Metamorphosis (Vol. 8 No. 1)

TRINITY

JOURNA L OF LITERARY TRANSL ATI ON

VOLUME 8

ISSUE I

Vol. 8, Issue I: METAMORPHOSIS Search for an English version of Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis in the Trinity College Library catalogue and you’ll have not one, not two, but thirteen different translations to choose from. That’s right—no fewer than thirteen translators have made a go of putting this one German-language novella into English.

Thirteen translations, thirteen ways of looking.

One thing we should understand about The Metamorphosis is that even those who can read it in its original language are likely to have a hard time interpreting it. More than a hundred years since its publication, there is still no consensus on the precise species into which Gregor Samsa is transformed at the start of the book. The original German phrase “einem ungeheuren Ungeziefer” is hauntingly ambiguous. It was first translated in 1933 by Willa and Edwin Muir as “a gigantic insect”; by Stanley Corngold in 1972 as “a monstrous vermin”; and by J. A. Underwood in 1981 as “a giant bug”. For this issue’s cover art, Sarah Sturzel has honoured the character with an image of a cockroach, but other illustrations throughout the ages have seen him turned into a dung beetle, a caterpillar, and what looks like the Mothman. Stage adaptations of the text have transformed Gregor into, among other things, a half-naked contortionist, a gravity-defying businessman, and a robot.

All of this is to say that translation is no small feat, whether across languages or across media. To me, “Metamorphosis” seems more than fitting as a theme for a journal which champions the beautiful and uncanny transformation that takes place when a piece of art in one language is translated into another, and, indeed, when an idea takes linguistic or visual form. We asked submitters to send us work they felt corresponded with the theme, and we’re delighted at the wide variety of interpretations that it has elicited—in this issue you’ll find humans transforming into donkeys and crocodiles, love into apathy, winter into spring, and so much more. Just as the myriad translations of Kafka’s novella have proven, “Metamorphosis” can mean a lot of things to a lot of different people.

I would like to thank Dr. Peter Arnds for first suggesting the theme and for providing such invaluable guidance over the past few months, as well as my predecessor Rory O’Sullivan for giving me the know-how and confidence to take on the editorship role. Thank-yous are also in order to Professor Dmitri

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Zaitsev and Taerim Moon for their language expertise; to the Trinity Centre for Literary and Cultural Translation for regularly promoting our submissions calls, often without even being asked; and to the Trinity Publications committee for their practical advice and continued support.

I am extremely grateful to my talented editorial team, Millie van Grutten, Orlando Devoy, Aifric Doherty, and Sarah Sturzel, without whom none of this would be possible.

Finally, of course, a huge thank-you to all of our contributors. We had an unprecedented volume of submissions this semester and the quality of work has been astonishing. You are the ones who allow this publication to serve its purpose: celebrating the eye-opening and transformative power of literature in translation.

It is my pleasure to present to you the Trinity Journal of Literary Translation Volume 8, Issue I: METAMORPHOSIS. Clare Healy

Editorial Staff 2019/20

Editor..................Clare Healy Deputy Editor...............Millie van Grutten Assistant Editors......Orlando Devoy Aifric Doherty Art Editor..............Sarah Sturzel Faculty Advisor.........Dr. Peter Arnds

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Contents An Evening artwork by Celine Delahoy 5

The Rain in the Pine Wood Italian-English translation by Martina Giambanco 6

New is the Woman / Before a Woman Tagalog-English translation by Beatriz Nakpil 42

Transformations Latin-English translation by Martina Giambanco 10

What’s Theirs is Mine artwork by Aoife Donnellan 45

The Garden Party Czech-English translation by Michaela Fricova 46

Standard Language English-Russian translation by Dmitri Manin 14 Death of a Naturalist English-French translation by Ariane Dudych 16 I, a Crocodile Spanish-English translation by Amy Dallas 20 Untitled artwork by Penny Stuart

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Becoming Gold artwork by Celine Delahoy

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Inexplicable Metamorphoses Spanish-English translation by Cynthia Steele 50 Beauty and the Beast French-English translation by Sarah Sturzel 54 Metamorphosis into Monster Bengali-English translation by Mohammad Shafiqul Islam 58

Bird of Paradise (excerpt) Mandarin-English translation by Guang Yang 30

May brings forth blossoms and roses Maltese-English translation by Daniel Cossai 60

Metamorphoses Latin-English translation by Margherita Galli 32

Love that hurt too much was not love Korean-English translation by Grace Healy 62

Metamorphoses Latin-English translation by Orlando Devoy 34

Awake Hebrew-English translation by Tsipi Keller 38

Sonnet for the Glass Blower English-Polish translation by Magdalena Kleszczewska 64

The Albatross French-English translation by Maud Baring 40

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Cherub Clouds & First Touch artwork by Ciara Shevlin 66 Time Flies artwork by Katie Murnane

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Notes on Contributors

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Celine Delahoy, An Evening

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ITALIAN

La Pioggia Nel Pineto by Gabriele D’Annunzio

Taci. Su le soglie del bosco non odo parole che dici umane; ma odo parole più nuove che parlano gocciole e foglie lontane.

Ascolta. Piove dalle nuvole sparse.

Piove su le tamerici salmastre ed arse, piove su i pini scagliosi ed irti, piove su i mirti divini, su le ginestre fulgenti di fiori accolti, su i ginepri folti di coccole aulenti, piove su i nostri volti silvani, piove su le nostre mani ignude, su i nostri vestimenti leggieri, su i freschi pensieri che l’anima schiude novella, su la favola bella che ieri t’illuse, che oggi m’illude, o Ermione.

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This poem was published in 1903 and is located in the third book, Alcyone, of the collection of poems Laudi. The term panism coined by the poet is used to describe an artistic or literary attitude corresponding to a marked lyric participation of man in the

Odi? La pioggia cade su la solitaria verdura con un crepitío che dura e varia nell’aria secondo le fronde più rade, men rade.

Ascolta. Risponde al pianto il canto delle cicale che il pianto australe non impaura, nè il ciel cinerino.

E il pino ha un suono, e il mirto altro suono, e il ginepro altro ancóra, stromenti diversi sotto innumerevoli dita.

E immersi noi siam nello spirto silvestre, d’arborea vita viventi; e il tuo volto ebro è molle di pioggia come una foglia, e le tue chiome auliscono come le chiare ginestre, o creatura terrestre che hai nome Ermione.

ENGLISH

story of nature, conceived either paganly or pantheistically. The poem offered in translation narrates the poet and the poet’s lover’s deep communion with nature, to the point that they transform into nature themselves.

Be silent. On the thresholds of the wood I do not hear words you call human; but I hear newer words spoken by droplets and leaves far away.

Listen. It rains from the scattered clouds.

It rains on the brackish, burned tamarisks, it rains on the pine trees scaly and bristly, it rains on the divine myrtles, on the shining brooms of clustered flowers, on the junipers thick with fragrant berries, it rains on our sylvan faces, it rains on our bare hands, on our light robes, on the fresh thoughts that our soul, renewed, unfolds, on the beautiful fable that deceived you yesterday, that deceives me today, oh Hermione.

The Rain in the Pine Wood translated by Martina Giambanco Do you hear? The rain falls on the solitary vegetation with a crackling noise that lasts and varies in the air according to the foliage sparser, less sparse.

Listen. Answers to the weeping the song of the cicadas, which the Southern wind’s weeping does not frighten, nor the ash-grey sky.

And the pine tree has a sound, the myrtle another one, the juniper yet another, different instruments under countless fingers.

And immersed we are in the sylvan spirit, an arboreal life living; and your drunken face is tender with rain like a leaf, and your hair is scented like the bright broom flowers, oh terrestrial creature who is named Hermione.

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Ascolta, ascolta. L’accordo delle aeree cicale a poco a poco più sordo si fa sotto il pianto che cresce; ma un canto vi si mesce più roco che di laggiù sale, dall’umida ombra remota.

Più sordo e più fioco s’allenta, si spegne.

Sola una nota ancor trema, si spegne, risorge, trema, si spegne.

Non s’ode voce del mare.

Or s’ode su tutta la fronda crosciare l’argentea pioggia che monda, il croscio che varia secondo la fronda più folta, men folta.

Ascolta.

La figlia dell’aria è muta; ma la figlia del limo lontana, la rana, canta nell’ombra più fonda, chi sa dove, chi sa dove!

E piove su le tue ciglia, Ermione.

Piove su le tue ciglia nere sìche par tu pianga ma di piacere; non bianca ma quasi fatta virente, par da scorza tu esca.

E tutta la vita è in noi fresca aulente,

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il cuor nel petto è come pesca intatta, tra le pàlpebre gli occhi son come polle tra l’erbe, i denti negli alvèoli con come mandorle acerbe.

E andiam di fratta in fratta, or congiunti or disciolti (e il verde vigor rude ci allaccia i mallèoli c’intrica i ginocchi) chi sa dove, chi sa dove!

E piove su i nostri vólti silvani, piove su le nostre mani ignude, su i nostri vestimenti leggieri, su i freschi pensieri che l’anima schiude novella, su la favola bella che ieri m’illuse, che oggi t’illude, o Ermione.

Listen, listen. The accord of the aerial cicadas little by little duller becomes under the weeping that’s rising; but a song mingles with it hoarser from down there rising, from the damp distant shade.

Hoarser and duller it fades, disappears.

Only one note still trembles, fades away, rises again, trembles, fades.

No voice of the sea is heard.

Now is heard all over the foliage roaring the silvery rain that cleanses, the roar that varies according to the foliage thicker, less thick.

Listen.

The daughter of the air is silent; but the daughter of the silt faraway, the frog, sings in the deepest shadow who knows where, who knows where!

And it rains on your eyelashes, Hermione.

the heart in our breast is like a peach untouched, between the eyelids our eyes are like springs among the grass, and our teeth in the sockets are like unripe almonds.

And we go from thicket to thicket, now joined, now untied, (and the rough green vigour interlaces our ankles, entangles our knees) who knows where, who knows where!

And it rains on our sylvan faces, it rains on our bare hands on our light robes, on the fresh thoughts that our soul, renewed, unfolds, on the beautiful fable that deceived me yesterday, that deceives you today, oh Hermione.

It rains on your black eyelashes as if you were crying, but from pleasure; not white but almost made green, as if you were coming out of the bark.

And all life is in us fresh and fragrant,

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LATIN

Metamorphōseōn by Ovid

The passage is taken from the etiological myth which explains why the laurel is Apollo’s sacred plant.

The scene offered here in translation follows the pressing chase of Apollo, who is resolute in making the

Ut canis in vacuo leporem cum Gallicus arvo vidit, et hic praedam pedibus petit, ille salutem; (alter inhaesuro similis iam iamque tenere sperat et extento stringit vestigia rostro, alter in ambiguo est, an sit conprensus, et ipsis morsibus eripitur tangentiaque ora relinquit): sic deus et virgo; est hic spe celer, illa timore.

Qui tamen insequitur pennis adiutus Amoris, ocior est requiemque negat tergoque fugacis inminet et crinem sparsum cervicibus adflat.

Viribus absumptis expalluit illa citaeque victa labore fugae spectans Peneidas undas “Fer, pater”, inquit “opem! Si flumina numen qua nimiun placui, mutando perde figuram!”

Vix prece finita torpor gravis occupat artus, mollia cinguntur tenui praecordia libro, in frondem crines, in ramos bracchia crescunt, pes modo tam velox pigris radicibus haeret, ora cacumen habet: remanet nitor unus in illa.

Hanc quoque Phoebus amat positaque in stipite dextra sentit adhuc trepidare novo sub cortice pectus conplexusque suis ramos ut membra lacertis oscula dat ligno; refugit tamen oscula lignum.

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ENGLISH nymph Daphne bend to his passion.

Consequently, the nymph begs her father to transform her appearance in order to escape the god’s ardour, unfortunately without any success.

Transformations translated by Martina Giambanco

Similarly to when a Gaul dog sees a hare in the open field and they both snap, the first one in order to grab it, the latter to save itself; the god, on the point of grasping her and now convinced that he had taken her, holding her with his snout outstretched, and her who, in the uncertainty of being taken, escapes the bites trying to avoid his mouth, which lightly touches her: thus were the god and the girl; Apollo like lightning due to his desire, her due to her fear.

But he who chases her, with the wings of Love in his aid, runs quicker, gives no respite and hovers behind the fugitive, panting into her hair, spread about her neck.

Without remaining strength, pale and overcome by the fatigue of that chase, she turns to the currents of the Peneus and: “Help me, father,” she says. “If you, rivers, have any power, dissolve, transforming them, these features of mine for which I was too much liked.”

Scarcely has she finished praying, that a deep torpor pervades her limbs, the soft chest starts being wrapped in thin fiber, the hair is elongated in fronds, the arms in branches; her feet, once so fast, nail themselves in lazy roots, the face fades into the canopy of a tree: only her splendour is preserved.

Even thus Phoebus loves her and, resting his hand on the trunk, he still feels her chest tremble under that new bark and, clutching her branches like a body in his arms, he kisses the wood, but the tree persists in avoiding his kisses.

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cui deus “At, quoniam coniux mea non potes esse, arbor eris certe” dixit “mea! Semper habebunt te coma, te citharae, te nostrae, laure, pharetrae; tu ducibus Latiis aderis, cum laeta triumphum vox canet et visent longas Capitolia pompas…utque meum intonsis caput est iuvenale capillis, tu quoque perpetuos semper gere frondis honores!”

Finierat Paean: factis modo laurea ramis adnuit utque caput visa et agitasse cacumen.

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Hence the god said: “If you can’t be my bride, you’ll be at least my plant. And with you always will be adorned, oh laurel, my hair, my harp, my quiver; and you will go with the leader of the Latin condottieri, when an exultant voice will sing the triumph and the Capitolium will see the processions flow…

And as my head remains young with untouched hair, you too will bear the perpetual pride of the fronds!”.

Here Phoebus became silent; and the laurel nodded with its newly sprouted branches and waved its top, as though nodding its head.

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ENGLISH

Standard Language by Alex Foreman

This sonnet by American linguist, translator and poet Alex Foreman is about language change, viewed as a tectonic metamorphosis, slow, but unstoppable. The quatrains are in “literary” language, while the tercets

You cannot hold your tongue. There is no such Thing as a grammar ruling. Beyond intent Our kind’s tectonic mindscapes drive a course Through times. Your language is but continent Churned on the planet, changed at every touch, Forming a fissure in schismatic rock Where the least hotspot’s sheer vocalic force Shifts the sea’s stress. I’d rather we just talk The way we gonna. Can’t no mountain move Back to no yesterday. Your standard love Hating on shit, white boy. But it ain’t no Heirloom for no great grand daughter no more Than plants that growed down on the ocean floor In my backyard a billion years ago.

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RUSSIAN

are in vernacular, which provides an interesting translation challenge. The rhyme scheme, chaotic in quatrains and regular in tercets, ties everything together.

Языковая норма translated by Dmitri Manin

Алекс Форман, перевод Дмитрия Манина Язык не придержать. Ведь нет суда Грамматики. Ничья не движет воля Подспудною тектоникой коры Сознанья. Ибо наш язык -- не боле, Чем материк, пластичная плита, Плывущая в штормящем море лавы, Где вокализма жар кует миры В разломах и спряженьях. Так что правы, Кто лепит от балды. Хрен вам гора Отъедет взад, где видели вчера. Мы -- быдло вам, блюстителям порядка, Но вашим внукам нужен этот клад, Как мох, что рос мильярды лет назад На дне морском, вон там, где спортплощадка.

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ENGLISH

Death of a Naturalist by SĂŠamus Heaney

This poem is undoubtedly an absolute classic of Irish literature, but Seamus Heaney’s work remains rather unknown and scarcely translated in France. The double

All year the flax-dam festered in the heart Of the townland; green and heavy headed Flax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.

Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun.

Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottles Wove a strong gauze of sound around the smell.

There were dragonflies, spotted butterflies, But best of all was the warm thick slobber Of frogspawn that grew like clotted water In the shade of the banks. Here, every spring I would fill jampotfuls of the jellied Specks to range on window sills at home, On shelves at school, and wait and watch until The fattening dots burst, into nimble Swimming tadpoles. Miss Walls would tell us how The daddy frog was called a bullfrog And how he croaked and how the mammy frog Laid hundreds of little eggs and this was Frogspawn. You could tell the weather by frogs too For they were yellow in the sun and brown In rain.

Then one hot day when fields were rank With cowdung in the grass the angry frogs Invaded the flax-dam; I ducked through hedges To a coarse croaking that I had not heard Before. The air was thick with a bass chorus.

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FRENCH metamorphosis that occurs in it – the frogs and the speaker – was an opportunity to translate it for this issue.

Mort d’un naturaliste translated by Ariane Dudych

Toute l’année, la mare à lin suppurait au coeur Des terres ; du lin vert à la tête lourde Y avait pourri, pressé sous d’immenses mottes.

Chaque jour, il étouffait sous les coups du soleil.

Des bulles gargouillaient délicatement, des mouches Enveloppaient l’odeur d’un robuste voile de son.

Il y avait des libellules, des papillons tachetés, Mais mieux que tout, chaude, épaisse, c’était la bave De frai de grenouille qui poussait comme de l’eau coagulée A l’ombre du rivage. C’était là que, chaque printemps Je remplissais des pots de confiture de cette gelée mouchetée pour les aligner chez moi, sur les rebords des fenêtres, Sur les étagères à l’école, et j’attendais, je guettais L’explosion des points dodus, en d’agiles Têtards. Miss Walls nous expliquait que Le papa grenouille était une grenouille-taureau Et qu’il croassait et que la maman grenouille Pondait des centaines de petits œufs et que c’était ça le frai de grenouille. Les grenouilles servaient aussi à savoir quel temps il faisait Car elles étaient jaunes au soleil et marron Sous la pluie.

Puis un jour étouffant où les prés étaient infectés De bouse dans l’herbe les grenouilles furieuses Envahirent la mare à lin ; je rampai à travers les haies Vers un croassement rauque dont le son m’était Encore inconnu. L’air était saturé de choeurs baritons.

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Right down the dam gross bellied frogs were cocked On sods; their loose necks pulsed like sails. Some hopped: The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat Poised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.

I sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kings Were gathered there for vengeance and I knew That if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it.

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Tout au long de la mare, des grenouilles au ventre répugnant étaient postées Sur les mottes ; leurs cous flasques s’enflaient comme des voiles.

Certaines sautaient : Leurs bruits moites étaient d’obscènes menaces. D’autres se tenaient Immobiles, comme des grenades de boue, flatulant avec leurs têtes brutales.

Dégoûté, je fis demi-tour, je courus. Les grands monarques visqueux Etaient réunis ici pour leur vengeance et je savais Que si j’y trempais la main, la bave l’aggriperait.

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SPANISH

Yo, cocodrilo by Jacinta Escudos

This short story is from Salvadorean writer Jacinta Escudos’ collection “The Devil Knows My Name”.

This piece explores the theme of metamorphosis by focusing on the

En las tardes de calor me convierto en cocodrilo.

Voy al arroyo, me quito la ropa, me tiro boca abajo, cierro los ojos, extiendo los brazos, abro las piernas.

Siento el viento de los desiertos soplar sus aires calientes sobre mí.

Me derriten. Me penetran ahí abajo. Y algo cambia, algo que ya no soy yo.

Y que es esto: un cocodrilo.

Así comienza mi fuerza, arrastrándome seductoramente, como cintura de mujer que se menea cuando camina. Tengo escamas en mis manos y una nueva y larga nariz que se extiende y se pega a mi boca, llena de dientes filosos y puntiagudos. Los animalitos huyen de mí, se esconden. Tienen miedo.

Tienen miedo de que abra mis fauces. Tienen miedo de mis ojos.

Al principio no sabía qué pasaba. Y entonces recordé lo que decían en la aldea. La niña que no se somete al ritual se convierte en cocodrilo.

No podía imaginar cómo una niña se convertiría en cocodrilo.

Pero no debía preguntar. Entendería después. * La primera tarde que me convertí en cocodrilo fue extraña. Me acosté boca abajo en el arroyo porque tenía calor, y el calor me da sueño. Quería dormir. Y lo hice. Y al despertar me descubrí animal.

Conocí mis fauces, mis nuevos manos. Si me contorsionaba lo suficiente, hasta podía ver mi cola. ¡Mi propia cola!

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ENGLISH relationship between humans and animals, but also deals with the horrific practice of female genital mutilation in an imaginative, yet compelling way.

I, a Crocodile translated by Amy Dallas

On hot afternoons I turn into a crocodile.

I head to the creek, strip off my clothes, lie down on my back, stretch out my arms, spread my legs wide.

I feel the warm desert wind caressing my skin. It melts me. It enters me. It penetrates me down there. And something switches, something that makes me no longer myself. And it makes me: a crocodile.

This was how I found my strength, crawling along, swaying seductively like the hips of a woman as she walks. My hands are scaled, and my new, long nose sticks out, attached to my mouth, which is full of sharp, pointed teeth. Small animals flee from me, hiding themselves. They are afraid.

They are afraid that I’ll open my jaws. They are afraid of my eyes.

At first, I wasn’t sure what had happened. And then, I remembered what they had said in the village. Any girl who doesn’t take part in the ceremony turns into a crocodile.

I couldn’t imagine how a girl could turn into a crocodile. But I need not have wondered. Soon, I would understand. * The first afternoon that I turned into a crocodile was strange. I lay face down in the creek because I was too hot, and the heat makes me sleepy. I wanted to sleep. So, I did. And when I woke up, I was an animal.

I studied my jaws, my new hands. If I stretched far enough, I could just about see my tail. I had a tail!

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Me pareció curioso. Ser animal y ser persona. No me preocupaba, me parecía divertido. Pasaba las tardes en los matorrales del arroyo con los demás amigos cocodrilos. Hablábamos de los animales cazados, de los críos, del calor y del agua. Y de los humanos que vivían en la aldea.

Los demás cocodrilos no creían que yo era humana. Hasta que me vieron convertirme en yo. Los cocodrilos más ancianos dijeron que el humano que podía transformarse en animal, era un hechicero. Y así, los demás cocodrilos me respetaron y prometieron ayudarme en toda circunstancia, porque sabía que yo sería buena con ellos.

Yo me la pasaba muy bien entre mis amigos. Nadábamos, comíamos, jugábamos. Me enseñaron la cacería. Acechábamos a todos los animales que se acercaban a la orilla a beber agua: impalas, búfalos, leones, elefantes. Y también a los humanos.

No me gustaba ser humana. Prefería mis horas de cocodrilos.

Madre había sido clara. Me dijo, “tienes que someterte al ritual”. Y yo le decía “no, prefiero ser cocodrilo”. Madre me tiraba al piso, me gritaba.

Todas las mujeres hablaban conmigo. Me decían que tenía que hacerlo, que no temiera, que todos lo hacían.

Yo lloraba. No quería oírlas. Ponía mis manos sobre mis oídos y lloraba. Sabía de los gritos de las niñas cuando iban al ritual. Sabía de las que morían después.

“No te casarás nunca”, me decían. Y madre también decía “nadie dará dote por ti, seremos miserables siempre”. Será infiel, será lujuriosa, se enfermará de la carne y se le pudrirá todo. Sus partes le crecerán y crecerán y serán tan grandes como los cuernos de una cabra, decían a mis espaldas.

Yo tenía sueños. En el sueño estaba acostada boca arriba, sin ropas. Y en el sueño, veía que de mi entrepierna crecía una larga serpiente con un solo ojo en el centro, gruesa y rígida, del color de mi carne, y yo tomaba la cabeza de la serpiente entre mis manos y la metía en mi boca, 22

To me it seemed strange. Being both an animal and a person. I wasn’t worried though, it seemed fun. I spent my afternoons in the thickets by the creek with my other crocodile friends. We talked about the animals they hunted, their young, the heat and the water. And the humans that lived in the village.

The other crocodiles didn’t believe that I was a human. Not until they saw me turn back into my old self. The elder crocodiles told me that a human who could turn themselves into an animal was a sorcerer. And so, the other crocodiles respected me and promised to help me if ever I needed it, because they knew that I would treat them well.

I had a great time with my friends. We swam, we ate, we played.

They taught me how to hunt. We stalked the animals that gathered at the banks of the creek to drink water: impala, buffalo, lions, elephants.

Humans, too.

I didn’t like being a human. I preferred the hours I spent as a crocodile. Mother had made it clear. She said, “you have to take part in the ceremony”. And I told her “no, I like being a crocodile better”. Mother pushed me to the ground, shouting at me. All the women spoke with me.

They told me that I had to do it, not to be afraid, that everybody did it.

I cried. I didn’t want to listen to them. I held my hands over my ears and cried. I could tell from their cries when the girls were taken to the ceremony. I could tell when they died afterwards, too.

“You’ll never be married”, they told me. And Mother too said, “nobody will ever pay your dowry, we’ll be miserable forever”. She’ll be unfaithful, she’ll be promiscuous, her flesh will get infected and rot away.

Her parts will grow and grow until they’re as big the horns of a goat, they said behind my back.

I had dreams. In my dream I was lying on my back, naked. And in the dream, I saw that between my legs grew a long snake, thick and stiff, the same colour as my flesh, with a single eye in its centre, and I took the 23

y sentía cosas extrañas en mi cuerpo. Y despertaba apretando las piernas y sintiendo cómo algo se movía en esa parte donde salen las aguas del cuerpo. Algo que se movía y que palpitaba tan fuerte como los latidos de mi corazón.

Me dejaron a mi suerte. Madre no quería saber nada de mí.

Dormía y comía allí, pero no les importaba si me iba o me quedaba. Era indigna de todos y temí que cualquier día me llevaran a la fuerza para hacerme eso que le hacían a las demás.

Ya no quería estar con ellos. Odiaba a mi madre. La vi llevar a mi hermanita, la vi llevar a otras más. Mi hermanita lloró días y días, y lo único que salía de su cuerpo era sangre, mucha sangre. Madre se pasaba los días cambiando los paños de sangre por otros con el oxidado color de la sangre mal lavada.

Yo lo vi todo una vez. Sabía que las llevaban a la choza de la curandera. Ella les quitaba la ropa, y las mujeres le abrían las piernas a las niñas y las niñas lloraban y chillaban como animal que va a ser matado y la curandera cortaba con un cuchillo un pedazo de carne, del tamaño de una oreja, allí de donde salen las aguas del cuerpo. Y la sangre brotaba roja, en abundancia. Y no había manera de pararlo, ni con emplastos de barro ni con mezclas de yerbas. Y las niñas no tomaban brebajes ni polvos para aliviar sus dolores, nada más que eran sujetadas por su propia madre, por su hermana mayor, mientras otra les cortaba las partes y la cosían con cáñamos y agujas de la planta de las espinas.

Prefería ser cocodrilo, indigna, impura. * Una mañana, madre me dijo que tenía que ir con ella. Yo sabía lo que significaba. Me llevaron con engaños a la curandera, me dominarían, me amarrarían como animal.

Corrí, corrí desesperada, gritando. Fui hacia el único lugar donde tenía amigos, el arroyo. Corrí y me metí al agua y recuerdo un grito extraño dado por madre. Sabía que allí vivían los cocodrilos. Madre pensó que yo 24

head of the snake in my hands and placed it in my mouth and felt strange sensations in my body. I woke up squeezing my legs together and feeling as though something was moving in that place where bodily waters came from. Something that moved and pulsed as hard as the beating of my heart.

They abandoned me to my fate. Mother wanted nothing to do with me. I slept and ate in the village, but they didn’t care if I stayed or not. I was unworthy of anything and I feared that any day now they would take me away by force so that they could do to me what they had done to the others.

I didn’t want to be with them anymore. I hated my mother. I saw her take my little sister away, and others too. My little sister cried for days and days, and the only thing coming out of her body was blood, and a lot of it. Mother spent those days switching her bloodied dressings for new, poorly washed ones, still stained a rusty blood colour.

I saw it all happen once. I knew that they were bringing them to the healer’s hut. She took off their clothes, and the other women held the girls’ legs apart and the girls cried and squealed like animals about to be killed and with a knife the healer cut off a chunk of flesh about the size of an ear, from that place where the bodily waters came from. And the blood flowed red, incessantly. And there was no way of stopping it, neither clay bindings nor herbal mixtures worked. And the girls didn’t take potions or powders to help with the pain, all they had was being held down by their own mother, their own older sister, while someone else cut their parts and sewed them up with hemp fibre and needles made from spiny plants.

I preferred being a crocodile, depraved, impure. * One morning, Mother told me that I had to come with her. I knew what this meant. They would trick me into coming with them to the healer, hold me down, tie me up like an animal.

I ran, I ran desperately, screaming. I went towards the only place where I had friends, the creek. I ran into the water, I remember a strange cry coming from my Mother. She knew that this was where the crocodiles 25

estaba muerta.

Entré al agua y por primera vez me convertí en cocodrilo en las oscuridades del arroyo. Salí cocodrilo a la orilla y los demás me siguieron.

Fuimos a la aldea. Destruimos todo. A los únicos seres que despedazamos fue a las mujeres de la aldea. Algunos compañeros murieron en la hazaña. Los hombres se defendían. Pero los hombres no nos interesaban. Eran ellas las que hacían todo. Las que cortaban, obligaban, mantenían las piernas abiertas.

Madre murió y yo la vi morir, pero no sabía que su hija era yo, cocodrilo. Participé personalmente en la comida de la curandera. Y nos encargamos también de todas las demás, porque las niñas no eran felices nunca, después del ritual. Fue un acto de piedad terminar con ellas.

Cuando concluimos fue porque los hombres se habían ido. No pudieron defender a sus mujeres. Huyeron asustados de nosotros.

Jubilosos, batimos nuestras fauces en señal de victoria. Ahora soy el líder de este pueblo. Mis amigos cocodrilos se la pasan muy bien. Ya no trato de convertirme en humana. Prefiero ser así, un cocodrilo, con una larga serpiente que le crece entre las piernas.

26

lived. Mother thought that I was dead.

I got into the water and for the first time I turned into a crocodile in the depths of the creek. I came out on the riverbank as a crocodile and the others followed me.

We went to the village. We destroyed everything. The only humans we attacked were the women of the village. A few fellow crocodiles died in the fight. The men were defending themselves. But the men didn’t interest us. It was the women who had done everything. It was the women who had cut, forced, held legs wide.

Mother died and I saw her die, although she didn’t know that I, a crocodile, was her daughter. I personally took part in feasting upon the healer. We dealt with all the other women too, because the girls could never be happy again after the ceremony. Finishing them off was an act of mercy.

When we finished it was because the men had left. They couldn’t defend their women. They fled, afraid of us. Triumphant, we snapped our jaws in a show of victory. Now I’m the leader of the bask. My crocodile friends are getting on well. I don’t bother turning back into a human anymore. I prefer being like this, a crocodile, with a long snake growing between my legs.

27

Penny Stuart, Untitled

28

Penny Stuart, Untitled

29

MANDARIN

极乐鸟（选段） by Sanmao / 三毛

The source text is the ending of epistolary prose 极乐鸟 (Bird of Paradise) by female Taiwanese writer Sanmao. First published in 1966, the text addresses a mysterious “S”

我今晚有些特别。我不写上面那些废话就好似活不下去了一 样。S，不要怪我，因我知道了你的事情。S，你好好的吧？你 好好的吧？S，你还在吗，我不能确定，S，我全身发抖。你还 在吗？还在吗？我不知道下一次有这念头的会是你还是我。我不 在乎你看这信有什么想法。人苦闷起来就是这样的，我一点办法 都没有，你当我发高烧说呓语好了。我是天生的病人。S，你会 说你不爱看这信，我无所谓。你那儿的冬天一定很冷。总有个取 暖的壁炉。我不管。把信烧掉好了。那年我在画上签名，我写了 Echo这字。你说谁给的名字，那么好。我说自己给的。没想到希 腊神话中的故事，经过数千年的流传，在冥冥中又应验到一个同 名的女孩身上。

不写了，明天我要寄掉这封信。我要去搭公路局车上学， 挤在沙丁鱼似的车厢里颠上山。我要念书。我要做好多不喜欢的 事，那么多刺人的感觉。厌倦的感觉日日折磨我。S，我很累很 累，什么时候我可以安睡不再起来。

华冈的风一到冬天总化成一条呜咽的小河，在山谷里流来 流去。而我一下车，那风便扑向我，绕着我，向我低低地诉说 着——我们不是飞行荷兰人，为什么要这样永不止息地飘来飘 去——我走在风里，总会觉得身子轻些了。我长了翅膀，化成 羽毛。我慢慢地凌空而起。我低低地飞翔在群山之间。呼叫着 Echo、Echo、Echo……

众神默默。

在清晨的纽约。在摩天楼的大峡谷里。S，当你醒来的时 候，你曾否听到过一只极乐鸟在你窗外拍翼飞过的声音。

30

ENGLISH

who recently committed suicide. It’s a rendering of melancholic beauty and emotional growth in the face of bereavement.

Bird of Paradise (excerpt) translated by Guang Yang

I’m a bit particular tonight. It’s as if I can’t live without writing the above nonsense. S, don’t blame me because I know about what you did. S, are you going to be alright? Are you well? S, are you still there? I can’t be sure. S, I’m shivering all over. Are you still there? Still there? I don’t know if it’ll be you or me to have this thought next time. I don’t care what you think about this letter. This is how anguish people react. I can’t do anything about it. Just think of this as the fever talking. I’m a born patient. S, you’re going to say that you don’t enjoy reading this letter. I don’t care. It must be cold where you are in winter. There is bound to be a fireplace. Burn the letter for all I care. That year when I signed my painting, I wrote Echo. You asked who gave me that name, what a good name. I said I named myself. Little did I know that the Greek mythology tale passed down for centuries and somehow reincarnated into a girl with the same name.

I’m done with writing. Tomorrow I will send off this letter. I will go to school by bus, jolting uphill in a car packed like sardines. I will study. I will do many things that I don’t like. So many piquant feelings.

This weary feeling torments me day in and day out. S, I’m very, very tired. When can I fall sound asleep and never wake up again?

In winter, the wind in Hwa Kang always turns into a mournful stream, swishing to and fro in the valley. But as soon as I get off the bus, the wind jumps at me, surrounds me, lows to me—We are not the Flying Dutchman; why should we float around like this for eternity— As I walk in the wind, my body feels lighter. I grow wings; they turn into feathers. I slowly rise into the air. I soar just above the mountains, calling Echo, Echo, Echo…

The gods are silent.

In New York at daybreak. In the skyscrapers’ grand canyon.

S, when you wake up, have you heard the sound of a bird of paradise flapping by your window?

31

LATIN

Metamorphōseōn by Apuleius

In this passage from Apuleius’s Latin novel The Golden Ass (2nd century AD), Lucius watches his hostess Pamphile turn into an owl while on a journey through

Iam primum omnibus laciniis se devestit Pamphile et arcula quadam reclusa pyxides plusculas inde depromit, de quis unius operculo remoto atque indidem egesta unguedine diuque palmulis suis affricta ab imis unguibus sese totam adusque summos capillos perlinit, multumque cum lucerna secreto collocuta, membra tremulo succussu quatit. Quis leniter fluctuantibus promicant molles plumulae, crescunt et fortes pinnulae; duratur nasus incurvus, coguntur ungues adunci. Fit bubo Pamphile. Sic edito stridore querulo iam sui periclitabunda paulatim terra resultat; mox in altum sublimata forensicus totis alis evolat.

Et ella quidem magnis suis artibus volens reformatur. At ego nullo decantatus carmine, praesentis tantum facti stupore defixus, quidvis aliud magis videbar esse quam Lucius.

32

ENGLISH the Greek region of Thessaly, a land traditionally associated with witchcraft. Eager to learn more, he accidentally transforms himself into a donkey.

Metamorphoses translated by Margherita Galli

First Pamphile frees herself from all her garments, and after throwing open a small chest she takes several little pots out of it. She takes the lid off one of them, then she scoops out some oil and warms it between her hands for a while. She rubs it all over herself, from her toenails to the ends of her hair, and after saying a many inaudible words to her lamp, her whole body is traversed by a shaking quiver. Delicate feathers and vigorous wings grow on her body while it gently trembles; her crooked nose ossifies, her nails are forced into hooks: Pamphile is now an owl.

Having let out a shrill, querulous sound, she tests her new form by taking increasingly longer leaps off the ground; then she jumps up into the air and flies out of the window with her wings spread open.

She was willing to be transformed through her own great powers, but I was so struck by the events that I had witnessed (without having been bewitched by any charm), that I seemed to turn into something more, something other than Lucius.

33

LATIN

Metamorphōseōn by Apuleius

Now that Lucius has accidentally transformed into an ass, the scene that ensues is a comical, magic incantation gone slightly wrong, and

Haec identidem adseverans summa cum trepidatione inrepit cubiculum et pyxidem depromit arcula. Quam ego amplexus ac deosculatus prius utque mihi prosperis faveret volatibus deprecatus abiectis propere laciniis totis avide manus immersi et haurito plusculo uncto corporis mei membra perfricui. Iamque alternis conatibus libratis brachiis in avem similis gestiebam; nec ullae plumulae nec usquam pinnulae, sed plane pili mei crassantur in setas et cutis tenella duratur in corium et in extimis palmulis perdito numero toti digiti coguntur in singulas ungulas et de spinae meae termino grandis cauda procedit. Iam facies enormis et os prolixum et nares hiantes et labiae pendulae; sic et aures inmodicis horripilant auctibus. Nec ullum miserae reformationis video solacium, nisi quod mihi iam nequeunti tenere Photidem natura crescebat.

Ac dum salutis inopia cuncta corporis mei considerans non avem me sed asinum video, querens de facto Photidis sed iam humano gestu simul et voce privatus, quod solum poteram, postrema deiecta labia umidis tamen oculis oblicum respiciens ad illam tacitus expostulabam.

Quae ubi primum me talem aspexit, percussit faciem suam manibus infestis et: “Occisa sum misera:” clamavit “me trepidatio simul et festinatio fefellit et pyxidum similitudo decepit. Sed bene, quod facilior reformationis huius medela suppeditat. Nam rosis tantum demorsicatis exibis asinum statimque in meum Lucium postliminio redibis.

34

ENGLISH the first episode in a consequent series of unfortunate events for the narrator now experiencing life at the bottom.

Metamorphoses translated by Orlando Devoy

Reciting the incantation continuously, with great apprehension she crept into the bedroom, and fetched the little box out of the chest. I took this little box into my arms and kissed it gleefully, praying that it would be favourable and grant me a fortuitous flight. Hurriedly, I tore off all of my clothes, greedily scooping my hand inside, and drawing somewhat more anointment than needed, I smeared it over my body and limbs. And then I began making dramatic gestures, endeavouring to flap my arms up and down just like a bird: and yet, there were no feathers nor any little wing anywhere, but coarse bristly hairs were sprouting all over my body, my tender skin was hardening into hide, and all my fingers and toes losing their individual number were synthesizing into each hoof, and an interminably long tail started to protrude from the tip of my spine! Now my face was huge, and my mouth stretched, my nostrils gaping and lips drooping; so too, my ears had elongated, brimming with enormous hairs. And I really couldn’t see any consolation from my rotten transformation except that, though I was now actually unable to embrace Photis, at least my member had grown!

And, while I was inspecting every discrepancy to my regular sound body, I saw not a bird but an ass, bewailing what Photis had done, but now deprived of human gesture and voice, I did the only thing I could; my lower lip hanging down, still looking back at her with moistened eyes, I made a silent protest against her. As soon as she looked at me in such a state, she struck her face with hostile hands, and she cried out, ‘Oh wretched me, I’m done for. Agitation and hurriedness have tripped me up, so has the likeness of the little boxes caught me out. But, on the plus side, there’s a ready remedy for this transformation in stock; for by just ingesting a mouthful of roses you will quit your donkey-form, and you’ll instantaneously return to my very own Lucius.

35

Atque utinam vesperi de more nobis parassem corollas aliquas, ne moram talem patereris vel noctis unius. Sed primo diluculo remedium festinabitur tibi.�

Sic illa maerebat, ego vero quamquam perfectus asinus et pro Lucio iumentum sensum tamen retinebam humanum. Diu denique ac multum mecum ipse deliberavi, an nequissimam facinerosissimamque illam feminam spissis calcibus feriens et mordicus adpetens necare deberem. Sed ab incepto temerario melior me sententia revocavit, ne morte multata Photide salutares mihi suppetias rursus extinguerem.

Deiecto itaque et quassanti capite ac demussata temporali contumelia durissimo casui meo serviens ad equum illum vectorem meum probissimum in stabulum concedo, ubi alium etiam Milonis quondam hospitis mei asinum stabulantem inveni. Atque ego rebar, si quod inesset mutis animalibus tacitum ac naturale sacramentum, agnitione ac miseratione quadam inductum equum illum meum hospitium ac loca lautia mihi praebiturum. Sed pro Iuppiter hospitalis et Fidei secreta numina!

36

And I only wish that I had prepared some garlands for us this evening in our custom, so that you would not undergo such delay and for a whole night! But, at first daybreak, the remedy be with you in no time.’

So, she was mournful; in truth, although I was an exemplary ass, and a beast of burden instead of normal Lucius, I was still in possession of human reason. And in that situation, I reflected long and hard in my mind whether I ought to kill that most worthless and utterly criminal woman, striking out with my compact hooves and attacking her with bites. But better judgement called me back from a heedless undertaking; so that, at any rate, by punishing Photis with death, I wouldn’t be extinguishing the one hope I had at returning to my normal healthy self.

And so, downcast, shaking my head disapprovingly, and silently bearing my temporary disgrace, submitting to the hardest of falls, I withdrew to join that most excellent carrier of mine in the stable, where I found another ass as well, one belonging to my host, Milo. And, I imagined, that if there was naturally some unspoken bond between dumb animals, my horse would acknowledge me, return the favour, and offer me some sort of friendship if only out of pity. But by Hospitable Jupiter and the hidden powers of Loyalty!

37

‫‪HEBREW‬‬ ‫‪Award winning poet and essayist‬‬ ‫‪and the author of five poetry‬‬ ‫‪collections, Sharron Hass’s work‬‬ ‫‪has been translated and published‬‬ ‫‪in Europe and in the US. Her‬‬

‫ץיקהב‬ ‫בהקיץ‬ ‫‪by‬‬ ‫‪Sharron Hass‬‬

‫‪.‬םילגעמב ונביבס עסופו ונל בישקמ ןמזה ‪,‬תוקתקתמ‬ ‫‪.‬תיעקרק דע תוללוצ ונא שעמ רסוחמ תונבל ‪:‬תויחא ינאו ןבאה‬ ‫הליל‪-‬לש‪-‬םיעיבשמ‪-‬תודוס ךושמל ונישארל ושאר ברקי ימ‬ ‫‪.‬עדונ‪-‬אלה לע תשרכ לופית ושיאו‬ ‫יותיפ םישגפנ לבורטציאב תדדותסמה הכשחב‬ ‫ןוחכפו‬ ‫;הקושתה רועזימ ‪,‬ץעה לש וליצ אוה ירפה‬ ‫‪.‬הבשחמ תינבת תשלות דיה ןאכ‬ ‫רוהרה אלא וניא םאה ‪:‬לבורטציאה‬ ‫‪.‬אפקש‬

‫ ‬

‫ ‬

‫‪.‬םיקלוד תורנהו םירהצה רחא םייתש‬ ‫‪.‬םחלה ךלשומ הכרבלו םימשב םיגח םיננע תואבצ‬ ‫‪.‬החוצה לא בערהמ םיפחדנ םירופיצ לש םיעורפ ןיסולכוא‬ ‫‪.‬דיתעב תשגופ הבהאה ךכ‬ ‫הרופא שא החילבמ ”היה היה”ב ררתשמה טקשב ?רבעהו‬‫‪.‬לבורטציאה ףשנ ‪”:‬שפנ“ שדחמ הל ארקנ ‪.‬הנבנבל‬ ‫קירל קיר ןיב תודרויו תולועה תוגרדמב‬ ‫לצו םילפק םייושעה וימוד לא תונרקס תתצנ‬ ‫)הנשוש וא בל ומכ)‬

‫‪38‬‬

ENGLISH

poetry—innovative, intuitive, and eclectic—eludes definitions. She creates a world all her own, drawing both from daily life and from ancient myths and fairy tales.

Awake

translated by Tsipi Keller

As we tick, time listens, going around us in circles.

The stone and I are sisters: white because idle we sink to the bottom.

Who will bring its head close to ours to draw out the spell of nightly secrets its fire dropping like a net over the unknown.

In the dark secreted within the acorn seduction and sobriety meet.

The fruit is the shadow of the tree, a diminution of desire; here the hand plucks a thought formation.

The acorn: isn’t it just a passing thought that froze.

Two in the afternoon and the candles are burning.

Armies of clouds move in the sky and bread is tossed into the pool.

Unruly flocks of birds are thrust from hunger toward the scream.

This is how love meets the future.

And the past? In the quiet that follows “Once upon a time” flares a graywhitish fire. Let’s name it anew “Soul”: the Revelry of the Acorn.

On the stairs that go up and down between void and void curiosity is roused by the acorn’s kin made of folds and shadows (like a heart or a rose) those that awake us with the suddenness of scent and maze.

39

FRENCH

L’Albatros by Charles Baudelaire

This poem, from Baudelaire’s collection Les Fleurs du mal, illustrates the power of height and the stature of a poet who is “prince des nuées” (prince of the skies), just like an albatross with

Souvent, pour s’amuser, les hommes d’équipage Prennent des albatros, vastes oiseaux des mers, Qui suivent, indolents compagnons de voyage, Le navire glissant sur les gouffres amers. À peine les ont-ils déposés sur les planches, Que ces rois de l’azur, maladroits et honteux, Laissent piteusement leurs grandes ailes blanches Comme des avirons traîner à côté d’eux.

Ce voyageur ailé, comme il est gauche et veule!

Lui, naguère si beau, qu’il est comique et laid!

L’un agace son bec avec un brûle-gueule, L’autre mime, en boitant, l’infirme qui volait!

Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuées Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l’archer; Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées, Ses ailes de géant l’empêchent de marcher.

40

ENGLISH

his great wingspan, soaring above the other birds. However, on land the bird is clumsy and awkward and not the transformed creature he is when in flight.

The Albatross

translated by Maud Baring

Often, to amuse themselves, the men of the crew Take those great birds of the sea, the albatrosses, Who follow, lazy companions of the ship’s journey As it glides through the bitter gulfs.

Hardly have they placed them on the deck, Than these kings of the skies, clumsy, ashamed, Shamefully let their great white wings Drag beside them like oars.

That winged traveller, how weak and graceless he is, Once noble, now he is comic and ugly!

One man worries his beak with a stubby clay-pipe; Another limps, mimicking the cripple who once flew!

The poet resembles this prince of the clouds Who haunts the storm and laughs at the archer; Exiled on earth among the shouting people, His giant wings prevent him from walking.

41

TAGALOG

Bago Ang Babae by Rebecca T. Añonuevo

Rebecca T. Añonuevo is a contemporary Filipino poet whose works include several renowned collections, such as Isa Lang Ang Pangalan and Bago Ang Babae.

Mabuti na lang at sa panahong ito ako Ipinanganak na babae.

Hindi ko kailangang manahimik Kung kailangan magsalita.

Hindi ko kailangang magsalita Kung nais kong manahimik.

Hindi ko kailangan ipaliwanag O hindi ipaliwanag ang bawat pagpapasiya.

Hindi ko kailangan sumunod sa inaasahan Ng lahat, tulad ng pag-aasawa.

Kung mag-asawa man ako’y Hindi ko kailangan magpakulob, Hindi ko kailangan matakot Kung dumating ang araw ng pagkabalo, O kailangan nang makipaghiwalay.

Hindi ko kailangang magkaanak nang labis Kahit kaya kong panagutan Hindi ko kailangang malugmok sa lungkot Sakali’t hindi ako magkaanak.

Kung kailangan ko mang gampanan Ang pagiging ina at asawa, Hindi ko kailangang humingi ng paumanhin, Hindi ko kailangang panawan ng talino at lakas, Hindi ko kailangang kalimutan ang lahat, Hindi ko kailangang itakwil ang sarili, Hindi ko kailangang burahin Na isa akong tao Bago isang babae.

42

ENGLISH

Her poem, “Bago Ang Babae�, is amongst the most esteemed of her feminist works and recounts how the experience of the Filipino woman has evolved.

New is the Woman/ Before a Woman translated by Beatriz Nakpil

Fortunately, it was in this age that I was born a woman.

I do not need to be silent If I need to speak.

I do not need to speak If I wish to be silent.

I do not need to clarify Or not clarify every decision.

I do not need to fulfil the expectations Of all, such as finding a husband.

If I do marry, I need not be disheartened, I need not be afraid If the day I become a widow arrives, Or if we must separate.

I do not need to bear many children Even if I am capable of the responsibility I do not need to be overwhelmed by sadness Should I not bear children.

If I need to take on Motherhood and marriage I do not need to ask for approval, I do not need to forgo my intellect and strength, I do not need to forget everything, I do not need to disown myself, I do not need to forget That I am a person Before I am a woman.

43

Celine Delahoy, Becoming Gold

44

Aoife Donnellan, What’s Theirs is Mine

45

CZECH

Zahradní Slavnost by Václav Havel

This extract is from The Garden Party, the first play written by former Czechoslovak and, subsequently, Czech President Václav Havel.

Its largely political theme revolves

PLUDEK Poslyšte, a kdo vy vlastně jste?

HUGO Já? Kdo jsem já? Notak podívejte, já nemám rád tak jednostranně stavěné otázky, vážně ne! Copak se lze takto zjednodušujícím způsobem tázat? Ať na takovéhle otázky odpovíme jakkoli – nikdy nemůžeme postihnout celou pravdu, vždycky jen nějakou její omezenou část: člověk – to je něco tak bohatého, složitého, proměnlivého a mnohotvárného, že neexistuje slovo, věta, kniha, nic, co by ho mohlo v celém rozsahu popsat a obsáhnout. V člověku není nic trvalého, věčného, absolutního, člověk je neustálá změna, hrdě znějící změna, ovšem! Adnes už není doba statických a neměnných kategorií, kdy A bylo jen AaB vždy jen B, dnes dobře víme, že A může být často zároveň B a B zároveň A, že B může být B, ale i A a C; stejně, jako C může být nejen C, ale i A, B a D; a že za jistých okolností může dokonce F být Q, Y a třeba i Ř! Sami jistě cítíte, že to, co cítíte dnes, jste necítili včera, a to, co jste cítili včera, necítíte dnes, ale budete to cítit zase třeba zítra; zatímco to, co ucítíte pozítří, jste možná ještě vůbec nikdy nepocítili! Cítíte to?

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ENGLISH

around the arrival of the Communist era in Czechoslovakia, and the associated changes in the culture and the general atmosphere in the country.

The Garden Party

translated by Michaela Fricova

PLUDEK Tell me, who are you?

HUGO I? Who am I? What an inadequate question!

I despise such questioning. In fact, how can anyone ask such questions? Whatever my answer might be, it will clearly never portray the truth in its entirety, only focusing on a small part of it. A person is a rich, complex, variable and multiform concept, and there certainly exists no word, sentence, book. Nothing that could capture all dimensions of a man. There is nothing permanent, eternal, absolute in a man, man goes through change, although the change might present itself as a constant. Today is no longer the time of static, never changing categories, the time when A would always mean A and B would always mean B. Today we know that A might often present itself as B and B might mean A, but B might also be B at times, or A or C, in the same manner as C might not only mean C, but also A, B or D: or, under certain circumstances, C might even imply F, Q, Y or even Ĺ˜! You yourself surely know that what you feel today is not the same as that, which you felt yesterday, and that, which you felt yesterday, you no longer feel today, although you might feel it again tomorrow, while that, which you will feel the day after tomorrow, you might have never felt before! Can you feel it?

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A není těžké pochopit, že ti, kteří chápou jen dnes, jsou jen jiným vydáním těch, kteří včera chápali jen včera, zatímco, jak víme, je nutno dnes chápat i tak nějak to, co bylo včera, protože nikdo neví, jestli to náhodou nepřijde zase zítra! Pravda je stejně složitá a mnohotvárná jako všechno na světě – magnet, telefon, Branislavovy verše, magnet – a všichni jsme tak trochu to, co jsme byli včera, a trochu to, co jsme dnes; trochu to i nejsme; všichni vůbec pořád tak trochu jsme a pořád tak trochu nejsme; někdo víc jsme a někdo víc nejsme; někdo jenom jsme, někdo jsme jenom a někdo jenom nejsme; takže žádný z nás úplně není a každý zároveň není úplně; a jde jen o to, kdy je lépe víc být a míň nebýt a kdy je naopak lépe míň být a víc nebýt; ostatně ten, kdo příliš je, může brzy vůbec nebýt, a ten, kdo za určité situace umí do jisté míry nebýt, může zas o to lépe za jiné situace být. Nevím, jestli vy chcete víc být nebo víc nebýt, a kdy chcete být a kdy nebýt, ale já chci být pořád, a proto musím pořád tak trochu nebýt – člověka totiž, když občas tak trochu není, vůbec neubude! A jestli v tomto okamžiku poměrně dost nejsem, ujišťuji vás, že brzy budu možná daleko víc, než jsem kdykoli dosud byl – a pak si o tom všem můžeme ještě jednou popovídat, ale na poněkud jiné platformě!

Mat!

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It is not difficult to comprehend that those people, who understand only today are, in a way, just like those who only understood yesterday, while, as we know, it is necessary to understand both yesterday and today, because no one knows if yesterday will repeat itself tomorrow! The truth is as complex and amorphous as everything in the world - a magnet, a telephone, Branislav’s verses, the magnet - and we are all a bit of what we were yesterday, and a bit of what we are today; although a little bit different; we all kind of are and we kind of are not; some of us more are, while others more are not; some of us solely are while others solely are not; and, so, none of us is-not not entirely and everyone is not entirely; and so it comes down to when it is better to be more and not-be less and, conversely, when it is better to be less and not-be more; since that person, who is too much, might not be at all tomorrow, while that who is able to not-be in certain situations, might be able to be much more in different scenarios. I do not know whether you wish to more be or not-be, and under what circumstances you prefer to be and not-be, but I want to always be, and that is why I have to not-be often – since a person who is-not sometimes is no less of a person! And if, as of now, I much more am-not than am, then I assure you, that I much more will be soon, than I have ever been – and when that moment comes, we can have this discussion again, although in very different surroundings!

Checkmate!

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SPANISH

Inexplicables Metamorfosis by Sergio Mansilla Torres

Sergio Mansilla Torres was born in Achao, Chiloé, Chile in 1958. He is a tenured professor at the University of Southern Chile in Valdivia and is the author of ten books of poetry, most

Pájaros azules Hay un pájaro azul, pequeño, aleteante. Tiene su nido en lo alto de un castaño que cortaron hace tiempo; duerme, pues, en las ramas mismas del vacío. Ahí regresa después de ciertas correrías por los mares; hacia allá vuela, directo al nido, con algo de pan en el hablar, un poco de cecina en la mudez. Arma un sandwich con estas cosas y le agrega ají para espantar el frío que le entume los huesos. A veces, cuando pierde el camino, vuela en círculos todo el tiempo, alrededor de la misma estrella de papel corrugado, hasta que alguna otra ave piadosa lo lleva de vuelta a casa. Pero siempre es hermoso, como un piano pálido junto a una sombra. Y hay otro pájaro azul —una pájara en realidad— que vuela siempre en dirección contraria al otoño. De tanto en tanto se desconoce a sí misma al mirarse el vientre algo flácido, se enoja, se enrabia de sangre porque los caballos no son caballos ni las ollas hablan cuando debieran y lo que debieran. Se enoja otra vez porque se acabó la chicha dulce y el hambre mundial saca sus cachitos al sol con demasiada desvergüenza. Se trata, pues, de dos pájaros azules, que son a la vez muchos pájaros de muchos colores: negros, blancos, amarillos, rojos, verdes, y que prefieren alimentar a tres bocas y pasar hambre ellos. Pero la administración del viento —justo es decirlo— no favorece en nada a estos pájaros, los que, en verdad, a estas alturas ya no son pájaros: unas veces son ángeles expulsados de la diestra del Padre que bailan abrazados a sus costillares voladores, otras veces son gritos que tienen una mano llena de astros y que, con la otra mano, ponen levadura en el mar para hacer leudar a los muertos. Menos mal que estos pájaros azules tienen un andar apasionado y copulan en mitad del país suyo que, como era de esperar, lentamente los devora.

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recently Quercún. The phenomena described in these prose poems are narrated in a matter-of-fact tone interspersed with sudden eruptions of surrealism, violence and humour.

Inexplicable Metamorphoses translated by Cynthia Steele

Bluebirds There is a small, fluttering bluebird. It makes its nest at the top of a chestnut tree that they chopped down a long time ago; so it sleeps in the branches of emptiness itself. There it returns after occasional forays over the seas; there it flies, straight to the nest, with a bit of bread in its voice, a little jerky in its silence. It assembles these into a sandwich, along with a little chile, to frighten away the cold numbing it to the bones. Sometimes, when it loses its way, it keeps flying in circles, around the same star of corrugated paper, until some other bird takes pity on it and leads it back home. But it is always beautiful, like a pallid piano alongside a shadow. And there’s another, female, bluebird who always flies in the opposite direction to autumn. Every now and then she sees her sagging stomach and doesn’t recognize herself, and she goes into a rage because horses aren’t horses, and pots don’t speak when they should or say what they should. She gets angry again because there’s no more hard cider, and because world hunger dares to show its face to the sun.

There are, then, two bluebirds, who are also many birds of many colors: black, white, yellow, red, green, and they prefer to feed three mouths and go hungry themselves. But, in all fairness, it must be said that the administration of the wind doesn’t at all favor these birds, who really are no longer birds: sometimes they are angels expelled by the right hand of the Father, dancing with their arms around their flying ribs; other times they are shouts holding a handful of stars who, with their other hand, deposit yeast in the ocean, so the dead will rise. It’s just as well that these bluebirds are passionate and copulate in the middle of their country which, as you might expect, is slowly devouring them.

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Un caso muy singular Tengo una amiga que de día es mona y de noche es mujer. Ella, la pobre, no sabe de sus cotidianas transformaciones. Sólo yo percibo su rostro de chimpancé hembra, y ese olor, sobre todo ese olor a mona que no puedo soportar. Por eso hago todo lo posible, inventando cualquier pretexto, para juntarme con ella sólo después de la caída del sol. No puedo decirle (no tengo valor) que en cuanto sale el sol se vuelve una mona horrenda que odio con todas mis fuerzas. Por la noche, en cambio, es hermosa, tersa, dulcemente femenina.

Creo que estoy algo enamorado de mi amiga pues siempre aparece en mis sueños eróticos desnuda, invitándome a placeres inimaginables ¡pero qué hombre no está en sueños enamorado de sus amigas! Es explicable que así sea dado que la amistad es, claro está, una forma de amor. Cuando por alguna razón imposible de eludir tenemos que juntarnos durante el día, tengo que hacer esfuerzos sobrehumanos para soportar su conducta simiesca: se encarama en los árboles, muestra de una manera singularmente obscena su trasero pelado de un asfixiante color rojizo. Cierro los ojos y me tranquilizo pensando que todo para ella es tan natural y normal dentro de su vestido modesto pero elegante de vendedora de seguros, sus zapatos de taco, maquillada con suavidad.

Dado que no puedo hacer nada para cambiar la situación, me limito a soportar lo mejor que puedo ese olor a primate que me tortura todo el resto del día hasta cuando se pone el sol; sólo entonces vuelvo a sonreír humanamente a los fantasmas que me guiñan un ojo y se ríen de mi perplejidad por estas, para mí, inexplicables metamorfosis de la naturaleza.

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A Most Singular Case I have a friend who is a monkey by day and a woman by night. The poor thing, she isn’t even aware of her daily transformations. I’m the only one who perceives her chimp face, and that smell, above all that monkey smell, which I find unbearable. That’s why I go to such great lengths, finding any pretext, to meet her only after sunset. I’m not brave enough to tell her that, as soon as the sun comes up, she turns into a hideous monkey that I detest with all my might. By night, though, she is lovely, soft, sweetly feminine.

I think I am a little in love with my friend, since she always appears naked in my erotic dreams, beckoning me to partake in inconceivable pleasures. But what man isn’t in love with his female friends, in his dreams? That stands to reason, since friendship is a form of love. When for some reason we can’t help but meet during the day, I have to make a superhuman effort to tolerate her simian behavior: perching in the trees, obscenely showing off her shaved behind, with its nauseating reddish hue. I close my eyes and reassure myself that, for her, it’s all so natural and normal, dressed as a modest, elegant insurance salesperson, in her high heels, with her tasteful makeup. Since there’s nothing I can do to change the situation, I put up the best I can with that primate smell, which torments me the rest of the day, until sundown.

Only then do I begin to smile again at the ghosts, winking and laughing at my perplexity over these inexplicable metamorphoses of nature.

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FRENCH

La Belle et la Bête

by Jeanne-Marie LePrince de Beaumont

This extract is from the most wellknown version of this enduring tale.

The text’s magical transformations, both spiritual and physical alike, are realised when the appeal for love is

La Belle alors craignit d’avoir causé sa mort. Elle courut tout le palais en jetant de grands cris ; elle était au désespoir. Après avoir cherché partout, elle se souvint de son rêve et courut dans le jardin vers le canal, où elle l’avait vue en dormant. Elle trouve la pauvre Bête étendue, sans connaissance, et elle crut qu’elle était morte. Elle se jeta sur son corps sans avoir horreur de sa figure, et sentant que son cœur battait encore, elle prit de l’eau dans le canal et lui en jeta sur la tête.

La Bête ouvrit les yeux et dit à la Belle :

« Vous avez oublié votre promesse ! Le chagrin de vous avoir perdue m’a fait résoudre à me laisser mourir de faim, mais je meurs content puisque de vous revoir encore une fois.

– Non, ma chère Bête, vous ne mourrez point ! lui dit la Belle.

Vous vivrez pour devenir mon époux. Dès ce moment, je vous donne ma main, et je jure que je ne serai qu’à vous. Hélas ! je croyais n’avoir que de l’amitié pour vous, mais la douleur que je sens me fait voir que je ne pourrais vivre sans vous voir. »

À peine la Belle eut-elle prononcé ces paroles, qu’elle vit le château brillant de lumières ; les feux d’artifice, la musique, tout lui annonçait une fête. Mais toutes ces beautés n’arrêtèrent point sa vue ; elle se retourna vers sa chère Bête, dont le danger la faisait frémir. Quelle fut sa surprise ! La Bête avait disparu, et elle ne vit plus à ses pieds qu’un prince plus beau que l’Amour, qui la remerciait d’avoir fini son enchantement.

Quoique ce prince méritât toute son attention, elle ne put s’empêcher de lui demander où était la Bête.

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ENGLISH

complete and virtue is rewarded.

It has been compared to Kafka’s Metamorphosis, as both the Beast and Gregor Samsa struggle to overcome their repulsiveness.

Beauty and the Beast

translated by Sarah Sturzel

Beauty then feared that she had caused his death. She ran all over the palace crying loudly; she was in despair. After looking everywhere, she remembered her dream and ran through the garden towards the canal, where she had seen him sleeping. She found the poor Beast lying unconscious and she believed him to be dead. She threw herself on his body and was not at all horrified by his face, and feeling that his heart was still beating, she took some water from the canal and threw it on his head.

The Beast opened his eyes and said to Beauty:

“You forgot your promise! For grief of losing you, I resolved to starve myself to death, but I can die happy having seen you one last time.”

“No, my dear Beast, you will not die!” said Beauty. “You shall live to be my husband. From this moment on, I give you my hand, and I swear that I will be yours alone. Alas! I believed that I felt only friendship for you, but my pain makes me realise that I could not live without seeing you.”

No sooner had she uttered these words than the castle lit up; fireworks, music, all signalling a celebration. But all this beauty did not distract her; she turned back to her dear, endangered Beast, for whom she trembled. What a surprise! The Beast had disappeared, and who should she see at her feet but a prince more beautiful than Love itself, who thanked her for freeing him from his enchantment.

Although this prince deserved all of her attention, she couldn’t help but ask him where the Beast was.

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« Vous la voyez à vos pieds, lui dit le prince. Une méchante fée m’avait condamné à rester sous cette figure jusqu’à ce qu’une belle fille consentît à m’épouser, et elle m’avait défendu de faire paraître mon esprit.

Ainsi, il n’y avait que vous dans le monde assez bonne pour vous laisser toucher à la bonté de mon caractère ; et en vous offrant ma couronne, je ne puis m’acquitter des obligations que j’ai pour vous. »

La Belle, agréablement surprise, donna la main à ce beau prince pour se relever. Ils allèrent ensemble au château, et la Belle manqua mourir de joie, en trouvant dans la grande salle son père et toute sa famille, que la belle dame qui lui était apparue en songe avait transportés au château.

« La Belle, lui dit cette dame, qui était une grand fée, venez recevoir la récompense de votre bon choix : vous avez préféré la vertu à la beauté et à l’esprit, vous méritez de trouver toutes ces qualités réunies en une même personne. Vous allez devenir une grande reine : j’espère que le trône ne détruira pas vos vertus. Pour vous, mesdemoiselles, dit la fée aux deux sœurs de la Belle, je connais votre cœur et toute la malice qu’il renferme. Devenez deux statues mais conservez toute votre raison sous la pierre qui voue enveloppera. Vous demeurerez à la porte du palais de votre sœur, et je ne vous impose point d’autre peine que d’être témoins de son bonheur. Vous ne pourrez revenir dans votre premier état qu’au moment où vous reconnaîtrez vos fautes ; mais j’ai bien peur que vous ne restiez toujours statues. On se corrige de l’orgueil, de la colère, de la gourmandise et de la paresse ; mais c’est une espèce de miracle que la conversion d’un cœur méchant et envieux. »

Dans le moment, la fée donna un coup de baguette qui transporta tous ceux qui étaient dans cette salle dans le royaume du prince. Ses sujets le virent avec joie, et il épousa la Belle, qui vécut avec lui fort longtemps et dans un bonheur parfait, parce qu’il était fondé sur la vertu.

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“You see him at your feet,” said the prince. “A wicked fairy condemned me to remain in this form until a beautiful girl agreed to marry me, and she forbade me from showing my true spirit. Thus, in all the world you were the only one whose kindness allowed you to perceive my good character, and although I offer you my crown, I will be forever indebted to you.”

Beauty, pleasantly surprised, gave her hand to this handsome prince to help him up. They went to the castle together, and Beauty almost died of happiness at the sight of her father and all her family in the great hall, whom the beautiful lady who had appeared to her in a dream had brought to the castle.

“Beauty,” said the lady, who was a great fairy, “come and receive the reward for your good choice: you chose virtue over beauty and spirit, you deserve to find all of these qualities united in one person. You will become a great queen: I hope that the throne will not destroy your virtues.”

“As for you, ladies,” said the fairy to Beauty’s two sisters, “I know your hearts and all the malice they contain. Become two statues but retain all your reason under the stone which will envelop you. You shall dwell at the door of your sister’s palace, and I impose no other punishment on you than to witness her happiness. You will only be able to return to your normal state when you acknowledge your faults; but I fear that you will always remain statues. One may overcome pride, anger, greed and idleness; but it takes a miracle to transform a wicked and envious heart.”

At that moment, with a wave of her wand the fairy transported all those who were in the room to the prince’s kingdom. His subjects were overjoyed to see him, and he married Beauty, who lived with him for a long time in a perfect happiness that was founded on virtue.

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BENGALI

রাক্ষসের রূপান্তর by Farzana Sharmin Surovi

Farzana Sharmin Surovi, an emerging poet and fiction writer, is a Bangladeshi Ph.D. student of the Department of Political Science at Northern Illinois University, where she currently teaches

মাঝে মাঝে ঘরের আসবাবপত্রকে আত্মহত্যার সম্ভাব্য অস্ত্র মনে হবে। আঙ্গুলের ফাঁক গলে পড়ে যাবে প্রতিশ্রুতি। জলে। মুছে যাবে প্রিয় ফোন নম্বর। তাড়া করবে রাক্ষস। ঘুম ভাঙ্গলেই ফ্যাকাশে তখন কলিজার রঙ । বড় বড় শ্বাস নিতে নিতে তাই ঘুমিয়ে পড়তে হবে। বিছানার চাদরের নিচে। তু লার বালিশে গোছা গোছা চু ল সাজিয়ে রাক্ষসকে দিতে হবে। উপহার। শেষ পর্যন্ত রাক্ষসের পেটের মধ্যে ঢু কে, মানুষ রাক্ষস হয়ে যায়। রূপান্তরের দুঃখে ম্লান মুখে মাথা নিচু করে। জন্ম অসুখের পায়ের পাতায়। গাছের নাম তারা গোপন রাখে। কারণ উন্মাদের কোন অধিকার থাকে না। গোপন গাছ মাথার মধ্যে পুষে, তারা লুকিয়ে বেড়ায়। মানুষ থেকে। মাঝে মাঝে ঘরের আসবাবপত্রকে আত্মহত্যার সম্ভাব্য অস্ত্র মনে হয়। সিলিং ফ্যানের দড়িতে, একটা রাক্ষসকে ঝুলতে দেখে কি কেউ কাঁদে?

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ENGLISH

courses on public policy. She considers writing feminist short stories, poems, and research papers on gender policies as her magic brooms in her quest to be a witch against misogyny.

Metamorphosis into Monster translated by Mohammad Shafiqul Islam

Sometimes pieces of furniture seem weapons for suicide.

Through gaps of fingers promises fall as if on water.

Favourite phone numbers erase.

A monster chases you. Awake, you see your liver streaked.

So taking long sighs you have to fall asleep Under the bedsheet.

You have to offer the monster your tassels neatened on the pillow.

In the end humans metamorphose into monsters.

For metamorphosis they bow down their heads in regret.

The birth itself is deformed.

They keep the name of the tree secret As lunatics don’t have any rights.

With the secret tree inside the head, they hide away from humans.

At times pieces of furniture seem weapons for suicide.

Does anyone scream seeing a monster hanging down with a ceiling fan?

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MALTESE

Mejju ġie bil-ward u ż-żahar by Ġan Franġisk Bonamico

Mejju ġie bil-ward u ż-żahar Għadda l-bard, ix-xita u l-beraq, Tgħattiet l-art bin-nwar u l-weraq, Heda r-riħ, siket il-baħar.

Tar is-sħab minn wiċċ is-Sema, Sa fl-iġbiel nibtet il-ħdura, Reġgħet tgħanni kull għasfura U fil-ferħ kull qalb tirtema.

Qajla ferħ kien f ’hed il-Gżira, Li ma kienx min iwennisha, Li ma kienx min iħarisha, Kieku tibki l-ġuħ bħal lsira.

Inti l-ferħ u l-hena tagħna, Cotoner dawl ta’ għajnejna, Tant li s-Sema jħallik ħdejna, Fl-akbar bard ikollna s-sħana.

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Ġan Franġisk Bonamico’s only poem written in Maltese, this is the secondoldest known literary work in this language. In typical Baroque fashion, it uses an extended metaphor to compare the natural metamorphosis May

ENGLISH

brings with the social metamorphosis brought about by Grand Master Nikola Cotoner, who ruled the Maltese Islands from 1663 to 1680 and vastly improved its fortifications.

May brings forth blossoms and roses translated by Daniel Cossai

May brings forth blossoms and roses, Pushes out the cold, rain and thunder, Coats the earth in leaves, sprouts wonder, Calms the wind, ensures the sea dozes.

Gone are the clouds from the Heavens, Nature blooms even in the rocks round every bend, Birds trill once more on treetops, and Hearts delight in joyful passions.

This Isle would not know such cheering, Hadn’t he been there to soothe her, Hadn’t he been there to protect her, As a slave, starving she’d be weeping.

You alone are our joy and delight, Cotoner, as beloved as sight, While Heaven graces us with your might In deepest night we’ll still find light.

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KOREAN

너무 아픈 사랑은 사랑이 아니었음을

by Kim Kwang-seok(김광석)

그대 보내고 멀리 가을새와 작별하 듯 그대 떠나 보내고 돌아와 술잔 앞에 앉으면 눈물나 누나 그대 보내고 아주 지는 별 빛 바라볼 때 눈에 흘러 내리는 못다한 말들 그 아픈 사랑 지울 수 있을까? 어느 하루 비라도 추억처럼 흩날리는 거리에서 쓸쓸한 사람 되어 고개 숙이면 그대 목소리 너무 아픈 사랑은 사랑이 아니었음을

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Kim Kwang-seok was a folk singer from Daegu, South Korea. This song seems to reflect upon whether a relationship should always be intermingled with pain. The lyrics

어느 하루 바람이 젖은 어깨 스치고 지나가고 내 지친 시간들이 창에 어리면 그대 미워져 너무 아픈 사랑은 사랑이 아니었음을 이제 우리는 다시는 사랑으로 세상에 오지 말길 그립던 말들도 묻어 버리기 못다한 사랑 너무 아픈 사랑은 사랑이 아니었음을 너무 아픈 사랑은 사랑이 아니었음을

ENGLISH perhaps conclude that this man has been changed utterly and irreversibly as a result of such painful love. Kim Kwang-seok commited suicide in 1996, aged just 31.

After I sent you far away Parting with the autumn birds After I let you go Returning, seated in front of the soju glass Tears fell from my eyes After I let you go, completely When I gazed at the fading stars Streaming down from my eyes Those unspoken words, the painful love Would I ever wipe them away?

One day my memories like rain Scatter on the street Becoming a lonely man, my head bowed There is your voice Love that hurt too much Was not love

Love that hurt too much was not love translated by Grace Healy

One day the wind Brushes past my soaked shoulders Reflecting my weary time My hatred of you Love that hurt too much Was not love Now never again may our love Come to the world Burying the words I long for Unfinished love Love that hurt too much Was not love Love that hurt too much Was not love

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ENGLISH

Sonnet for the Glass Blower by Majella Kelly

Majella Kelly is an award-winning Irish poet. Her poems are like a freezeframe with a concise commentary; mostly about the female experience.

Metamorphosis in the selected poem is both literal (nature) and symbolic

Look Ma, mermaid tears! he says, hands overflowing with sea-foam, cobalt and honeyamber glass fragments, sharp edges wavemended but new skins etched with tiny ‘c’s like echoes of a ship-wreck’s quiet sobbing.

This one from Pirates’ Cave is my favourite.

He lifts it to the sun to show me why.

The bubble inside reminds me of searching a foetal scan for a heart-beat. A bottle of Milk of Magnesia once, it’s been holding the glass blower’s breath in its belly since blown into life. I thumb its smooth curve the way you would a bottom lip, the dimple of air blue and still in its small glass womb.

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POLISH

(semiotics) and is intertwined with the Irish landscape. Despite the intensity of colours the lines remain intimate and the poet herself becomes “an engineer of cosy”.

Sonet dla szklarza

translated by Magdalena Kleszczewska

Spójrz, Mamo, syrenie łzy! – woła, a przez jego dłonie przelewa się morska piana, kobaltowe i miodowo bursztynowe kawałki szkła, ostre brzegi są falami wygładzone, ale maleńkie „c” wyryte na nowym naskórku jest niczym echo cichego łkania tonącego statku.

Mój ulubiony kawałek to ten z Jaskini Piratów.

Unosi go do słońca, abym zobaczyła dlaczego.

Pęcherzyk w środku przypomina, jak wypatrywałam bicia serca w ciążowym USG. Niegdyś niebieska buteleczka mleczka magnezjowego, wciąż zawiera w swych wnętrznościach oddech szklarza który ją uformował. Przesuwam kciukiem po jej gładkiej krawędzi tak jak przesuwa się po dolnej wardze, po zagłębieniu błękitnego powietrza i ciszy jej małego szklanego łona.

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Ciara Shevlin, Cherub Clouds & First Touch

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Katie Murnane, Time Flies

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Notes on Contributors (in order of appearance) Celine Delahoy is in her third year of Business and Sociology (BESS). She works primarily within the graphic design realm. Her main sources of inspiration are memes, friends, family, and her very patient boyfriend who is “endlessly consulted�. She is most likely to be found in the National Gallery or in a coffee shop.

Martina Giambanco (best known as Martha if you are a friend or someone who just likes nicknames) is a third year English and Classical Civilisations student. She is interested in the classical world of ancient Greek and Roman civilisations but her greatest passion is certainly English literature, and especially everything John Keats and Romanticism-related.

Dmitri Manin is a physicist, programmer and poetry translator. His translations from English and French into Russian have appeared in several book collections, and Russian to English translations have been published in journals. In 2018 he won the Compass Award for his English translation of a poem by Maria Stepanova.

Ariane Dudych is an English Masters student from Bordeaux, France, currently teaching French at Trinity College. She had already been translating poetry as an amateur for years before following translation classes in university, and hopes to do it professionally some day.

Amy Dallas is a recent languages graduate and budding translator based in Belfast.

Penny Stuart, a Dublin artist, draws from life with charcoal. She has been attending the Lifedrawing class in Trinity Arts Workshop for three years. Exhibitions include a collaborative event with the Whispering Trees Collective in May 2019 in Blackrock Market and an exhibition with Trinity Arts Workshop at Pearse Centre Dublin, June 2019.

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Guang Yang is an M.Phil student in Literary Translation at Trinity.

Margherita Galli is a JS English student at Trinity College, Dublin.

Orlando Devoy is a SS Classics student and lover of words both ancient and modern. He is the Assistant Editor of the journal.

Tsipi Keller is the recipient of several literary awards, including National Endowment for the Arts Translation Fellowships, New York Foundation for the Arts Fiction grants, and an Armand G. Erpf Translation Award from Columbia University. Her most recent translation collection, Years I Walked at Your Side, was published by SUNY Press in 2018.

Maud Baring is a fourth year French and Drama student majoring in Drama.

Beatriz Nakpil is a second year History student from the Philippines and is part of the Trinity College-Columbia University Dual BA programme.

Aoife Donnellan is a final year English and Philosophy student with an interest in material cultures. She is also the editor of MISC Magazine 2019/20.

Michaela Fricova is a fourth year Economics and Psychology student at Trinity.

Cynthia Steele is Professor Emerita of Comparative Literature at the University of Washington, Seattle. Her translations include Inés Arredondo, Underground Rivers (Nebraska, 1996), José Emilio Pacheco, City of Memory (City Lights, 2001), and María Gudín, Open Sea (Amazon Crossing, 2018). They have also appeared in TriQuarterly, The Seattle Review, Gulf Coast, and Natural Bridge.

Sarah Sturzel is a fourth year French and English student at Trinity and the Art Editor of the journal.

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Mohammad Shafiqul Islam, poetry editor of Reckoning, is the author of Wings of Winds, and translator of Humayun Ahmed: Selected Short Stories and Aphorisms of Humayun Azad. A Ph.D of poetry, Islam teaches English at Shahjalal University of Science and Technology, Sylhet, Bangladesh. At present, he is at work on his second collection of poetry and two translation projects.

Daniel Cossai is a freelance translator currently based in Malta.

Grace Healy is a Trinity College graduate of French and English Literature who has been teaching in Seoul, South Korea for two years.

Magdalena Kleszczewska is a University of Warsaw graduate with a degree in Irish literature and culture, and a diploma in literary translation.

Her interests mainly focus on Irish poetry and feminist issues. She has translated several of James Joyce’s poems and published an essay on Keith Ridgway’s The Long Falling.

Ciara Shevlin is a Senior Sophister TSM student majoring in English Literature. She likes to take pictures of mundane life moments as she finds beauty in the simplicity.

Katie Murnane is an English Literature and Sociology student in her final year. She is the current Art Editor of Trinity News. Her artwork has featured in TN2, SUAS Magazine and Trinity News.

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TRINITY JOURNAL OF LITERARY TRANSLATION

www.trinityjolt.org Cover Illustration by Sarah Sturzel

VOLUME 8 ISSUE I

Trinity Journal of Literary Translation Volume 8, Issue I (Winter 2019)