A Journal of Translation
Swan Sonnet The virgin, the beautiful and brilliant day Will it break, with a flutter of its drunken wing, This hard, forgotten lake which haunts under cracking Frost, the transparent glacier of flights unmade. A swan of days gone past …
The flowers Golden avalanches of ancient azure skies On the first day, and of the eternal snow of stars You once detached the calyxes of seas and skies, Of the still young earth, an earth virgin to wars. Wild gladiolus …
A toast Nothing, this foam, a virgin verse, Shows nothing but the cup; Far away the many sirens Drown the wrong way round, submersed. We navigate through, my diverse Friends, I already on the stern You on the grand prow …
Song of Autumn The long sobs Of the violins Of autumn Stab my heart With a monotone Langour. All suffocated And pale, when The hour strikes, I recall Days of yore And cry. And I go With tragic winds That …
The Siren is a beast, usually blonde That chooses a corner for herself in a much-frequented sea And spreads herself upon a great rock On the lookout for hardy sailors With intentions that are beyond nautical. The siren yells like …
The children of today When they are between fifteen and twenty Are sad and quiet Afraid of of vicious old men They get bored in cafés And nothing makes an effect on them And when you speak softly to them …
Plume was having lunch at a restaurant, when the maître d’hotel approached, frowned at him and said in a low, mysterious voice, “What you have there on your plate is not on the menu.” Plume excused himself at once. –Ah, …
And though I’ve tried swallowing seven gulps of water three or four times every twenty-four hours my childhood comes jolting back in a hiccup instinctively like a criminal to the scene of the crime disaster tell me of disaster tell …
Ours are the hills of the old marronnage ours are the coves and the cobalt bluffs the sovereign trees blooming in the eye of the cyclone! ours are the dark rum beaches under the moonlight companion stars facing the sea …