fierily and once my ardor exhausts me I would like then
my words to be for you adornments similar to a partridge’s
wings I would like
some of the jokes we used to contrive together (ah those games)
to
Χ ατ ζη λ α ζ ά ρου / k a irid i 67
smile still at the edge of our lips I would like us two to
have been together in the city pretense of all the clouds I would
like
when the wooden planks on the floor creak suddenly in the
night the same time
that the furniture and the old chest echo I would like that it
creates
the familiar opus of the specific music which is called concerto
for one
person only I would like you whose heart extends from the canal
of Bering crossing through Russia and through the ravine
London Paris
Geneva reaching the Aegean I would like any of those desires
you keep may the old wind carry them back to you there where
you stand may
they fall like rain of frogs and snails and other little animals
which
reach us from distant places across the sea the world to look at
you
and stay bemused at the sight of the forever prosperous man
together wasn’t it
we were discussing our destiny that our yearnings once satisfied
other yearnings
beget
I would like oh how would I like yes I would like right now just
now
I want to rip the syntax apart so that I can sing you as
I learned in Paris
you I have Dinosaur of the most marvelous ones
you I have pebble fruit smooth ripen by the sea
you I make in love
I envy you
I jasmine you
68 Χ ατ ζη λ α ζ ά ρ ου / k a i r i d i
I a horse’s gallop in the autumn forest you
I wear you African mask for you to want us
you pierce me in your silky way my white cocoon
you look at me with your examining eyes
tu m’abyssses
tu m’oasis
je te gougouch
je te tombeau bientôt
you I have ten figures of Giacometti
you I have my condor as you spread over the Andes
you I have my sea around the Easter islands
you my deepest love oh you give life to me
you my petiole
you my lyre
you overflow me in your waves
you my needlefish oh how I like it
two standing rattlesnakes they turn and turn again slipping one
unto the other when they stop their embrace is your
monogram
tu m’es Mallarmé Rimbaud Apollinaire
je te Wellingtonia
je t’ocarina
Ι Tsepelovo Papingo Elafotopos you
I make you my Vikos gorge with the old bridges where time
comes to pass
I have told you even lies so to trick them
I have you fragrance of love
I have you black lion
I sleepwalked you with me till the edge of the cliff
you impossible do I remember and lose my sleep
you battles and incarnated horses of Uccello
you giver of that little yellow wildflower
Χ ατ ζη λ α ζ ά ρου / k a irid i 6 9
you the centaur’s fervor
you make a whole guild by yourself and make work while
crossing through anonymity
je te ouf quelle chaleur
tu m’accèdes partout presque
je te glycine
you moon shimmering a cloud
you don’t despair quit this universe now that we have spoilt it
how could we ever meet
you in tender word with word isn’t it so
you my page
you my pencil my interpreter
I open you in drawers
why did you never once come to see me
I distanced you I fear
with no end I now lament
never in the cold did you meet my heart
a splendid year we met
I rob you from the hands of someone else
I catch a sound of you here there
I silence you within the vast tenderness
slowly we will subside
I haven’t said it all
YOU UPROOT ME
 
PA U LO L E M I N S K I · H E N R I Q U E RO M O F F
Aviso aos náufragos
Esta página, por exemplo,
não nasceu para ser lida.
Nasceu para ser pálida,
um mero plágio da Ilíada,
alguma coisa que cala,
folha que volta pro galho,
muito depois de caída.
Nasceu para ser praia,
quem sabe Andrômeda, Antártida
Himalaia, sílaba sentida,
nasceu para ser última
a que não nasceu ainda.
Palavras trazidas de longe
pelas águas do Nilo,
um dia, esta pagina, papiro,
vai ter que ser traduzida,
para o símbolo, para o sânscrito,
para todos os dialetos da Índia,
vai ter que dizer bom-dia
ao que só se diz ao pé do ouvido,
vai ter que ser a brusca pedra
onde alguém deixou cair o vidro.
Não é assim que é a vida?
=
7 0 Χ ατ ζη λ α ζ ά ρ ου / k a i r i d i
le m inski / ro m off 7 1
Call to the Castaway
Take this page, for example,
it was never born to be read.
So it was born to be pallid,
merely copied from the Iliad,
something that is kept unsaid,
a leaf lead back to its bramble,
even long after abscised.
So it was born to be a beach,
who knows if Antarctica, Andromeda,
Himalaya, sensed syllable,
so it was born to be the last
the one still to be born.
Words long carried from afar,
by the waters of the Nile,
one day, this page, papyrus,
will have to be translated
into the symbolic, into Sanskrit,
into all the dialects of India,
it will have to say good-morning
to what is only whispered in the ear,
it will have to be the blunt stone
on which someone has let glass fall.
Isn’t that how life is?
 
C O N C E I Ç Ã O E VA R I STO · H E N R I Q U E RO M O F F
Vozes-mulheres
A voz de minha bisavó ecoou
criança
nos porões do navio.
Ecoou lamentos
de uma infância perdida.
A voz de minha avó
ecoou obediência
aos brancos-donos de tudo.
A voz de minha mãe
ecoou baixinho revolta
no fundo das cozinhas alheias
debaixo das trouxas
roupagens sujas dos brancos
pelo caminho empoeirado
rumo à favela.
A minha voz ainda
ecoa versos perplexos
com rimas de sangue
e
fome.
A voz de minha filha
recolhe todas as nossas vozes
recolhe em si
7 2 le m i nski / ro m o ff
e va risto / ro m off 7 3
as vozes mudas caladas
engasgadas nas gargantas.
My voice still
echoes perplexed verses
with rhymes of blood
and
hunger.
A voz de minha filha
recolhe em si
a fala e o ato.
O ontem — o hoje — o agora.
Na voz de minha filha
se fará ouvir a ressonância
o eco da vida-liberdade.
=
Voices-women
The voice of my great-grandmother echoed
child
in the holds of the ship.
Echoed laments
of a lost childhood.
The voice of my daughter
reunites all our voices
reunites in itself
the voices of gagged mutes
stifled in the throat.
The voice of my daughter
reunites in itself
the speech and the act.
Yesterday — today — now.
In my daughter’s voice
will be heard the resounding
echo of life-liberty.
The voice of my grandmother
echoed obedience
to the white-masters of all.
The voice of my mother
echoed low rebellion
in someone else’s back kitchens
underneath the bundled
dirty garbs of the whites
through the dust-trodden road
bound to the favela.
74 e va risto / ro m o ff
e va risto / ro m off 75
 
G LO R I A P O S A D A · G I N A C A P U TO
These poems are excerpted from Gloria Posada’s collection Vosotras
[You Women].
Medusa
Con cabeza y cuerpo
Desarticulados
Preguntarás
Dónde habitarán tus palabras,
Quién recibirá el amor
Que emane aún
De tus ojos abiertos
=
Santa Lucía
No sé
Dónde se encuentra
El ave rapaz
Que crié
Para que me arrancara
los ojos
Tal vez
No me amó
Lo suficiente.
=
Saint Lucy
I don’t know
Where to find
The bird of prey
I bred
So that it might pluck out
my eyes
Medusa
With head and body
Disconnected
You will ask
Where will your words live,
Who will receive the love
That still radiates
From your open eyes
Perhaps
It didn’t love me
■ ■ ■
Enough
■ ■ ■
7 6 p os a da / c a p uto
pos a da / c a puto 7 7
Alicia
Your tears
raise the level of the waters
Al llegar al bosque
un agujero en la tierra
es un jardín,
El lago un gran espejo
cuya profundidad
es el anverso del mundo
If you shrink in this instant
you will drown
If you grow
the girl you are
Will die
Tus lágrimas
aumentan el nivel de las aguas
Si empequeñeces en este instante
te ahogarás
Si creces
la niña que eres
Morirá
=
Alice
Arriving at the forest
a hole in the earth
is a garden,
The lake a great mirror
whose depth
is the obverse of the world
7 8 p os a da / c a p uto
pos a da / c a puto 79
 
R A C I N E · ZO E M O O R E
un monologue de
Bérénice
Bérénice:
Le temps n’est plus, Phénice, où je pouvais trembler.
Titus m’aime, il peut tout, il n’a plus qu’à parler.
Il verra le sénat m’apporter ses hommages,
Et le peuple de fleurs couronner ses images.
De cette nuit, Phénice, as-tu vu la splendeur ?
Tes yeux ne sont-ils pas tout pleins de sa grandeur ?
Ces flambeaux, ce bûcher, cette nuit enflammée,
Ces aigles, ces faisceaux, ce peuple, cette armée,
Cette foule de rois, ces consuls, ce sénat,
Qui tous de mon amant empruntaient leur éclat ;
Cette pourpre, cet or, que rehaussait sa gloire,
Et ces lauriers encor témoins de sa victoire ;
Tous ces yeux qu’on voyait venir de toutes parts
Confondre sur lui seul leurs avides regards ;
Ce port majestueux, cette douce présence.
Ciel ! avec quel respect et quelle complaisance
Tous les cœurs en secret l’assuraient de leur foi !
Parle : peut-on le voir sans penser, comme moi,
Qu’en quelque obscurité que le sort l’eût fait naitre,
Le monde en le voyant eût reconnu son maître ?
Mais, Phénice, où m’emporte un souvenir charmant ?
Cependant Rome entière, en ce même moment,
Fait des vœux pour Titus, et par des sacrifices,
De son règne naissant célèbre les prémices.
Que tardons-nous ? Allons, pour son empire heureux,
80 r ac i n e / m o o r e
Au ciel qui le protège offrir aussi nos vœux.
Aussitôt, sans l’attendre, et sans être attendue,
Je reviens le chercher, et dans cette entrevue
Dire tout ce qu’aux cœurs l’un de l’autre contents
Inspirent des transports retenus si longtemps.
=
a monologue from
Bérénice, translated and adapted by Zoe Moore as
I Love You, But
Bernice:
I don’t have to worry about this anymore, Phenice. Titus loves me,
he can do anything, he only has to say the word. He will see how
happy we could be, he will picture it perfectly. Haven’t you seen
him? Are you not impressed? When you get here, you will see. He
is amazing, his eyes are full of wonder, the house is opening up to
his friends, his favorite food is laid out, there are gifts on the table:
everything has bent to his will. Everything is going his way. He is
graceful and gracious — it’s no wonder that everyone loves him
so much. Tell me, was he born this way? When the world looks at
him, can they tell who he is and who he will be? I’m getting carried
away, but all of Paris is cheering for Titus. What am I waiting for? I
have no choice but to support him, you should get here soon so we
can have a toast. I can’t wait and I can’t be waited for. I’m going to
find him and tell him everything. Two hearts this happy are bound
to be happy together forever.
r ac ine / m oore 8 1
‫‪and a doctor called Winker whistled to himself‬‬
‫‪a morning tune.‬‬
‫‪When he covered my body with a faded sheet‬‬
‫‪from Public Health‬‬
‫‪I remembered how you also got a peek when‬‬
‫‪you were a three-year-old girl.‬‬
‫‪Your little eyes, with only cows‬‬
‫‪for comparison,‬‬
‫‪then saw between my legs teats full‬‬
‫‪of milk.‬‬
‫■ ■ ■‬
‫אמי מוסיפה‬
‫ֲאנִ י ל ֹא זֹוכֶ ֶרת ְב ַמצָ ִבי ָמה ָרצִ ִיתי‬
‫אֹותְך כֻ לִ י‬
‫לְ ַהגִ יד לָ ְך ֲא ָבל יָ לַ ְד ִתי ָ‬
‫ֲעצָ מֹות ָדם וְ ָחלָ ב‬
‫אֹותְך –‬
‫כֹואב לִ י לִ ְראֹות ָ‬
‫וְ ֵ‬
‫ֵש ָער כָ חֹל ֵעינַ יִ ם זְ ֻהּבֹות‬
‫ְמ ַט ֶפ ֶסת ֲע ַדיִ ן ַהחּוצָ ה‬
‫ֵמ ֵעינֵ י ַה ְתהֹום ֶשלִ י‬
‫קּורי ָה ִריר‬
‫כְ מֹו ַעכָ ִביש ַע ְק ָשן ַעל ֵ‬
‫טֹובה‬
‫ֶש ַא ְת טֹווָ ה ָ‬
‫ִעם כָ ל ַה ִמלִ ים ֶש ַא ְת צְ ִריכָ ה‬
‫לְ ַה ְמצִ יא לְ ַעצְ ֵמך‬
‫קֹומי‪.‬‬
‫ִב ְמ ִ‬
‫‪83‬‬
‫שוב אבי מדבר‬
‫ּבֹואי נִ ְר ֶאה‪ַ ,‬א ְת ֶב ַטח זֹוכֶ ֶרת‬
‫ִ‬
‫ֵאיך ָהלַ כְ ְת ַא ֲח ֵרי ִמ ָט ִתי‬
‫עִ ם ֶס ֶפל ְפלַ ְס ִטיק כָ חֹל ֶש ְבתֹוכֹו‬
‫ִשנַ י‪ ,‬כ ִֹחי‬
‫ִבכְ יֵ ְך ֶש ִח ֵפׂש ָאז ִמלִ ים‬
‫ָק ַרס לְ תֹוְך ִמלְ עֵ יל‬
‫רֹופא ְב ֵשם וִ ינְ ֶקר ָש ַרק לְ עַ צְ מֹו‬
‫וְ ֵ‬
‫ִפזְ מֹון ב ֶֹקר‬
‫ּגּופי ַב ָס ִדין ַה ָדהּוי‬
‫כְ ֶשכִ ָסה ֶאת ִ‬
‫ֶשל ְב ִריאּות כְ לָ לִ ית‬
‫נִ זְ כַ ְר ִתי ֵאיְך ָר ִאית לִ י גַ ם כְ ֶש ָהיִ ְית‬
‫ַבת ָשֹלוש‬
‫עֵ ינַ יִ ְך ַה ְק ַטּנֹות ֶש ָהיּו לָ ֵהן ַרק ָפרֹות‬
‫לְ ַה ְשוֹות‬
‫ָראּו ָאז ֵבין ַרגְ לַ י עֲ ִטינִ ים ְמלֵ ִאים‬
‫ָחלָ ב‪.‬‬
‫=‬
‫‪My Father Speaks Again‬‬
‫=‬
‫ ‪ / lesel‬מ ש עו ל‬
‫‪[ AGI M ISH O L] · R ACH EL ARI EL LESEL‬‬
‫ אגי משעול‬
‫‪Let’s see, you probably remember‬‬
‫‪how you followed my stretcher‬‬
‫‪with a blue plastic cup containing‬‬
‫‪my teeth, my strength.‬‬
‫‪Your cries that searched for words‬‬
‫‪collapsed back into an accent‬‬
‫‪ / lesel‬מש עו ל ‪82‬‬
My Mother Adds
In my condition I can’t remember what I wanted
to say to you but I birthed you, all of me
bones blood and milk.
And it hurts me to see you —
blue hair, golden eyes
still clambering out
of the abyss of my eyes
like a stubborn spider on webs of spittle
that you weave so well
with all the words you need
to invent for yourself
instead of me.
‫ גילי חיימוביץ‬
[GILI HAIMOVICH]
R ACHEL ARIEL LESEL
‫ֵא ֶפר וְ ָאפֹר‬
‫קֹור ַע ֶאת ַה ִקיר‬
ֵ ‫ַה ַחּלֹון‬
,‫אֹותנּו ְב ַמעֲ ֻר ֵמינּו‬
ָ ‫חֹושף‬
ֵ
.‫ֵאין ֲא ִפּלּו א ֶֹפק לְ סֹוכֵ ְך‬
.‫ֶאת ָה ִעיר ָבלַ ע ח ֶֹרף‬
,‫ֲאנַ ְחנּו ְשנֵ י זָ ִרים ְבתֹוְך ָה ֵאין‬
‫כְ מֹו ְד ֻמּיֹות צִ ְבעֹונִ ּיֹות ֶשנִ גְ זְ רּו‬
.‫ִמ ְתמּונַ ת ָמגָ זִ ין ַמ ְב ִט ָיחה‬
‫ֵתכֶ ף נִ ְד ֶהה‬
‫כְ מֹו ָה ִעיר ֶשנָ צְ צָ ה‬
‫כְ ַה ְב ָט ָחה‬
.‫לִ ְפנֵ י ֶשנָ גַ ְסנּו ִמ ֶמנָ ה ִביס גָ דֹול ִמ ַדי‬
=
Ashen Ashes
The window tears at the wall
exposing our own nakedness,
Not even the horizon for a cover.
The city has been swallowed by winter.
We are two strangers in the void,
like colorful characters cut out
of a confident magazine.
Soon we will fade
Like the city that once glistened
promisingly
before we took too big a bite.
84 ‫ מש עו ל‬/ lesel
‫ ח י ימובי ץ‬/ lesel 85
 
A U T H O R U N K N O W N · B E N Lo P I C C O LO
These passages are excerpted from Fragment B of the Old Icelandic
Physiologus.
veldu frá
Physiologus
Í hebreo finnsk gleðu hús. En gleða grípr bráð snarpliga ok slítr. Andlega menn táknar himmnaríki grípendr sem ok þetta: “Himmnaríki
þolir afl.”
[. . .]
Honocentaurus hefir upp liking manns en niðr dýrs, ok hefr
tvenn mál ok hefsk á teigum úti at mæla við menn. Svá sem postoli
mælir: “Hafendr fyrirheit mildi, en krapt hans neitendr”; ok Davið
propheta: “maðr, þá er hann var í vegsemd, eigi skildi hann, ok
er hann samvirðr óvitrum kykvendum ok er þem orðinn glikr.”
[. . .]
Akr sá er í Babílon, þá er hann frævisk, þá leggjask í akrinn
flugur, þær er kallask af alþýðu kleggjar; þær eta úr frækornit ok
spilla svá ávextinum. En þær marka villumenn, þá er láta sem nýtt
kenni, en þat er þó rangt, ok þarf við þeim at sjá.
[. . .]
The Honocentaurus resembles a man above and a beast below,
and speaks two languages. It dwells in the fields of the meadowlands
outside to speak with men. As the apostle says: “He has promised
mercy, but refuses strength.” David the prophet says: “Man, who
was in glory, does not understand him, and estimates the Honocentaurus to be equal to him due to the similarity of his language,
though is unaware of his beastliness.
[. . .]
There are fields in Babylon that men fertilize, and there lie in
the field flies, which are called by the common people horseflies;
they eat from the seed of corn and thus spoil its production. And
they signify heretics, when they behave like useful teachers, despite being wrong, and that is necessary to see in regards to them.
=
selections from
Physiologus
In Hebrew one will find the house of the kite. The kite sharply grabs
its prey and kills it. It signifies spiritual men seizing the kingdom
of heaven, as in this quote: “The kingdom of heaven stays at rest.”
86 un kn o w n / l o p i c c o lo
unkno w n / l o pic c olo 87
 
FRIEDRICH WILHEL M NIETZSCHE
M I C H A E L F E I N B E RG
Götzen-Dämmerung
Der Schauspieler, der Mime, der Tänzer, der Musiker, der Lyriker
sind in ihren Instinkten grundverwandt und an sich Eins, aber
allmählich spezialisirt und von einander abgetrennt – bis selbst
zum Widerspruch. Der Lyriker blieb am längsten mit dem Musiker
geeint; der Schauspieler mit dem Tänzer. – Der Architekt stellt
weder einen dionysischen, noch einen apollinischen Zustand dar:
hier ist es der grosse Willensakt, der Wille, der Berge versetzt, der
Rausch des grossen Willens, der zur Kunst verlangt. Die mächtigsten
Menschen haben immer die Architekten inspirirt; der Architekt
war stets unter der Suggestion der Macht. Im Bauwerk soll sich
der Stolz, der Sieg über die Schwere, der Wille zur Macht versichtbaren; Architektur ist eine Art Macht-Beredsamkeit in Formen,
bald überredend, selbst schmeichelnd, bald bloss befehlend. Das
höchste Gefühl von Macht und Sicherheit kommt in dem zum
Ausdruck, was grossen Stil hat. Die Macht, die keinen Beweis mehr
nöthig hat; die es verschmäht, zu gefallen; die schwer antwortet;
die keinen Zeugen um sich fühlt; die ohne Bewusstsein davon lebt,
dass es Widerspruch gegen sie giebt; die in sich ruht, fatalistisch,
ein Gesetz unter Gesetzen: Das redet als grosser Stil von sich –
Twilight of the Idols
The actor, the mime, the dancer, the musician, and the lyric poet
are, in their instincts, fundamentally related and similar. However,
they gradually specialize and diverge from each other — eventually
arriving at opposition. The lyric poet remained united with the
musician longer than the others; the actor with the dancer. The
architect conforms neither to the Dionysian nor to the Apollonian
state: here there is the great act of volition, the will, the power of
the will that displaced, the large will’s intoxication, the desires and
demands of art. The most powerful people have always inspired
architects; the architect was always under the suggestion of that
power. The structure should embody pride, the victory over the
heaviness and the gravity of making the will to power possible.
Architecture is eloquence as power in the form of art, now persuading, even flattering, and sometimes merely commanding. The
most intense feeling and assurance find expression in that great
style. The power, which requires no further proof, and disdains to
please, the difficulty resolved, which needs no witnesses, which
acknowledges no opposition, is autonomous, fatalistically, a law
among laws: all that speaks of itself in a grand style.
=
88 n i e t z sche / fei n berg
niet z sc h e / feinberg 89
an excerpt from
 
How Must I Believe?
‫ [ فرح شما‬FA R A H
CHAM MA]
N O R A N E S H E I WAT & L A I T H A Q E L
‫قتطف من‬
‫فكيف أؤمن‬
‫جلست مع نفيس فلم أجد نفيس‬
ُ
‫احتللت أنا أيضا‬
ً‫ يف داخيل رجل يحمل سالحا‬،‫ يف داخيل مستوطن‬،‫يف داخيل سجن سيايس‬
‫و آخر يبحث عن التخلف‬
‫يف داخيل امرأة نطقت بحرف سقط عىل آذَانٍ ال تسمع‬
‫يف داخيل تفجريات و طائرات‬
‫يف داخيل مصلون يسجدون و يف جوفهم قلوب ال تخشع‬
‫يف داخيل بالد عربية باتت تضل و ال تنفع‬
‫فكيف أؤمن و قد أصبح يف داخيل عدو ال يفزع؟‬
‫ت ُعاديني عروبتي‬
‫تذوب يف صدري كالثلج كحرب بارد ٍة ثانية‬
‫ ال تختم يل عىل جواز السفر‬،‫ ال تسمح يل بالعبور‬،‫ متنعني من التجول‬...‫ت ُعاديني‬
‫ تلك التي تدور يف الشوارع باحث ًة عن حكومة أجنبية تأويها‬...‫تُعاديني‬
ٍ ‫تدور من‬
‫ من سفار ٍة إىل سفارة و ال أحد مالقيها‬،‫ضابط إىل ضابط‬
‫تعاديني عروبتي‬
‫تذوب يف صدري كالثلج‬
‫كحرب باردة ثانية‬
ٍ
=
9 0 ‫ شما‬/ n eshei wat & aq el
I sat with myself but I did not find myself
For I too, have been colonized
Within me, there is a political prison
Within me, there is a settlement
Within me, there is a man carrying a weapon
And another one looking for the past
Within me, a woman breathes a letter that falls onto deaf ears
Within me, there are fighter jets and explosions
Within me, there are worshippers bowing before God, within
them hearts that do not soften
Within me, there are Arab countries from which only harm falls.
How must I believe when within me there is an enemy that fears
nothing at all?
My Arab identity antagonizes me,
It melts in my chest like ice, like another Cold War.
It antagonizes me . . . It stops me from entering and never stamps
my passport
It antagonizes me . . . It roams in the streets searching for a
foreign government to shelter her
It roams from officer to officer, from embassy to embassy,
completely ignored
My Arab identity antagonizes me,
It melts in my chest like ice,
Like another Cold war.
‫ شما‬/
nesh ei wat & aqel 9 1
 
C E S A R VA L L E J O · S I M O N E RO G E R S
Embers
For Domingo Parra del Riego
Ascuas
Para Domingo Parra del Riego
Luciré para Tilia, en la tragedia
mis estrofas en ópimos racimos;
sangrará cada fruta melodiosa,
como un sol funeral, lúgubres vinos.
Tilia tendrá la cruz
que en la hora final será de luz!
Prenderé para Tilia, en la tragedia,
la gota de fragor que hay en mis labios;
y el labio, al encresparse para el beso,
se partirá en cien pétalos sagrados.
Tilia tendrá el puñal,
el puñal floricida y auroral!
Ya en la sombra, heroína, intacta y mártir,
tendrás bajo tus plantas a la Vida;
mientras veles, rezando mis estrofas,
mi testa, como una hostia en sangre tinta!
Y en un lirio, voraz,
mi sangre, como un virus, beberás!
I shall flaunt for Tilia, in the tragedy,
my verses in abundant vines;
she shall bleed each melodious fruit,
like a funerary sun, mournful wines.
Tilia shall have the cross
that in the final hour will be the light!
I shall ignite for Tilia, in the tragedy,
the droplet of thunder on my lips;
and the lip, upon cresting for the kiss,
shall part into one hundred sacred petals.
Tilia shall have the dagger,
the dagger that flowers and wakes!
Now in the shadow, heroine, intact and martyr,
underfoot you shall have Life;
while you keep vigil, reciting my verses,
my head, like a host in red blood!
And from a lily, voraciously,
you shall drink my blood like a virus!
=
92 va lle j o / ro ger s
va lle jo / roger s 93
=
‫ חנוך לוין‬
[ H A N O C H L E V I N ] · G A L E L D A R
an excerpt from
‫קטע מתוך‬
‫שיץ‬
,‫באמצע החיים המייגעים‬
,‫ הושיטה יד גסה‬,‫באה אל ביתי המדינה‬
.‫ולקחה את בעלי‬
:‫כבר מתחת לחופה ראיתי‬
.‫אני לא הכלה היחידה לבעלי‬
,‫ נועצת בזרועו את ציפורניה‬,‫מצדו השני‬
,‫עמדה גם המדינה‬
,‫וכשהלכנו – היא הלכה איתנו‬
,‫היא ליוותה אותנו בימים ובלילות‬
,‫היא נכנסה אתנו למיטה‬
,‫ישבה אתנו אל שולחן האוכל‬
,‫מכל מקום היא באה לקראתנו‬
,‫חילחלה מן השמיים והארץ‬
,‫ העיתון והקולנוע‬,‫דרך הרדיו‬
,‫הסתננה בעד צינורות המים‬
,‫סדקי הקירות וחרכי התריסים‬
,‫היא הסתירה לנו את השמש ואת הכוכבים‬
,‫היא חדרה לעינינו ולאוזנינו ולאפנו‬
;‫היא חדרה לנקבוביות העור שלנו‬
,‫היא עם כפות הידיים המזיעות והגסות שלה‬
,‫ המשוכות בדם‬,‫עם ציפורניה המלוכלכות‬
‫חיבקה את בעלי חיבוק של מוות‬
‫ולקחה אותו איתה אל מיטת הקבר שלה‬
‫כדי לפורר אותו מתחת לרגלי‬
,‫ולהפוך לי את חיי לזיכרונות‬
!‫ אבק‬,‫ דמיון מטושטש‬,‫חלומות פורחים‬
94 ‫ לו ין‬/ elda r
Schitz
In the midst of a wearying life, the state
came into my home, stretched out
its rough hand, and took my husband.
Under the Chuppah I realized:
I am not my husband’s sole bride. On his
other side, clutching her fingernails
into his arm, the state stood too.
And when we left, she left with us, she
accompanied us through nights and days,
she got into bed with us, she sat with us
at our dinner table, she came towards us
from every direction,
she trickled from the earth and the sky,
through the radio, the newspaper, and
the movie theater, infiltrated
the water pipes, the fissures
in the walls and slits of the shutters,
she blocked our view of sun and stars,
penetrated our eyes, our ears, and our noses,
penetrated the pores of our skin; with her
‫ לו ין‬/ elda r 95
sweaty and rough palm, with her filthy nails,
anointed with blood, she hugged my husband
a hug of death, and took him with her
to her deathbed
 
林 柳 波 [ RY U H AYA S H I ] · ! N I P P O N ! C LU B
Club members: Bront’e Singleton, Leah Ogawa, June Jungreis, Jonah
Kachur, Satori Oho, and Karol Pena
to disintegrate him beneath my feet
and turn my life into memories,
うみ
Blooming dreams, blurred imagination, dust!
うみは　ひろいな
おおきいな
つきが　のぼるし
ひがしずむ
うみはおおなみ
あおい　なみ
ゆれて　どこまで
つづくやら
うみに　おふねを
うかばせて
いって　みたいな
よそのくに
=
The Ocean
The ocean is vast and
Infinite
The moon rises and
The sun sets
9 6 ‫ לו ין‬/ elda r
林
/ !nippon! c lub 9 7
The ocean is a large wave
A blue wave
Endlessly swaying and
Continuing
In the ocean, a ship
We will sail
Wouldn’t it be nice to
Venture to other lands
 
額 賀 誠 志 [ S E I S H I N U K A G A ] · ! N I P P O N ! C LU B
Club members: Bront’e Singleton, Leah Ogawa, June Jungreis, Jonah
Kachur, Satori Oho, and Karol Pena
とんぼのめがね
とんぼの　めがねは　みずいろ　めがね
あおいおそらを　とんだから
とんだから
とんぼのめがねは　ぴかぴか　めがね
おてんとさまを　みてたから
みてたから
とんぼの　めがねは　あかいろ　めがね
ゆうやけぐもを　とんだから
とんだから
=
Dragonfly’s Glasses
The glasses of the dragonfly are the color of sky
They dart through the blue sky
They skirt through the sky
The glasses of the dragonfly are shimmering
They gaze at the sun
They glimpse at the sun
98 The glasses of the dragonfly are red
They fly into the evening magenta sky
They fly
林
/ ! n i pp o n ! c lub
額賀
/ !nippon! c lub 99
 
A U T H O R U N K N O W N · ! N I P P O N ! C LU B
Club members: Bront’e Singleton, Leah Ogawa, June Jungreis, Jonah
Kachur, Satori Oho, and Karol Pena
雪
雪やこんこ　あられやこんこ
降っては降っては　ずんずん積もる
山も野原も　わたぼうしかぶり
枯木残らず　花が咲く
雪やこんこ　あられやこんこ
降っても降っても　まだ降りやまぬ
犬は喜び　庭かけまわり
猫はこたつで丸くなる
=
Snow
Snow come cover, hail come fall
Falling and falling, rapidly piling up
In the mountains and fields too
Like a bride’s headdress covering
All the trees have flowers that blossom
Snow come cover, hail come fall
Still falling and falling, incessantly falling
The dog is pleased frolicking around the garden
And the cat curls under the kotatsu*
 
P E T E R B I C H S E L · T H E B E G I N N I N G G E R M A N C L A S S
Der Milchmann
Der Milchmann schrieb auf einen Zettel: „Heute keine Butter
mehr, leider.“ Frau Blum las den Zettel und rechnete zusammen,
schüttelte den Kopf und rechnete noch einmal, dann schrieb sie:
„Zwei Liter, 100 Gramm Butter, Sie hatten gestern keine Butter
und berechneten sie mir gleichwohl.“
Am andern Tag schrieb der Milchmann: „Entschuldigung.“ Der
Milchmann kommt morgens um vier, Frau Blum kennt ihn nicht,
man sollte ihn kennen, denkt sie oft, man sollte einmal um vier
aufstehen, um ihn kennenzulernen.
Frau Blum fürchtet, der Milchmann könnte ihr böse sein, der
Milchmann könnte schlecht denken von ihr, ihr Topf ist verbeult.
Der Milchmann kennt den verbeulten Topf, es ist der von Frau
Blum, sie nimmt meistens 2 Liter und 100 Gramm Butter. Der
Milchmann kennt Frau Blum, Würde man ihn nach ihr fragen,
würde er sagen: „Frau Blum nimmt 2 Liter und 100 Gramm, sie hat
einen verbeulten Topf und eine gut lesbare Schrift.“ Der Milchmann
macht sich keine Gedanken, Frau Blum macht keine Schulden.
Und wenn es vorkommt – es kann ja vorkommen – das 10 Rappen
zu wenig daliegen, dann schreibt er auf einen Zettel: „10 Rappen
zu wenig.“ Am andern Tag hat er die 10 Rappen anstandslos und
auf dem Zettel steht: „Entschuldigung.“ ‚Nicht der Rede Wert’ oder
‚keine Ursache’, denkt dann der Milchmann und würde er es auf
den Zettel schreiben, dann wäre das schon ein Briefwechsel. Er
schreibt es nicht.
Den Milchmann interessiert es nicht, in welchem Stock Frau
Blum wohnt, der Topf steht unten an der Treppe. Er macht sich
keine Gedanken, wenn er nicht dort steht. In der ersten Mannschaft
*kotatsu: a low table with a heater underneath that is covered with a futon.
1 0 0 un kn o w n / ! n i p p o n ! c lub
bic hsel / th e beginning ger m a n c l a ss 1 0 1
spielte einmal ein Blum, den kannte der Milchmann, und der hatte
abstehende Ohren. Vielleicht hat Frau Blum abstehende Ohren.
Milchmänner haben unappetitlich saubere Hände, rosig, plump
und verwaschen. Frau Blum denkt daran, wenn sie seine Zettel
sieht. Hoffentlich hat er die 10 Rappen gefunden. Frau Blum möchte
nicht, dass der Milchmann schlecht vor ihr denkt, auch möchte sie
nicht, dass er mit der Nachbarin ins Gespräch käme.
Aber niemand kennt den Milchmann, in unserm Quartier niemand. Bei uns kommt er morgens um vier. Der Milchmann ist einer
von denen, die ihre Pflicht tun. Wer morgens um vier die Milch
bringt, tut seine Pflicht, täglich, sonntags und werktags. Wahrscheinlich sind Milchmänner nicht gut bezahlt und wahrscheinlich
fehlt ihnen oft Geld bei der Abrechnung. Die Milchmänner haben
keine Schuld daran, dass die Milche teurer wird.
Und eigentlich möchte Frau Blum den Milchmann gern kennenlernen.
Der Milchmann kennt Frau Blum, sie nimmt 2 Liter und 100
Gramm und hat einen verbeulten Topf.
=
The Milkman
The milkman wrote on a slip of paper, “No more butter today, unfortunately.” Mrs. Blum read the slip of paper and added together,
shook her head and added again, then she wrote “2 liters, 100g of
butter, you didn’t have butter yesterday but charged me anyway.”
The next day the milkman wrote, “Excuse me.” The milkman
comes at four in the morning. Mrs. Blum does not know him, she
often thinks that one should know him; one should get up at 4 am
some day in order to get to know him.
Mrs. Blum is afraid the milkman could be mad at her, the milkman could think badly of her; her milk jug is battered.
1 02 bi c hsel / the begi n ni n g ger m a n cl a ss
The milkman knows the battered jug; it is the one belonging to
Mrs. Blum. If one would asks him about her, he would say, “Mrs.
Blum takes 2 liters and 100 grams, she has a battered jug and very
good handwriting.” The milkman doesn’t worry about it, Mrs. Blum
doesn’t have any debt. But if it happens — it can happen — if she
owes 10 Swiss cents, then he writes a note saying, “10 Swiss cents
missing.” The next day he has the 10 cents without any fuss and
the note says, “Pardon me.” “Don’t mention it,” or “No problem,”
thinks the milkman then, and if he would write it on the note, it
would already be correspondence. He does not write it.
It doesn’t interest the milkman on which floor Mrs. Blum lives,
the jug is on the bottom of the stairs. He does not worry, if it is not
standing there. The milkman knew someone on the first soccer
team called Blum, and he had protruding the ears. Maybe Mrs.
Blum has protruding ears.
Milkmen have unappetizingly clean hands, red, pudgy and
washed out. Mrs. Blum thinks of that when she sees the note;
hopefully he found the 10 Swiss cents. Mrs. Blum would not like the
milkman to think badly of her. Also, she wouldn’t like the milkman
to talk to the neighbor. But no one knows the milkman; no one is
in our area. He comes to us in the morning at four. The milkman
is one of those people who do their duty. A person who brings the
milk at four in the morning that does his duty daily, Sundays and
workdays. Probably the milkmen are not well paid, and probably
they are often short when they do tally. The milkmen are not at
fault that the milk becomes much more expensive.
Actually, Mrs. Blum wants to get to know the milkman.
The milkman knows Mrs. Blum, she takes the 2 liters and 100
grams and has a battered jug.
bic hsel / th e beginning ger m a n c l a ss 1 03
 
VA R I O U S A U T H O R S · T H E J A PA N E S E I I I C L A S S
Haiku
春 / SPRING
小林一茶 [Kobayashi Issa] (1763–1828) · Tianjie Zheng
雪とけて
村いっぱいの
子どもかな
yuki tokete
mura ippaino
kodomokana
山口誓子 [Yamaguchi Seishi] (1901–1994) · Terry Tuttle
さじなめて
童たのしも
夏氷
saji namete
warabe tanoshimo
natsugoori
Licking off their spoons
Children enjoy summer while
Eating their shaved ice
秋 / AU T U M N
正岡子規 [Masaoka Shiki] (1867–1902) · Kathryn Glover
As snow melts,
That the village is flooded . . .
With children!
柿食えば
鐘がなるなり
法隆寺
夏 / SUMMER
Biting persimmon
Bells are beginning to toll
Hooryuuji temple
松尾芭蕉 [Matsuo Bashoo] (1644–1694) · Chunyi Lyu
しずかさや
岩にしみいる
せみの声
shizukasaya
iwani shimiiru
semino koe
The sound of cicadas
Stinging into the rock
Ah, tranquility
1 04 va ri o us autho r s / the j a pa n ese i i i cl a ss
kakikueba
kanega narunari
hooryuuji
富安風生 [Tomiyasu Fusei] (1885–1979) · June Jungreis
虫の声
月よりこぼれ
地に満ちぬ
mushino koe
tsukiyori kobore
chini michinu
The chirping of crickets
Spilling from the moon
Fills up the earth
va rio us auth or s / th e j a pa nese iii c l a ss 1 05
冬 / WINTER
 
松本たかし [Matsumoto Takashi] (1906–1956) · Meredith Gilbert
Campus Translation Events
雪だるま
星のおしゃべり
ぺちゃくちゃと
There is no shortage of conversation on translation at Sarah Lawrence. As of April, three translators came to speak on our campus
in the 2014–15 academic year. Suzanne Jill Levine and Sandra Smith
both gave workshops in a small seminar setting followed by presentations to a larger audience. Ms. Levine specializes in the translation
of Latin American literature. She relayed many delightful anecdotes
about working with Carlos Fuentes and other writers when she
spoke in the Miller Lecture Hall in October. Ms. Levine emphasized
the necessity of recreating aural qualities of the original text in
the translation. Ms. Smith translates from French, most recently
publishing an English translation of L’etranger by Albert Camus.
She spoke in November to a packed audience in the Science Center,
walking her listeners through the intricate ­decision-making process
of translating particular passages by Camus. In his talk in March,
David Bellos, who translates principally from French, delved into
the murky world of book translations. Bellos outlined the normal
course of publishing a book translation and then gave fascinating
accounts of a few exceptions, including his own translations of
works by Georges Perec. One other translator is expected to visit
campus before the end of the spring semester.
yuki daruma
hoshino oshaberi
pecha kuchato
Silent chattering
The idle conversation
Of snowman and stars
小林一茶 [Kobayashi Issa] (1763–1828) · Bront’e Singleton
うまそうな
雪がふうわり
ふわりかな
umasoona
yukiga fuuwari
fuwari kana
It looks delicious.
Maybe the snow will fall and
Fall and fall and fall
1 0 6 va ri o us autho r s / the j a pa n ese i i i cl a ss
c a m pus tr a nsl ation e v ents 1 07
Above: Suzanne Jill Levine
Left & below: Sandra Smith
conducts a workshop
Above: David Bellos speaks to a crowded lecture hall
1 08 e v ent p hotos
e v ent ph otos 1 0 9