we get straight to the point, our diction impeccable

 Two poems by Dag T. Straumsvåg translated from Norwegian by Robert Hedin

UFO-Ar På dei Norske Bygdene

by Dag T. Straumsvåg

 

I motsetnad til i USA, landar det sjeldan ufo-ar på dei Norske bygdene. Men vi har huslege flygande tallerkenar, særleg ved juletider. Utan varsel stupar dei ut av himmelen og krasjar i det gule håret vårt, lagar mysticke mønster i hjernebølgjene våre. Kva vil dei med oss? Er dei fiendtlege? Vi anar ikkje.  Sjølv  konene våre snur seg bort, mållause. Vi kan høyre ei høg summing, som om ein datamaskin inne i vraket framleis verkar, som om nokon har overlevd og samtalar frenetisk på eit framandt tungemål, nokon som kan ha svar på alle spørsmåla våre. Vi meiner den vitskapelege tilnæmingsmåten er best og sikrar ulykkesstaden, granskar og katalogiserer alle vrakdelar.  Temperaturen fell snøgt under null. Vi kryp sman kring leirbålet, ein forvirra flokk primatar som plukkar lus frå håret til kvarandre i det bleike desemberljoset.

UFO's in the Norwegian Countryside

by Dag T. Straumsvåg

Unlike in the U.S., UFOs in Norway don’t often land in the countryside.  Instead we have domestic flying saucers, especially at Christmastime. With no warning, they fall out of the clear, blue sky, crashing in our blond hair, making mystical patterns in our brain waves. What do they want? Are they hostile? We don’t have a clue. Even our wives shake their heads, unable to speak. There’s a high-pitched humming sound, as if the computer inside is still working, as if someone had survived and is speaking frantically in a strange tongue, someone who has all the answers to our questions. We believe the scientific approach works best, so we secure the crash site, inspect and catalogue each piece of wreckage. The temperature is quickly falling below zero. We gather around the fireplace, a bewildered bunch of primates picking lice out of each other’s hair in the faint December light. 

translated from Norwegian by Robert Hedin
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Av/På

by Dag T. Straumsvåg

Vi kjøpte ein cocker spaniel, men han var ikkje realistisk nok, så vi gav han bort. Då gullfisken døydde skifta vi til apparat. Den gamle brødristaren, komfyren med keramikktopp. Aparat er heller ikkje feilfrie, men av/på-knappane fungerer så godt at vi bestemde oss for å utvikle eit likande system for oss sjølve. I staden for av/på-knappar brukar vi klubber. Ein kakk i skallen betyr “det er din tur til å ta oppvasken,” ein rapp over skinnleggen betyr “la meg vere i fred,” eit tungt slag in solar plexus betyr “kan du gjenta det, er du snill?” Livet er mykje enklare no. Ungane steller seg i kø kvar kveld for å ta oppvasken, eg får lese avisa i fred, og når vi pratar går vi rett på sak med upåklageleg diksjon.

 

On/Off

by Dag T. Straumsvåg

We bought a cocker spaniel, but it wasn’t realistic enough, so we gave it away. When the goldfish died, we turned to appliances. Our old toaster. The glass-topped stove. Appliances are not flawless either, but the on/off buttons worked so well we decided to develop a similar system of our own.  Instead of buttons, we use baseball bats. One rap on the skull means “It’s your turn to do dishes,” one smack to the shin means “Leave me alone,” a heavy blow to the solar plexus means “Can you repeat that, please?” Life’s a lot simpler now. The kids line up every night to do the dishes, I get to read the paper in peace, and when we’re talking, we get straight to the point, our diction impeccable.

translated from Norwegian by Robert Hedin
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And we wolfed down the rocks they put on the table.

Three poems by Edwin Madrid translated by Julia Velasco

Lección de las piedras

by Edwin Madrid

Pan duro como piedra,

piedras que convirtió Dios en pan;

panes elaborados con el sudor de la frente,

frente de piedra,

pan de sudor.

Pan pan y vino vino.

Cuerpo y sangre del hambre del mundo.

Piedra hambre.

Pan remordido por el hombre,

hombre de piedra,

mujer pan,

piedra comiéndose pan.

Dios duro como piedra,

la piedra del mundo.

Lesson of Rocks

by Edwin Madrid

Bread hard as a rock,

rocks that God turned into bread;

loaves prepared with the sweat of the brow,

a brow of rock,

a bread of sweat.

Bread is bread, and wine, wine.

Body and blood of hunger in the world.

A rock of hunger.

Bread eaten away by man,

man made of rock,

bread woman,

rock eating bread.

God hard as a rock,

the rock of the world.

translated from Spanish by Julia Velasco
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Cena o escena

by Edwin Madrid

Picó la ruccula y la endivia con desgano; echó sobre ellas migas de almendra y macadamia, vinagre de jerez y aguacate. Al tomar el lomo de ternera en sus manos, parecía que destajaba el corazón de su enemiga. Acomodó la mesa, sin brillo ni fragancia, y se sentó a esperar. Cuando él llegó, cenaron en silencio. El resto se publicó en el diario de la tarde.

Dinner Scene

by Edwin Madrid

She chopped with apathy the arugula and the endive; she topped it with crumbs of almond and macadamia, sherry vinegar and avocado. When she grabbed the beef sirloin in her hands, she seemed to be chopping out her worst enemy’s heart. She set the table, with no glow or fragrance, and sat to wait. When he got there, they ate in silence. The rest could be read in the afternoon’s paper.

 

translated from Spanish by Julia Velasco
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Moraleja

by Edwin Madrid

Solo dijimos: a caballo regalado no se le mira los dientes. Y devoramos las piedras que colocaron sobre la mesa.

Moral

by Edwin Madrid

We just said: Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. And we wolfed down the rocks they put on the table.

translated from Spanish by Julia Velasco
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I was perfectly calm before sinking

Two poems by Max Jacob translated by Sophia Lecker

Max-Jacob-1922

Les Régates de Concarneau

by Max Jacob

 

Les noyés ne coulent pas toujours au fond. Il suffit même à un troublé dans l’eau de se souvenir qu’il a su nager et il voit son pantalon s’agiter comme les jambes d’un pantin. Aux régates de Concarneau, c’est ce qui m’arriva. J’étais parfaitement tranquille avant de couler, ou bien ces élégants des yoles qui passent remarqueront mes efforts ou bien…bref, un certain optimisme. La rive toute proche! Avec personnages israélites grandeur nature et des plus gracieux. Ce qui me surprit au sortir de l’eau, c’est d’avoir été si peu mouillé et d’être regardé non comme un caniche, mais comme un homme.

The Concarneau Regattas

by Max Jacob

Drowning people don’t always sink to the bottom. It is even enough for someone struggling in the water to remember that he knew how to swim and then he sees his trousers flap around like the legs of a jumping jack. That’s what happened to me at the Concarneau regattas. I was perfectly calm before sinking, or well those elegant people in their skiffs passing by will notice my efforts or well…in short, a certain optimism. The shore so close! With life-sized Israelite individuals of the most gracious sort. What surprised me in getting out of the water was that I was hardly damp, and that people looked at me not as a poodle, but as a man.

translated from French by Sophia Lecker
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Le Fond Du Tableau

by Max Jacob

 

C’est une petite partie de campagne! une petite partie autour d’un puits. La pauvre enfant est seule sur la plage, sur les rochers en pente de la dune et on dirait qu’il y une auréole autour de sa tête. Oh! je saurai bien la sauver! moi, le gros boursouflé je cours, j’accours. Là-bas autour du puits on joue la Marseillaise et moi j’accours pour la sauver. Je n’ai pas encore parlé de la couleur du ciel parce que je n’étais pas sûr que ce ne fût avec la mer un seul tableau lisse couleur des tableaux d’école en ardoise souillée de craie, oui, avec une trainée de craie en diagonale, comme le couteau de la guillotine.

The Depths of the Painting

by Max Jacob

It’s a little party in the countryside! A little party near a well. The poor little girl is alone on the beach, on the steep rocky slope of the dune, and you might say there is a halo around her head. Oh, I’ll know how to save her! Me, the fat puffy one, I rush I run. Down there near the well they are playing the Marseillaise and I’m rushing to save her. I haven’t mentioned yet the color of the sky because I wasn’t sure that with the sea it doesn’t make a smooth painting the color of a blackboard smeared with chalk, yes, with a diagonal trail of chalk like the blade of a guillotine.

translated from French by Sophia Lecker
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but in the morning they soberly sweep their naked rooms

Two poems by Olja Savičević Ivančević translated by Andrea Jurjević 

olja       andrea

Šegrt

by Olja Savičević Ivančević

toliko svile se odmotava

 

pod mojom kožom neprekidno

 

da su me staratelji morali skloniti

 

u hram

 

među krčmarsko svećenstvo

 

tu ćeš, rekli su, mala

 

učiti pisati nogom po vjetru

 

i vjetrom po gradskim morima

 

izučit ćeš vještinu

 

bacanja letećih olovčica

 

(da zatvorenih očiju razvežeš pupak

 

i rasiječeš bradavicu)

 

 

 

vidjela sam kako pjevaju i ljube ludi učitelji

 

kako preskaču lipu i vodotoranj

 

ponekad pripiti trče uz zidove kuća

 

ali ujutro trijezno pometu svoje gole sobe

 

nježno obuku svoje gole žene i mladiće

 

povežu ono što je ostalo od kose

 

u perčin rečenica

 

i lebde iznad svetih tastatura

 

 

 

prvu sam lekciju svladala iz domaćinstva

 

složila sam svu silu u bale

 

kao u malom dućanu metraže

 

trebalo mi je trideset godina

 

još toliko će mi trebati

 

da razvrstam dugmad riječi

 

i sve te aplikacije

 

 

 

bojim se, u međuvremenu,

 

ostarit će učitelji, popušit će svoje lule vjere

 

a s njima i hrabrost i mudrost

 

brine me što će se dogoditi s njihovim kostima po čitankama

 

tu nitko živ više neće moći

 

sastaviti pjesnika

An Apprentice

by Olja Savičević Ivančević

so much silk unrolls

 

continually under my skin

 

that the guardians had to move me

 

to the temple

 

among the clergy of the tavern

 

they said, here, little one,

 

you’ll learn how to write by throwing a leg over the wind

 

and with the wind over the city seas

 

you’ll learn the trade

 

of flinging flying pencils

 

(so with eyes closed you unknot the navel

 

and cut the nipple)

 

 

 

I saw how crazy teachers sing and kiss

 

how they jump over the linden and the water tower

 

sometimes tipsy they run along the walls of houses

 

but in the morning they soberly sweep their naked rooms

 

gently dress their naked women and young men

 

and bind what’s left of their hair

 

into bundled sentences

 

hover over holy keyboards

 

 

I first mastered homemaking

 

I folded all the silk into bales

 

like in a little fabric shop

 

it took me thirty years

 

and I’ll need that many more

 

to sort the word buttons

 

and all of their use

 

 

 

meanwhile, I’m afraid,

 

the teachers will get old, finish smoking their pipes of hope

 

and with them both courage and wisdom

 

I worry about what will happen to their bones in the books

 

not a living soul will be able

 

to assemble a poet

translated from Croatian by Andrea Jurjević
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Humbert

by Olja Savičević Ivančević

Prošlo je i više vremena od onog koje je trebalo

 

Da može sjesti do tebe i potapšati ti glavu

 

S obje ruke sretna, kao bongo. Moj oče, stari ljubavniče.

 

Počinje period u kojem se u mislima spušta u luku

 

Uz bedem, ali zavoj je oštar, trga se koža sa lijeve plećke i puca karoserija

 

Ti svakih nekoliko ljeta tražiš ime za svoj brod

 

Nazoveš je i pitaš za mišljenje, govorite o roditeljima i djeci, o brakovima

 

Koji su uglavnom sretni i zdravlju, poslovima

 

Kaže ti: bio si u pravu, zaboravila sam te kao i svoje grudi prije četrnaeste

 

Na tebe pomisli kad vidi konduktera: bijele hlače, nikad suviše čiste

 

I češće se vezano uz tebe sjeti tvog malog psa koji je po dugom hodniku

 

Kuće kotrljao kosti. I vodoskoka.

 

Ali otkad se dogodila nesreća iz njenih su snova kao miševi pobjegli svi—osim tebe.

 

I eto te gdje se pokrećeš po čudnom nalogu, njenom

 

Pušiš i povlačiš klompe na krivim dlakavim nogama

 

A ona ide pored tebe u košuljici bez rukava

 

Prekratkoj da joj se ne bi vidjela stražnjica pička bedra

 

Uzalud je navlači i ti iako ravnodušan uviđaš njen problem

 

To su samo njeni snovi, ali i na javi bi joj rekao:

 

Ne brini, normalno hodaj, pa ja idem ispred tebe,

 

Uostalom, moja stara kćeri, moja mlada ljubavnice,

 

Sami smo na cesti, uostalom.  

Humbert

by Olja Savičević Ivančević

More time passed than was necessary

 

For her to sit beside you and happily with both hands

 

tap your head like a bongo. My father, old lover.

 

That time starts when she imagines going down to the harbor

 

By the rampart, but the turn is sharp, the skin from her left shoulder tears and the chassis breaks

 

Every few summers you seek names for your boat

 

You call and ask her opinion, talk about parents and kids, about marriages

 

That are mostly happy and about health, work

 

She says: you were right, I forgot you like I forgot my fourteen-year-old breasts

 

She thinks of you when she sees a bus conductor: white pants, never too clean

 

And more often she remembers your little dog that rolled bones down the long hallway

 

Of the house. And the waterfalls.

 

But since the accident everyone ran out of her dreams like mice—except you.

 

And look, you now march under a strange order, hers

 

You smoke and drag clogs on crooked hairy legs

 

And she walks beside you in a sleeveless shirt

 

Too short to cover her ass snatch thighs

 

Hopelessly she pulls it down, and you, even though indifferent, see her problem

 

These are just her dreams, but even in reality you’d say to her:

 

Don’t worry, walk naturally, I’m next to you,

 

After all, my old daughter, my young lover,

 

We’re alone on the road, after all.  

translated from Croatian by Andrea Jurjević
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I want to be awakened from our love

Two poems by Gili Haimovich translated by Dara Barnat

 Gili Haimovich      DaraB

These translations from Hebrew of “The Perfect Set” and “Too Easy” are part of an ongoing collaboration between Gili Haimovich and myself. My translations of Gili’s poetry can be found in journals including Bridges: A Jewish Feminist Journal, International Poetry Review, Poetry International, and Blue Lyra. Gili’s translations of my poetry to Hebrew appear in Shvo, Makaf, and other Hebrew-language publications. 

“Too Easy” is from Gili’s last book Baby Girl, Emda Publishers, 2014, and “The Perfect Set” is from Lint Season, Pardes Publishers, 2011.

—Dara Barnat

 

הַסֵּט הַמֻּשְׁלָם

by Gili Haimovich

.הָאַהֲבָה שֶׁלָּנוּ יוֹתֵר מִדַּי מַתְאִימָה לָרִהוּט

 

.וְהִיא נִשְׁמַעַת בְּאֵיכוּת סְרָאוּנְד עַל רֶקַע גֵּ ‘אז מָהָגוֹנִי

 

הָאַהֲבָה שֶׁלָּנוּ לֹא קוֹרַעַת

 

,הִיא תּוֹפֶרֶת

 

 

.וְגַם בָּזֶה יֵשׁ מִנְּעִיצוֹת הַמַּחַט בַּבָּשָׂר הַחַי

 

.מְדַמָּה אוֹתָן לַצְּבִיטוֹת שֶׁמּוֹכִיחוֹת שֶׁזֶּה לֹא חֲלוֹם

 

.חֲבָל שֶׁאֲנִי לֹא יְכוֹלָה לְהָקִיץ מֵאַהֲבָתֵנוּ

 

 

הָאַהֲבָה שֶׁלָּנוּ יוֹתֵר מִדַּי מַתְאִימָה לַצַּלָּחוֹת

 

.שֶׁקָּנְתָה לָנוּ אִשְׁתּוֹ הַשְּׁלִישִׁית שֶׁל אָבִיךָ

 

אֲבָל הִיא לֹא טְעִימָה עִם מָה

 

.שֶׁמִּתְבַּשֵּׁל עַל הַכִּירַיִם

 

 

הָאַהֲבָה הַזּאֹת מַתְאִימָה לָאַגָּדָה שֶׁבְּסוֹפָהּ הָיִיתִי הַכַּלָּה הֲכִי יָפָה

 

.אֲבָל אֲנִי נְמוּכָה, כְּבֵדָה וְנַשְׁכָנִית מִדַּי

The Perfect Set

by Gili Haimovich

Our love fits the furniture too much.

 

And it’s heard in surround sound jazz that circles the mahogany.

 

Our love doesn’t rip,

 

it sews.

 

 

And in this there’s also the sense of a needle going into flesh.

 

The punctures are like pinches that prove it’s not a dream.

 

I want to be awakened from our love.

 

 

Our love fits the plates too much,

 

the ones that your father’s third wife bought us.

 

But it doesn’t taste good with what’s

 

cooking on the stove.

 

 

This love fits the end of a fairy tale in which I’m the most beautiful bride,

 

but I’m too short, heavy, and sharp.

translated from Hebrew by Dara Barnat
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קלה מידיי

by Gili Haimovich

הַלַּילְָה נוֹשֵׂא אוֹתִי

,אֲבָל לֹא כְּהַבְטָחָה

,לֹא כְּשֵׁם שֶׁאֲנִי נָשָׂאתִי אוֹתָךְ

,בַּבֶּטֶן

,עַל הֶחָזֶה

,הַגַּב

,הַכְּתֵפַיִם

,עַל ראֹשׁ שִׂמְחָתִי

,עַל צַוַּאר דַּאֲגָתִי

.בְּשֶׁלֶג סוֹחֵף

הַשִּׁירִים בָּאִים

.כְּמוֹ קַלִּים מִדַּי

 

,כִּמְעַט קַל מִדַּי

,מוּבָן מִדַּי מֵאֵלָיו

,לִהְיוֹת אִמָּא שֶׁלָּךְ

.לִהְיוֹת שַׁיּכֶֶת לָךְ

Too Easy

by Gili Haimovich

The night carries me

but not like a promise,

not like how I carried you,

in the stomach,

on the chest,

the back,

the neck,

on the head of my joy,

on the shoulders of my concern.

through swirling snow.

 

The poems come

almost too easily,

it’s almost too easy,

too obvious,

being your mother,

belonging to you.

translated from Hebrew by Dara Barnat
more>>

for me who asked but did not receive forgiveness

Two poems by Kim Yi-deum translated by Jake Levine and Soeun Seo

아우라보다 아오리

by Kim Yi-deum

벚꽃나무 아래 사과 파는 노파

조시나 죽으셨나

엉덩이가 바닥에 닿을락말락

덧없는 간극

덤불 부스러기 줄 하나

사도 그만 안 사도 그만

 

갈 데가 없어

타는 버스

한내 1 길발 110 번

한 노선밖에

타도 그만이고 안 타도 그만

 

맨 뒷자리 창에 기대어 비스듬히

바라보는 오래된 취미

어쩐지 나는 무호흡의 깊은 잠을

 

내린 곳은 북한 신의주 시내

수영복이 든 비닐가방을 들고 누군가를 기다리는 나

손 흔들며 오는 남자

희미한 얼굴 번져나가는 살결, 햇살이 혀끝으로 그를 핥고

 

아마 우리는 아주 평범한 연인 사이

수줍고 어색하게

풀장도 가고 포옹도 하는

 

눈을 뜨네 나는

아우라가 사라지네

운전기사 쪽으로 굴러가는 푸른

아오리 가망 없는 도망

깨어난 나는 데스데모나 팥쥐 애너벨 리 살아난 바리데기

현실은 꿈 없는 예외적 시간

사라진 방앗간에서 불어오는 고추 마르는 냄새

 

 

 

 

More Than Aura, Aori

by Kim Yi-deum

Selling Aori apples under a cherry blossom tree, that granny

Has either dozed off or she is dead.

Ass almost to grass

And the gap between, fleeting

A vein inside the leaf of a crumbled bush

Is about the same whether you buy it or not.

 

With nowhere to go

I ride the bus.

The 110 to Hannae Street

Has just one route

Whether you ride it or not.

 

I have this old hobby of staring sideways

Leaning askew against the window of the back seat of the bus and

In the deep sleep of breathlessness, somehow, I exist.

 

In downtown Sinuiju, North Korea, I get off.

Holding a vinyl bag with a bathing suit inside, I wait.

A man approaches, waving.

A faint face spreading out its skin, the sun licks him with the tip of its tongue.

 

I guess we are a pretty mundane couple.

Bashful, awkwardly

We hug each other and go to public pools.

 

Whenever I open my eyes

The ambience disappears.

An escape attempt without hope, the green

Aori rolls toward the driver of the bus.

Awake, I am Desdemona, Patzzi, Annabelle Lee, the Barideki

Living reality in an exceptional time without dreams—

The drying smell of peppers

Blowing out a mill that disappeared.

 

 

 

 

translated from Korean by Soeun Seo & Jake Levine
more>>

사과 없어요

by Kim Yi-deum

 

아 어쩐다, 다른 게 나왔으니, 주문한 음식보다 비싼 게 나왔으니, 아 어쩐다, 짜장면 시켰는데 삼선짜장면이 나왔으니, 이봐요, 그냥 짜장면 시켰는데요, 아뇨, 손님이 삼선짜장면이라고 말했잖아요, 아 어쩐다, 주인을 불러 바꿔달라고 할까, 아 어쩐다, 그러면 이 종업원이 꾸지람 듣겠지, 어쩌면 급료에서 삼선짜장면 값만큼 깎이겠지, 급기야 쫓겨날지도 몰라, 아아 어쩐다, 미안하다고 하면 이대로 먹을 텐데, 단무지도 갖다 주지 않고, 아아 사과하면 괜찮다고 할 텐데, 아아 미안하다 말해서 용서 받기는커녕 몽땅 뒤집어쓴 적 있는 나로서는, 아아, 아아, 싸우기 귀찮아서 잘못했다고 말한 후 제거되고 추방된 나로서는, 아아 어쩐다, 쟤 입장을 모르는 바 아니고, 그래 내가 잘못 발음했을지 몰라, 아아 어쩐다, 전복도 다진 야채도 싫은데

 

 

 

 

No Apology

by Kim Yi-deum

what to do, something else was delivered, something more expensive than the food I ordered, what to do, I didn’t ask for seafood, look here, I ordered regular jajangmyeon, no, you ordered seafood jajangmyeon, should I call the owner and tell him to change it, what to do, if I call, the employee will get chewed out or he will have the seafood rate deducted from his pay or, at the worst, he’ll get fired, oh hell, if he says sorry I’ll eat it, but he didn’t even give me pickled radish, he didn’t even apologize, if only he said sorry, for me who asked but did not receive forgiveness, for me who received all the blame, for me, my expulsion, my deletion, after not putting forth the effort to fight, apologizing, mercy me, it’s not like I don’t know his position, maybe I mispronounced it, in any case, I don’t like abalone, I hate chopped vegetables

 

 

 

translated from Korean by Jake Levine & Soeun Seo
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Burn. Know. Surrender.

A translation from the Patanjala Yoga Sutrani by Kanya Kanchana

Kanya Kanchana_HeadshotSadhana Pada: The Chapter of Doing It is an excerpt from my experimental translation of a Sanskrit text called Patanjala Yoga Sutrani (Yoga Sutras of Patanjali).

Estimated to be around 2,400 years old and attributed to the eponymous Indian sage, it is a braid that weaves together 196 sutras or aphoristic verses on yoga. It has four chapters: Samadhi Pada (51 verses),Sadhana Pada (55 verses), Vibhuti Pada (56 verses), and Kaivalya Pada (34 verses). Each verse is subsequent and consequent to the one before.

This taut, vital text has its lovers and its dissenters. It begins with the assumption that you have already done everything necessary to practice yoga. Cryptic yet bright, exacting yet liberal, it endures as a technical manual for the mind.

Its translations and commentaries, however, are prosaic and verbose, scholarship notwithstanding (or perhaps as a result thereof). In my translation, I want to come back full circle to the original text, regaining some of the terse, textured quality of these multilayered sutras in a modern idiom.

This text is also called Yoga Darshan. Darshan means vision, a higher form of seeing beyond the senses and the mind. In Sanskrit, one word can have many layers of meaning, yet convey a precise idea in context. I choose my words carefully—simple, strong, capable of deeper meaning. I cut everything superfluous and keep the tone light. I pay attention to the sonics of the chant, with emphasis on certain elements. Mostly, I just have fun.

—Kanya Kanchana

साधना पाद

by Patanjali

तपःस्वाध्यायेश्वरप्रणिधानानि क्रियायोगः॥१॥

 

समाधिभावनार्थः क्लेशतनूकरणार्थश्च॥२॥

 

अविद्यास्मितारागद्वेषाभिनिवेशाः क्लेशाः॥३॥

 

अविद्याक्षेत्रमुत्तरेषां प्रसुप्ततनुविच्छिन्नोदाराणाम्॥४॥

 

अनित्याशुचिदुःखानात्मसु नित्यशुचिसुखात्मख्यातिरविद्या॥५॥

 

दृग्दर्शनशक्त्योरेकात्मतेवास्मिता॥६॥

 

सुखानुशयी रागः॥७॥

 

दुःखानुशयी द्वेषः॥८॥

 

स्वरसवाही विदुषोऽपि तथारूढोऽभिनिवेशः॥९॥

 

ते प्रतिप्रसवहेयाः सूक्ष्माः॥१०॥

 

ध्यानहेयास्तद्वृत्तयः॥११॥

 

क्लेशमूलः कर्माशयो दृष्टादृष्टजन्मवेदनीयः॥१२॥

 

सति मूले तद्विपाको जात्यायुर्भोगाः॥१३॥

 

ते ह्लादपरितापफलाः पुण्यापुण्यहेतुत्वात्॥१४॥

 

परिणामतापसंस्कारदुःखैर्गुणवृत्तिविरोधाच्च दुःखमेवसर्वं विवेकिनः॥१५॥

 

हेयं दुःखमनागतम्॥१६॥

 

द्रष्टृदृश्ययोः संयोगो हेयहेतुः॥१७॥

 

प्रकाशक्रियास्थितिशीलं भूतेन्द्रियात्मकं भोगापवर्गार्थं दृश्यम्॥१८॥

 

विशेषाविशेषलिङ्गमात्रालिङ्गानि गुणपर्वाणि॥१९॥

 

द्रष्टादृशिमात्रः शुद्धोऽपि प्रत्ययानुपश्यः॥२०॥

 

तदर्थ एव दृश्यस्यात्मा॥२१॥

 

कृतार्थं प्रति नष्टमप्यनष्टं तदन्यसाधारणत्वात्॥२२॥

 

स्वस्वामिशक्त्योः स्वरूपोपलब्धिहेतुः संयोगः॥२३॥

 

तस्य हेतुरविद्या॥२४॥

 

तदभावात्संयोगाभावो हानं तद्दृशेः कैवल्यम्॥२५॥

 

विवेकख्यातिरविप्लवा हानोपायः॥२६॥

 

तस्य सप्तधा प्रान्तभूमिः प्रज्ञा॥२७॥

 

योगाङ्गाऽनुष्ठानादशुद्धिक्षये ज्ञानदीप्तिराविवेकख्यातेः॥२८॥

 

यमनियमासनप्राणायामप्रत्याहारधारणाध्यानसमाधयोऽष्टावङ्गानि॥२९॥

 

अहिंसासत्यास्तेयब्रह्मचर्यापरिग्रहा यमाः॥३०॥

 

जातिदेशकालसमयानवच्छिन्नाः सार्वभौमा महाव्रतम्॥३१॥

 

शौचसंतोषतपःस्वाध्यायेश्वरप्रणिधानानि नियमाः॥३२॥

 

वितर्कबाधने प्रतिपक्षभावनम्॥३३॥

 

वितर्का हिंसादयः कृतकारितानुमोदिता लोभक्रोधमोहपूर्वका मृदुमध्याधिमात्रा दुःखाज्ञानानन्तफला इति प्रतिपक्षभावनम्॥३४॥

 

अहिंसाप्रतिष्ठायां तत्सन्निधौ वैरत्यागः॥३५॥

 

सत्यप्रतिष्ठायां क्रियाफलाश्रयत्वम्॥३६॥

 

अस्तेयप्रतिष्ठायां सर्वरत्नोपस्थानम्॥३७॥

 

ब्रह्मचर्यप्रतिष्ठायां वीर्यलाभः॥३८॥

 

अपरिग्रहस्थैर्ये जन्मकथंतासंबोधः॥३९॥

 

शौचात्स्वाङ्गजुगुप्सा परैरसंसर्गः॥४०॥

 

सत्त्वशुद्धिसौमनस्यैकाग्र्येन्द्रियजयात्मदर्शनयोग्यत्वानि च॥४१॥

 

संतोषादनुत्तमसुखलाभः॥४२॥

 

कायेन्द्रियसिद्धिरशुद्धिक्षयात्तपसः॥४३॥

 

स्वाध्यायादिष्टदेवतासंप्रयोगः॥४४॥

 

समाधिसिद्धिरीश्वरप्रणिधानात्॥४५॥

 

स्थिरसुखमासनम्॥४६॥

 

प्रयत्नशैथिल्यानन्त्यसमापत्तिभ्याम्॥४७॥

 

ततो द्वन्द्वानभिघातः॥४८॥

 

तस्मिन्सति श्वासप्रश्वासयोर्गतिविच्छेदः प्राणायामः॥४९॥

 

बाह्याभ्यन्तरस्तम्भवृत्तिर्देशकालसंख्याभिः परिदृष्टो दीर्घसूक्ष्मः॥५०॥

 

बाह्याभ्यन्तरविषयाक्षेपी चतुर्थः॥५१॥

 

ततः क्षीयते प्रकाशावरणम्॥५२॥

 

धारणासु च योग्यता मनसः॥५३॥

 

स्वविषयासंप्रयोगे चित्तस्य स्वरूपानुकार इवेन्द्रियाणां प्रत्याहारः॥५४॥

 

ततः परमा वश्यतेन्द्रियाणाम्॥५५॥

Sadhana Pada

The Chapter of Doing It

by Patanjali

        Burn. Know. Surrender.

 

Clean up. Hurt less.

Know not—suffering.

 

Much I—suffering.

Like much—suffering, dis-

 

like much—suffering.

And death—oh, suffering.

 

All four—suffering.

Know what’s what.

 

What’s real. What’s pure.

 

                  Eternal. 

 

What’s what. This I.

That I. See clear.

 

Good stuff, like it.

Bad stuff, dislike it.

 

Dying, fear it.

All right.   

 

                   Stop it.

 

Draw in. Go in.

Feel it. Cut down.

 

Store it. No way.

Feel it. Go through.

 

Born how. Born where.

How long. Get what.

 

Good stuff/ bad stuff.

Sow seed. Reap fruit.

 

Change—painful.

Burn—painful.

 

Habit—painful.

 

See it.

                   Hurt less.

 

All done. Close it.

Mix up. See how.

 

Doer. Done to.

Seer. One seen.

 

One seen. Light up.

Move it. Steady now.

 

Mental. Astral.

Causal. No mark.

 

See clear, colour.

Unveil. Know it.

 

See how. For what.

See link. Free up.

 

This one, goes out.

That one, goes on.

 

See Self. Unfold.

Inside, outside.

 

Know not. Tie up.

Know it. Free up.

 

See through. Know it.

All seven. Go through.

 

Go on. Clean up.

Rise up. See through.

 

Eight limbs, five out,

three in. Do it.

 

Hurt none. Hold true.

Hold clear. Hold back.

 

Hold loose. That’s one.

Hold all. For all.

 

Clean up. Just right.

Burn up. Know Self.

 

Surrender. That’s two.

See across. Calm down.

 

See through. See true.

Clear heart. Stay down.

 

Hold true. Take fruit.

Hold clear. Take gems.

 

Hold back. Stay brave.

Hold loose. Know how.

 

Clean up. Cut loose.

Focus. Take reins.

 

Just right. Take joy.

Burn up.

 

                   Perfect.

 

Know self. Meld with.

Surrender. Merge in.

 

Sit still. Solid.

Sit still. Feel good.

 

Loosen. Lighten.

Focus. Easy.

 

Opposites. No worries.

Inhale. Exhale.

 

Stop it. Stay still.

Outside, inside.

 

See where. See when.

See how. See fine.

 

Inside, outside.

Go up. Over.

 

Unveil. See light.

Clear mind. Focus.

 

Turn in. Master.

Turn in. Master.

 

Turn in. Master.

Higher. Highest.

 

 

translated from Sanskrit by Kanya Kanchana
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to condense the world into a single cry

Two poems by Florbela Espanca translated by Kay Cosgrove

Florbela Espanca                 Kay Cosgrove

Ser Poeta

by Florbela Espanca

Ser poeta é ser mais alto, é ser maior

Do que os homens! Morder como quem beija!

É ser mendigo e dar como quem seja

Rei do Reino de Aquém e de Além Dor!

 

É ter de mil desejos o esplendor

E não saber sequer que se deseja!

É ter cá dentro um astro que flameja,

É ter garras e asas de condor!

 

É ter fome, é ter sede de Infinito!

Por elmo, as manhãs de oiro e cetim…

É condensar o mundo num só grito!

 

E é amar-te, assim, perdidamente…

É seres alma e sangue e vida em mim

E dizê-lo cantando a toda a gente!

To Be a Poet

by Florbela Espanca

To be a poet is to be taller, to be larger 

Than men. To bite like others kiss. 

It is to be a beggar and to give like you are king

of the kingdom of brief and ever-lasting pain. 

 

It is to have a thousand wishes, splendor

And not even know what you desire.

It is to have here inside a star, a flame.

It is to have the condor’s talons and wings.

 

It is to be hungry, to thirst for the infinite.

The gold and satin mornings like an antique helmet;

It is to condense the world into a single cry,

 

And it is to love you, even so, desperately.

You are the soul, the blood, and the life in me

And I tell it to everyone through my song. 

translated from Portuguese by Kay Cosgrove
more>>

Verses de Orgulho

by Florbela Espanca

O mundo quer-me mal porque ninguém


Tem asas como eu tenho! Porque Deus


Me fez nascer Princesa entre plebeus


Numa torre de orgulho e de desdém.

 

Porque o meu Reino fica para além …


Porque trago no olhar os vastos céus


E os oiros e clarões são todos meus!


Porque eu sou Eu e porque Eu sou Alguém!

 

O mundo ? O que é o mundo, ó meu Amor ?


—O jardim dos meus versos todo em flor…


A seara dos teus beijos, pão bendito…

 

Meus êxtases, meus sonhos, meus cansaços…


—São os teus braços dentro dos meus braços,


Via Láctea fechando o Infinito.

Verses of Pride

by Florbela Espanca

The world distains me because nobody

Has wings like mine. Because God

Begot me princess among the people

In a tower of pride and disgust.

 

Because my Reign goes beyond here.

Because I bring in my look the vast skies

And the gold and lightening are all mine.

Because I am who I am and because I am somebody.

 

The world? What is the world, oh my Love?

—The garden of my verses all in bloom,

The wheat field of your kisses like blessed bread.

 

My ecstasy, my dreams, my fatigue,

—They are your arms inside my arms,

the Milky Way closing the Infinite. 

translated from Portuguese by Kay Cosgrove
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…they move like snowstorms or squalls

A poem by Maxim Amelin translated by Derek Mong and Anne O. Fisher

Катавасия на Фоминой неделе

by Maxim Amelin

Gratia cum Nymphis geminisque sororibus audet

      ducere nuda choros.

Immortalia ne speres, monet annus et almum

      quae rapit hora diem.

                    Q. Horatius Flaccus, Od., IV, 7.

 

Но нет! — он может пробудиться,

Из гроба света луч пролить.

                    Граф Д. И. Хвостов.

                    К Дарье Алексеевне Державиной

                    на Паше, 1816 года Июля 16 дня

 

 

Подражание Хвостову

сочинить ко дню Христову

не случилось, — на Страстной

строчки — чаяния паче —

для решения задачи

сей не влезло ни одной

 

в голову. — Привычка к лаврам

быстро делает кентавром,

грозным с виду, косным в шаг, —

к вящей славе Их Сиятельств

в нарушенье обязательств

не стоится на ушах,

 

на потеху следопытам

не летается, копытом

стройным в воздухе маша:

раз-два-три, два-три-четыре. —

Неприкаянная в мире

дольнем странствует душа,

 

тяжкий груз таская тела,

от известного предела

неизведанного до, —

с миром выспренним в разлуке

не сидит, поджавши руки,

в ожидании Го — —.

 

В ожидании чего-то

эдакого: поворота,

перемены невзначай, —

изменив порядок строчек,

память вырвала листочек

с приглашением на чай.

 

Старое стихотворенье,

что прокисшее варенье,

крытый плесенью пирог. —

Не для всех своих исчадий

остаётся добрым дядей

вдохновений светлый бог.

 

Страх и ужас: вот бы если

все умершие воскресли

без разбору, — что тогда? —

Понесутся целым скопом

по америкам, европам

в залу Страшного суда,

 

друг отталкивая друга,

точно вихорь или вьюга,

всё сметая на пути,

необузданны и дики,

оглушительные крики

сея: «Не развоплоти!» —

 

«Пощади меня, Всевышний!» —

«И меня!» — «И я не лишний!» —

взвоют все до одного. —

Милосерд Господь и правед, —

только избранных восставит

или — лучше — никого.

 

Никого. — Какая демо-

кратия! — Моя поэма,

совершая трудный путь,

чертит странные зигзаги. —

Хорошо б у тихой влаги

на припёке отдохнуть:

 

«Мне ли, жителю вселенной,

внятен будет современный

шёпот, ропот или вой?» —

Ясные бросая взгляды,

плотоядные Наяды

плещут вешнею водой. —

 

Всяк родженный не однажды

глада не страшится, жажды,

обстоятельств или нужд,

хоть в казарме, хоть на зоне

размышляет о Назоне,

человеческого чужд. —

 

То, что свойственно природе,

тще не тщись в угоду моде

изменить, — со что и как,

как ни силься, что ни делай:

день взлетел, как ангел белый,

пал, что чёрный демон, мрак. —

 

Сутки — прочь, вторые сутки

помрачение в рассудке. —

Кто мне толком объяснит? —

Чёткий на вопрос вопросов

даст ответ? — Какой философ? —

Но молчат и Фет, и Ф. И. Т.

 

(псевдоним, инициалы). —

Геркулес у ног Омфалы,

весь в оборках кружевных,

северянинскому пажу

подражая, сучит пряжу,

упорядочен и тих.

 

Он, от жизни голубиной

отмахнувшийся дубиной,

облачится в шкуру льва

и взойдёт на склоны неба

убеждаться в том, что Геба

девственная, чем вдова

 

безутешная, не хуже, — 

тоже думает о муже:

«Я  невеста, ты  жених,

ты  жених, а я — невеста».

Нет ни времени, ни места

на подробности про них.

 

Так болтать шутливым слогом

можно долго и о многом:
то Ерема, то Фома, —
слов — полно, да толку мало, —
мысль, увы, не ночевала
в недрах некошна ума. —

«Кто герой моей поэмы? —
Я ль один? — А может, все мы,
кто не низок, не высок,
у кого, хотя негромкий,
свой, отдельный — там потомки
разберутся — голосок?» —

В гневе огненной геенны,
ненависть! не лезь на стены,
укроти свой, зависть! пыл,
не скрипи зубами, злоба! —
Да, Державин встал из гроба
и меня благословил. —

Смерти нет — одна морока:
классицизм или барокко? —
Зримый мир и мир иной
связаны, перетекая, —
катавасия такая
на неделе Фоминой.

 

1999-2002

Katabasia for St. Thomas Week

by Maxim Amelin

The Graces and their twins the nymphs will dare

      to dance undressed.

Don’t hope for immortality. The year gives warning,

      each hour steals the day’s sweet life.

—Horace, Odes IV.7

 

But no! He may awaken

and send a ray of light from out his coffin.

—Count D. I. Khvostov, to Darya Alekseyevna Derzhavina, the 16th of July, 1816

 

I couldn’t quite compose an homage

to Count Khvostov in time for Christmas,

not as I’d meant to, not a line—

despite my hopes for Holy Week.

I’ve yet to solve this simple problem,

and no solution comes to mind.

 

The moment you take praise for granted

is the moment you become a centaur:

crooked of gait, a grim demeanor.

But I’ll not tie myself in knots,

neglecting my own obligations,

just to win Their Lordships more honor.

 

Nor shall I fly to tease my trackers,

my slender hoof held up to mark

the time I’ve spent in graceful flight:

one-two-three, two-three-four.

My restless soul still wanders across

the earthly world’s endless sights;

 

it drags my body’s heavy load,

testing the limits of where we go

into the known and unexplored.

My soul won’t sit on its hands and wait—

off by itself in its lofty world—

for the Second Coming of the Lord.

 

For that certain something I’d heard,

I wait; for a turn of fate that’s better,

a sea change or serendipity…

my memory has switched some lines

and found, stuck between the mind’s

pages, an invitation out to tea.

 

A poem that’s old is like a pie

encrusted with mold, a sour jam

that sports a furry rind.

Likewise the god of inspiration,

who’ll only shine on his chosen brood.

To others he’s wholly unkind.

 

Fear and horror: what if the dead

were reincarnated, willy-nilly?

Could we handle them all?

I see the herds stampede across

the Europes and the Americas—

they enter the Day of Judgment’s halls.

 

Jostling each other out of the way,

they move like snowstorms or squalls

that clear all paths of debris—

they’re wild and unrestrained, their screams

can scatter us all with this deafening plea:

“Don’t unembody me!”

 

“Have pity on me, Almighty! Spare me!”

“And me!” “And me! I matter too!”

they wail in unison.

The Lord is merciful and just:

he’ll only raise a chosen few,

or—even better—none.

 

None. Now that’s a shit-

ocracy. My own epic poem

traces out its funny zig-zags

as it travels its difficult path.

How nice it’d be to laze near water,

soak up the rays and just relax.

 

“Will this newfangled whispering, grumbling,

and howling ever make sense to me:

the Universe’s denizen?”

The flesh-eating Naiads shoot me glances—

they splash their vernal water coyly

and flirt in my direction.

 

Whoever’s been born has felt the pangs

of thirst or hunger more than once.

He’s been resigned to poverty.

Even in barracks or labor camps,

where all that is human is foreign,

he ponder Ovid’s poetry.

 

So don’t exert yourself to change

the native and natural order of things,

to fit today’s modish fashion.

Your like and as are wholly futile:

the dawn rose like a white angel,

the darkness fell, black as a demon.

 

I’ve lost one day and then a second

to this growing eclipse of my reason.

Where’s the answer coming from

to this question of questions?

Which thinker’s got a clear solution?

Both Fet and F. I. T. are mum.

 

(Of course: a pseudonym, initials.)

Here’s Hercules in flounces lacey—

he sits at fierce Omphale’s feet.

He’s just like Severyanin’s page-boy.

The hero spins his yarn effetely,

so dutiful, mute, and meek.

 

But with a swing of oaken club

our Hercules undoes his dovecote.

Again arrayed in lion skin,

he soon ascends the vault of heaven

to locate Hebe virginal.

Zeus’s daughter is akin

 

to widows inconsolable:

like them, she wants a husband too.

“I’m the bride, you’re my bridegroom.

You’re the bridegroom; I’m your bride.”

Further details, though, are moot.

I’ve no more time to talk, nor room.

 

We joke like this in endless cycles

but to what end? Take Jeremiah,

Thomas, or any of their kind:

they’re rich in words, but what’s their use

if thought, alas, won’t tread a path

through a reader’s unmown mind?

 

“Who is the hero of this poem?

Just me alone? Or all of us?

Whoever’s neither prince nor lout?

Whoever’s got a singular voice,

however hushed? Let generations

to follow figure it out.”

 

O Hate! Don’t climb the walls inside

fiery Gehenna’s hellish wrath!

And calm your ardor, Envy!

Spite, you shouldn’t grind your teeth.

Yes, Derzhavin has finally risen

from his grave to bless me.

 

There is no death, but there is this mess:

is it Classical or just Baroque?

The world we see and the world we seek

are linked and bound to intermingle.

Behold: my katabasia

in honor of St. Thomas Week.

 

1999-2002

translated from Russian by Derek Mong & Anne O. Fisher
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what they call me

A poem by Shrawan Mukarung translated by Haris Adhikari

Shrawan-Mukarung      Haris Adhikari (2)

जङ्गली फूल

by Shrawan Mukarung

 

गाउँ

सहर

या नगरतिर

मलाई—

जङ्गली फूल भन्छन्

तर जङ्गलमै त

मेरो नाम अर्कै छ ।

Wild Flower

by Shrawan Mukarung

In villages,
cities
or towns,
what they call me is—
wild flower;
but I
do have a different name
in the jungle. 

translated from Nepali by Haris Adhikari
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