Volume 13, Summer
Gościu, siądź pod mym liściem, a odpoczni sobie!
Nie dojdzie cię tu słońce, przyrzekam ja tobie,
Choć się nawysszej wzbije, a proste promienie Ściągną pod swoje drzewa rozstrzelane cienie.
- fragment z ‘Na lipę’ przez Jana Kochanowskiego
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With the theme of roots, we draw on a multitude of ideas. The things that ground us, the things that set us free. Roots enable us to grow, change, and in particular, connect. By delving into our origins, we can explore the intertwining nature of human connection, and how these connections shape our identities.
This issue is a display of how our contributors perceive their roots.
A big thank you to all of the editorial team for your exceptional work. Likewise for our contributors, this issue would not be what it is without you. I am incredibly thankful and grateful for the hard work and passion that went into creating this issue.
Do następnego razu, Julianna Żarnowska
Editor-in Chief
Julianna Żarnowska
Deputy Editor
Ioana Răducu
General Assistant Editors
Ciara Gallagher
Hazel Mulkeen
Art Editor
Eve Smith
Language Editors
Leila Purcell Collins
Giulia Nati
Sophie Quinn
Meadhbh Ní Cheallacháin
Hazel Scott
Nicole Battú
Layout and Design Editor
Monica Elena Grigoraș
Cover art by Eve Smith
Editorial
rooted in history art by Jason Grace
Wild Geese transl. by Adam Dunbar
In arguably her best-known poem, I believe Mary Oliver touches the roots of the humanexperience in our connection to the natural world around us. Releasing yourself of humanconstraints to embrace freedom returns us to our roots in this poem.
by Ciara Gallagher
This poem by the French 19th century poet, Paul Verlaine, explores his melancholy and deep-rooted internal conflict with sadness. He laments not knowing the root cause of this feeling. The idea of roots or rather the lack thereof, often causes alienation and disconnection, all of which are present in this work through the repeated metaphor of rain as a personification of this loss. Not knowing the root of his malcontent, causes even greater grief than if he knew why he was sad. Along with this, the poet makes constant reference to nature, something that is connected in literal roots as well as urban settings such as “rooftops” and “town”- the idea of home and familiarity is conjured up here, yet the poet seems to be lost- disconnected from his Roots.
Excerpt from “Lus ojus Las manus La boca” transl. by Dr Mo Pareles
These newly translated stanzas come from the third movement of Clarisse Nicoïdski’s 1978 poem Lus ojus Las manus La boca (The eyes the hands the mouth), composed in Judeo-Spanish, also called Ladino. Here Nicoïdski (1938-96), a French novelist descended from Sarajevan Jews, revives her late mother’s stateless, but not rootless, mother tongue.
Excerpt from “Wild Geese” transl. by Aimilia Varla
Wild Geese is a book written by a trans Irish-Greek woman narrating the experience of living abroad and starting a new life, through the eyes of her character, Phoebe. After coming out as trans, Phoebe steps into an emigrant life in Copenhagen, hoping to leave her old life in Dublin behind. ‘A woman without a past can be anyone she wants’ she thinks. However, an unexpected visit brings memories of the life she left behind. Phoebe’s story sheds light into the inescapable nature of our cultural roots and how they affect our personal development. It also mentions the themes of migration, love and personal growth.
transl. by Aimilia Varla
This is a translation of a poem talking about motherhood and our deep connection to the person who gave us life. Centered around a picture of his mother, the poet tackles themes such as love, loneliness and fear. The mother’s smile symbolizes comfort, guidance, and enduring love, providing strength during times of hardship. The poem relates to the theme of roots by emphasizing the lasting impact of familial bonds. The mother’s love and wisdom are foundational, deeply rooted within the speaker’s identity, guiding them through life’s challenges and keeping them anchored to their origins.
Untitled art by Margot Guilhot Delsoldato
Untitled art by Margot Guilhot Delsoldato
Ceist na Teangan transl. by Pól Ó hÍomhair
‘Ceist na Teangan’ is a poem dealing with the personal significance of a minority language, with the hope that it can be helped by others, whilst also expressing the fear and uncertainty in setting free something so cherished.
Reasons for Staying transl. by Jes Paluchowska
A queer child of immigrants raised in rural America, Vuong uses his poetry to portray the way his cultural identity interacted with his environment. In Reasons for Staying, he describes the struggle of not losing hope despite, or because, of his origins.
Excerpt from “Enfant de la nuit polaire” transl. by Ana Olivares
Roots remind me of belonging, a sense of being attached to something: the ground, our memories and ourselves. I find in Enfant de la nuit polaire, a graphic novel and memoir, a combination of visual imagery and prose, a resonance of what it means to be attached to a place, even when we’d like to run as far as possible from it. I chose this excerpt because it invites us to retell our stories, to retrace our roots in the name of memory.
Contemplation upon Flowers transl. by Nina Stremersch
In translation this poem is an elegy to my late grandmother. Through her beds of earth are my Flemish birth and roots fair. Her enduring love carries us through all seasons. Henry King’s A Contemplation upon Flowers indeed points toward, unearths, the roots that outlive their ephemeral fruits.
Sensation transl. by Evelyn Doyle
Rimbaud wrote ‘Sensation’ at age sixteen in his childhood home at Charleville, France. Often hailed as a genius for later masterpieces such as ‘Drunken Boat’, ‘Sensation’ reveals another side to the poet: a precocious teenage boy like any other. Although short and sweet, the poem leaves a lasting impression; here are the roots of a ‘mastermind’ who yearned for simple things: freedom, nature, love. There is a certain naïveté in ‘Sensation’ that led me to change Rimbaud’s use of ‘femme’, to the more innocent ‘girl’. From here on out, Rimbaud’s oeuvre pushes up shoots from the earth, out into the open air, supported all the while by poems like ‘Sensation’.
Untitled art by Naemi Victoria
Soneto para Brasília transl. by Nayara Güércio
This sonnet commemorates Brasília, the capital of Brazil, and its distinctive position in the nation’s cultural and historical tapestry. It examines Brasília’s embodiment of national identity and uniqueness, illustrating the theme of roots through its architectural wonders and radiant sky. Brasília stands as a realised vision, deeply rooted in the nation’s evolving story and in my own personal heritage.
Myrtho transl. by Dr Kevin Kiely
Gérard de Nerval (1808-1855) is as much myth as poet, and unavoidably as narrator in prose works such as ‘Journey to the Orient’ his immense range across genres maintains the reputation. The poem from his collection ‘Les Chimerès (1854)’ is titled ‘Myrtho’ a word coined by the poet within his imaginative procedures, and significantly cites the volcano Posillipo (Bay of Naples) as well as graveside of Virgil. The sonnet in the original, rhymes ABBA in the octave, the sestet rhyming AAB AAB. Presumably the ‘Myrtho’ addressed is Virgil, his root and branch guide for composing the sonnet; however regarding De Nerval it may be equally a doppelganger presentation of himself, superimposed on his guiding muse, the Roman poet who created the “Aeneid”.
Pasaje sacado de “Coser y cantar” transl. by Isabelle Mann
Coser y cantar by Cuban-American playwright Dolores Prida is a one-act play performed as a two-person monologue. This work explores the tension between a bilingual immigrant’s two identities: SHE, who speaks primarily in English, and ELLA, who speaks in Spanish.
Shine art by Penny Stuart
HEIRLOOM art by Vidya Vivek
transl. by Mackenzie Hilton
Theophrastus (fl. 371-287 BC), was a student of both Plato and Aristotle. His Enquiry into Plants investigates themes of origins, growth, and development. Through classifying the seeds, roots, and seasonality of plants, Theophrastus reveals alternative ways to conceive our origins, and the important role our roots play.
Extract from “The Oval Window” transl. by Seoirse Swanton
The Oval Window is a poetic treatise on vantages, framings, and barely perceptible transformations, a poem of literal roots and conceptual roots as the interface points allowing the change of one state to another (chemical to biological to emotional) examined by Prynne like the facets of a negative crystal.
Manhattan Is a Lenape Word transl.by Aaron Groome
“Manhattan” derives from “manaháhtaan”, a word from the Lenape peoples’ language, Munsee. Natalie Diaz is a Mojave American Pulitzer Prize-winning poet. Her poem explores themes of loneliness, colonisation and queerness against the backdrop of modern New York. It was written during a one-night writer’s residency at a Manhattan hotel.
Cantar Alentejano transl. by Vicente Velasques
This poem, put to music by Zeca Afonso, homages Catarina Eufémia, a harvester who became a symbol against the dictatorship after being murdered by the police during a worker’s strike. As someone with Alentejan roots, it felt appropriate to honour her memory on the 50th anniversary of the carnation revolution.
Evelyn art by Penny Stuart
Expressive Branches art by Isabella Wood
Friends and exploration art by Isabella Wood
The Rhodora transl. by Odhran Killally
The work of Ralph Waldo Emerson is a foundational influence on the literary generations that succeeded him. Notably, from a young Walt Whitman to the essays of Henry David Thoreau, to the works of psychologists such as John Dewey. Often with academic intersection, Emerson may justifiably be understood as a root of the Western mind.
Pasajes sacados de “Nos han dado la tierra” transl. by Eve Smith
Juan Rulfo’s first short story collection, El Llano en Llamas (The Burning Plain) was the first book I read in Spanish, and I instantly fell in love. His work is grounded in the mid century soil of rural Mexico his native country, but its roots extend into universal themes of belonging, home, and hope. The opening story Nos Han Dado La Tierra that I’ve translated here, follows a group of men on their way to the plain the government has allocated them, and sews the seeds for the themes the book comes to cultivate.
Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and excitingover and over announcing your place in the family of things.
Translated
by Adam Dunbar
Ní gá duit a bheith múinte.
Ní gá duit siúl ar do ghlúine céad míle tríd an ngaineamhlach ag déanamh aithrí.
Níl ort ach a ligean don chuid bhog ainmhithe de do chorp a bheith croí istigh i gcibé rud atá uaidh.
Inis dom faoin éadóchas, do cheannsa, agus inseoidh mé mo cheannsa duit.
Lena linn sin leanann an domhan ar aghaidh.
Lena linn sin bogann an ghrian agus na deora geala trasna na dtírdhreach, thar na féarthailte agus na coillte doimhne, na sléibhte agus na haibhneacha.
Lena linn sin, tá na géanna fiáine, ard san aer gorm glan, ag dul abhaile arís.
Cibé thú féin, is cuma cé chomh uaigneach, cuireann an domhan é féin ar fáil do do chuid samhlaíochta.
Glaonn sé ort ar nós na géanna fiáine, garbh agus iontacharís is arís eile ag fógairt d’áite i dteaghlach na rudaí.
Paul Verlaine
Il pleure dans mon cœur
Comme il pleut sur la ville ;
Quelle est cette langueur
Qui pénètre mon cœur ?
Ô bruit doux de la pluie
Par terre et sur les toits !
Pour un cœur qui s’ennuie,
Ô le chant de la pluie !
Il pleure sans raison
Dans ce cœur qui s’écœure.
Quoi ! nulle trahison ?…
Ce deuil est sans raison.
C’est bien la pire peine
De ne savoir pourquoi
Sans amour et sans haine
Mon cœur a tant de peine !
It is raining in my heart
As it rains on the town ; What is this languor That penetrates my core?
Oh soft sound of the rain
On the ground and rooftops ! For a heart in pain, Oh the song of the rain !
It rains without reason, In this sickened heart What! no treason? … This grief is without reason.
It is the worst pain
To not know the cause, Without love and without disdain, My heart has boundless pain !
Translated by Ciara Gallagher
Clarisse Nicoïdski
boca di piedra
aviarta comu una foja ariva dil arvuli blancu ichandu gritus fuegu palavras hurlandu guardati al oju qui sin saver ti mira
aviarta comu una foja ariva dil arvuli blancu boca di piedra vinida di tiempus muartus mar di sal riu secu cayada piedra di foja boca di arvuli
cuandu si avrirá la boca di la tiara gritaran las sulombras para sus madris gritaran las madris para sus fijus cuandu si avrirá la boca di la tiara sintiremus una sola palavra di fuegu i la sed mus aricurdará la savor dil agua cuandu si avrirá solu aquel silenciu qui puedi dar il spantu mus ichará a la cara vinida di allí la ripuesta
stone’s mouth open like a leaf atop a white tree casting out the cry, “fire!” speech (of a kind) screaming, “be careful!” to the eye that, unprepared sees you open like a leaf atop a white tree stone’s mouth emerging from tiempus muartus salt sea dry silenced river rock’s leaf tree’s mouth when the mouth of the earth opens the sulombras will cry for their mothers the mothers will cry for their children when the mouth of the earth opens we will hear a single word of fire and the thirst will remind us of the taste of water when it opens will cast in our faces la ripuesta: only that fearsome silence
Translated by Dr Mo Pareles
Soula Emmanuel
“I wouldn’t have managed in London without knowing a few Irish people. You need that connection, don’t you? When you bump into someone and you can place their accent, and they can place yours. You’d be like “Galway?” and they’d be like “Loughrea”, and even though you’ve never been to Loughrea, you’d be fast friends’, she says, pushing her fingers together to illustrate. ‘I loved being Irish abroad. One Christmas, I remember watching the Toy Show in some hall in Kilburn and having the time of my life. The prosecco was flowing. Take a drink every time Ryan Tubridy has a costume change - you’re completely gone after twenty minutes. I wouldn’t even watch the Toy Show at home’.
‘Maybe you went abroad to work on your inner child.’
‘I think my inner child eats glue.’
We laugh. Grace belongs nowhere, and that almost allows her to stake a claim on everyone she sees. I want to walk her streets - not the familiar ones in Dublin, but in London- to walk by the cafes she went to, the houses she drank in, the sites of her tree-branch life experiences. It seems that every so often, she yields a little, allows what lies beneath to be revealed, but never quite enough, and the cat-and-mouse goes on.
What must have it meant to her? To leave home and return like and unread message in a bottle? To abandon a new self and resume the discomfort of an old one? It’s true enough that growth is rarely linear, but when does non-linear growth become a non-growth linear: two steps back, three steps back, forward only a memory?
Translated by Aimilia Varla
In this photo you’re smiling like always Like you’re wishing me goodnight again For my long journey into the world.
You’ll never know how much you helped When you looked at me with such kindness.
Through the storm of war, Through the nights of loneliness and fear, You were my light.
And even now, mother, When the world becomes unbearable, I return to your photograph and I rediscover your smile.
Because even if everything has passed, your smile is keeping me alive.
Translated by Aimilia Varla
Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill
Cuirim mo dhóchas ar snámh i mbáidín teangan faoi mar a leagfá naíonán i gcliabhán a bheadh fite fuaite de dhuilleoga feileastraim is bitiúmin agus pic bheith cuimilte lena thóin ansan é a leagadh síos i measc na ngiolcach is coigeal na mban sí le taobh na habhann, féachaint n’fheadaraís cá dtabharfaidh an sruth é, féachaint, dála Mhaoise, an bhfóirfidh iníon Fharoinn?
Je fais nager mon espoir
Dans un petit bateau de langue
Comme tu coucherais un nourrisson
Dans un panier d’osier
Qui serait entrelacé
De feuilles d’iris
Bitume et poix
Frottés par en-dessous
Le laisser là-bas
Parmi les roseaux
Et les quenouilles
Au bord de la rivière
Tu ne sais pas
Où le ruisseau l’amènera,
Comme pour Moïse,
La fille du Pharaon le sauvera-t-il?
Translated
by
Pól Ó hÍomhair
Ocean Vuong
The October leaves coming down, as if called. Morning fog through the wildrye beyond the train tracks. A cigarette. A good sweater. On the sagging porch. While the family sleeps. That I woke at all & the hawk up there thought nothing of its wings. That I snuck onto the page while the guards were shitfaced on codeine. That I read my books by the light of riotfire. That my best words came farthest from myself & it’s awesome. That you can blow a man & your voice speaks through his voice. Like Jonah through the whale.
Because a blade of brown rye, multiplied by thousands, makes a purple field. Because this mess I made I made with love.
Because they came into my life, these ghosts, like something poured. Because crying, believe it or not, did wonders. Because my uncle never killed himself—but simply died, on purpose. Because I made a promise.
That the McDonald’s arch, glimpsed from the 2 am rehab window off Chestnut, was enough.
That mercy is small but the earth is smaller. Summer rain hitting Peter’s bare shoulders. The ptptptptptptpt of it.
Because I stopped apologizing into visibility. Because this body is my last address. Because right now, just before morning, when it’s blood-blue & the terror incumbent.
Because the sound of bike spokes heading home at dawn was unbearable. Because the hills keep burning in California.
Translated by Jes Paluchowska
Październikowe liście spadające jak wołane.
Poranna mgła wśród dzikiego żyta za torami.
Papieros. Dobry sweter. Na zapadłej werandzie. Póki rodzina śpi.
To że się w ogóle obudziłem i że jastrząb w locie nie myśli o swoich skrzydłach.
To że się wkradłem na stronę kiedy strażnicy zaćpali kodeinę.
To że czytałem książki przy świetle ogni zamieszek.
To że moje najlepsze słowa przyszły z daleka i że to jest super.
To że możesz obciągnąć facetowi i że jego głos mówi twoim głosem.
Jak Jonasz i wieloryb.
Ponieważ źdźbło brązowego żyta razy tysiąc daje fioletowe pole.
Ponieważ ten syf który zrobiłem, zrobiłem z miłości.
Ponieważ pojawiły się w moim życiu te duchy jakby wlane.
Ponieważ płacz, wierzcie lub nie, zdziałał cuda.
Ponieważ mój wujek nigdy się nie zabił – po prostu umarł, celowo.
Ponieważ obiecałem.
Że łuki McDonalda, dojrzane o drugiej nad ranem z okna rehabu koło Chestnut, wystarczą.
Że łaska jest niewielka, ale ziemia jeszcze mniejsza.
Letni deszcz spadający na nagie ramiona Piotra.
Jak ptptptptptptpt.
Ponieważ przestałem przepraszać się w widoczność.
Ponieważ to ciało to mój ostatni adres.
Ponieważ właśnie teraz, tuż przed świtem, kiedy jest krwiście niebiesko i terror urzęduje.
Ponieważ wzgórza ciągle płoną w Kalifornii.
Through red smoke, singing. Through the singing, a way out. Because only music rhymes with music. The words I’ve yet to use: timothy grass, jeffrey pine, celloing, cocksure, lightlusty, midnight-green, gentled, water-thin, lord (as verb), russet, pewter, lobotomy.
The night’s worth of dust on his upper lip. Barnjoy on the cusp of winter.
The broken piano under a bridge in Windsor that sounds like footsteps when you play it.
The Sharpied sign outside the foreclosed house: SEEKING CAT FRIEND. PLEASE KNOCK FOR KAYLA.
The train whistle heard through an open window after a nightmare. My mother, standing at the mirror, putting on blush before heading to chemo. Sleeping in the back seat, leaving the town that broke me, whole. Early snow falling from a clear, blushed sky. As if called.
Wśród rudego dymu, śpiew. Wśród śpiewu, ucieczka.
Ponieważ z muzyką rymuje się tylko muzyka.
Słowa których jeszcze nie użyłem: tymotka, sosna jeffreya, wiolonczelowanie, z jajami, światłoluby, zielony jak północ, ułagodzony, cienki jak woda, panować (czasownik), rdzawy, pewter, lobotomia.
Zeszłonocny puszek nad jego górną wargą.
Barnjoy u świtu zimy.
Niedziałające pianino pod mostem w Windsor, którego gra brzmi jak kroki. Napis flamastrem przed zajętym domem: KOCI PRZYJACIEL POSZUKIWANY. PROSZĘ WOŁAĆ KAYLĘ.
Gwizd pociągu słyszany przez otwarte okno po pobudce z koszmaru.
Moja matka, stojąca przed lustrem, nakładająca róż na policzki przed chemioterapią.
Spanie na tylnym siedzeniu, opuszczając w całości miasto które mnie złamało. Wczesny śnieg spadający z czystego, zaróżowionego nieba. Jak wołany.
Julia Nikitina
Page 1.
Et plus je voyage, plus je comprends que je suis l’aiguille d’une boussole qui indique systématiquement le nord.
Page 2.
Et j’emporte toujours dans mes bagages…
Page 3.
…mon enfance à Salekhard et le monde enclavé du nord.
Page 4.
Il est sans doute temps d’accepter la réalité: aucun train ne permet d’échapper à soi-même.
Page 5.
Et les histoires des autres personnes, qu’elles soient proches ou inconnues, font partie du monde qui compte.
J’aimerais les conserver vivantes.
Page 6.
Je ne resterai pas toujours à tes côtés.
Pardonne-moi.
Mais j’aimerais apprendre à mieux connaître Raconte-moi
Translated by Ana Olivares
Page 1.
Entre más viajo, más comprendo que soy la aguja de una brújula que sistemáticamente apunta al norte.
Page 2.
Siempre llevo en mis maletas…
Page 3.
…mi infancia en Salejard y el mundo oculto del norte.
Page 4.
Sin duda, es tiempo de aceptar la realidad: ningún tren me permitirá escapar de mí misma.
Page 5.
Las historias de otras personas, conocidas o no, son parte de ese mundo.
Me gustaría conservarlas vivas.
Page 6. No estaré a tu lado siempre.
Perdóname.
Pero me gustaría aprender a conocerte mejor. Cuéntame.
Henry King
BRAVE flowers—that I could gallant it like you, And be as little vain!
You come abroad, and make a harmless show, And to your beds of earth again. You are not proud: you know your birth: For your embroider’d garments are from earth.
You do obey your months and times, but I Would have it ever Spring: My fate would know no Winter, never die, Nor think of such a thing.
O that I could my bed of earth but view And smile, and look as cheerfully as you!
O teach me to see Death and not to fear, But rather to take truce! How often have I seen you at a bier, And there look fresh and spruce! You fragrant flowers! then teach me, that my breath Like yours may sweeten and perfume my death.
Translated by Nina Stremersch
DAPPERE bloemen— kon ik maar charmeren zoals jullie, En even weinig ijdel zijn!
Je verschijnt, een mooi onschuldig spektakel, En keert terug naar je bedje van aarde
Niets trots: je weet waar je vandaan komt: Want je geborduurde gewaad is van aarde.
Je gehoorzaamt wel de seizoenen, maar ik, Ik wil eeuwige Lente:
Mijn lot wil geen Winter kennen, nooit doodgaan, Niet eens aan zoiets denken.
O kon ik mijn bed van aarde maar zien, En lachen, en zo blij kijken als jij!
O leer me de Dood te zien, niet te vrezen, Maar in vrede aanvaarden!
Hoe vaak zag ik je bij een kist, En zelfs daar zo fris en keurig!
Jullie geurende bloemen! leer het me dan, dat mijn adem, Zoals de jouwe, mijn dood mag verzachten.
Arthur Rimbaud
Par les soirs bleus d’été, j’irai dans les sentiers, Picoté par les blés, fouler l’herbe menue: Rêveur, j’en sentirai la fraîcheur à mes pieds.
Je laisserai le vent baigner ma tête nue.
Je ne parlerai pas, je ne penserai rien.
Mais l’amour infini me montera dans l’âme; Et j’irai loin, bien loin, comme un bohémien, Par la Nature,—heureux comme avec une femme.
Translated by Evelyn Doyle
Down paths I’ll wander on blue Summer evenings, Tickled by wheatgrass, trampling new shoots: Dreaming as I go along, earth’s freshness at my feet. I will let the wind wash over my bare head.
Nothing in mind; no word spoken aloud. But eternal love will fill my soul; And it’s far, far I’ll go; a vagabond. Made happy by nature as if with a girl.
Evan do Carmo
Brasília, capital do meu coração, Tão jovem e tão cheia de história, Com sua arquitetura inovadora, Símbolo de uma nação em construção.
Nas tuas ruas largas e avenidas, És palco de tanta diversidade, Culturas e povos que se unem aqui, Numa mistura de paz e igualdade.
Teu céu é um espetáculo à parte, Com cores únicas que encantam, E o sol nasce majestoso no horizonte.
Brasília, és orgulho desta terra, E mesmo com o passar dos anos, Continuas sendo um sonho realizado.
Brasília, cherished capital of mine, So young, yet layered with history’s grace, Your architecture shines in open space. A symbol of a nation’s unfolding design.
Your avenues stretch wide and bright, A haven where peace and unity grow, Where cultures merge in freedom’s light, And dreams are shared as dawn does glow.
Your sky is a marvel on its own, With striking colours that mesmerise, And the sun crests grandly over the horizon
Brasília, you are this land’s pride, And though the years may pass you by, You stand as a dream brought to life.
Translated by Nayara Güércio
French Myrtho
Gerard de Nerval
Je pense à toi, Myrtho, divine enchanteresse, Au Pausilippe altier, de mille feux brillant, A ton front inondé des clartés d’Orient, Aux raisins noirs mêlés avec l’or de ta tresse.
C’est dans ta coupe aussi que j’avais bu l’ivresse, Et dans l’éclair furtif de ton oeil souriant, Quand aux pieds d’Iacchus on me voyait priant, Car la Muse m’a fait l’un des fils de la Grèce.
Je sais pourquoi là-bas le volcan s’est rouvert… C’est qu’hier tu l’avais touché d’un pied agile, Et de cendres soudain l’horizon s’est couvert.
Depuis qu’un duc normand brisa tes dieux d’argile, Toujours, sous les rameaux du laurier de Virgile, Le pâle hortensia s’unit au myrte vert !
Translated by Dr Kevin
Kiely
Myrtho, you’re in my thoughts divine one, and the pride of place, Posilipo Sacred fires reflected in your eastern face, the braided hair adorned with black grapes.
Therefore, I invoke you while drunk and seeing your eyes sparkle, you’re prostrate under a statue of Iacchus
my muse is Grecian, thus the volcano rumbles, cracks, spits fire since you walked delicately there and the horizon below a sky of ashen smoky clouds
Once upon a time the Norman-aristo smashed the clay effigies all along the pallid bay of Naples, Virgil haunts under branches where hydrangeas and green myrtle leaves commingle
English/Spanish
Dolores Prida Pasaje sacado de “Coser y cantar”
SHE: You know what’s wrong with me? … I can’t relate anymore. I have been moving away from people. I stay here and look at the ceiling. And talk to you. I don’t know how to talk to people anymore. I don’t know if I want to talk to people anymore!
ELLA: Tu problema es que ves demasiadas películas de Woody Allen, y ya te crees una neoyorquina neurótica. Yo no. Yo sé cómo tener un party conmigo misma. Yo me divierto sola. Y me acompaño y me entretengo. Yo tengo mis recuerdos. Y mis plantas en la ventana. Yo tengo una solidez. Tengo unas raíces, algo de qué agarrarme. Pero tú… ¿tú de qué te agarras?
SHE: I hold onto you. I couldn’t exist without you.
ELLA: But I wonder if I need you. Me pregunto si te necesito… robándome la mitad de mis pensamientos, de mi tiempo, de mi sentir, de mis palabras… como una sanguijuela!
SHE: I was unavoidable. You spawned me while you swam in that fish tank. It would take a long time to make me go away!
ELLA: Tú no eres tan importante. Ni tan fuerte. Unos meses, tal vez unos años, bajo el sol, y, presto… desaparecerías. No quedaría ni rastro de ti. Yo soy la que existo. Yo soy la que soy. Tú… no sé lo que eres.
SHE: But, if it weren’t for me you would not be the one you are now. No serías la que eres. I gave yourself back to you. If I had not opened some doors and some windows for you, you would still be sitting in the dark, with your recuerdos, the
Translated
by
Isabelle Mann
ELLA: ¿Sabes mi problema? … Es que ya no me puedo relacionar. Me he alejado de la gente. Me quedo aquí mirando al techo. Y hablando contigo. Ya no sé cómo hablar con nadie. ¡No sé si quiero hablar con nadie más!
SHE: Your problem is that you’ve seen too many Woody Allen movies, and now you think you’re some kind of neurotic New Yorker. Not me. I know how to have a fiesta with myself. I can have fun on my own. I keep myself company and I entertain myself. I have my memories. And my plants in the window. I have my strength. I have roots, something to hold onto. But you… what do you hold onto?
ELLA: Yo me agarro de ti. No podría existir sin ti.
SHE: Pero me pregunto si te necesito. I wonder if I need you… robbing me of half my thoughts, of my time, of my feelings, of my words… like a leech!
ELLA: Yo era inevitable. Me engendraste cuando nadabas en esa pecera. ¡Haría falta mucho tiempo para hacer que me vaya!
SHE: You’re not so important. Not so strong. A few months, maybe a few years, under the sun, and presto… you would disappear. You wouldn’t even leave a trace. I’m the one who exists. I am the one who is. You… I don’t know what you are.
ELLA: Pero, si no fuera por mí no serías tú la que eres ahora. You wouldn’t be who you are now. Yo te devolví a ti misma. ¡Si no hubiera abierto unas puertas y unas ventanas para ti, estarías todavía sentada a oscuras, con tus recuerdos, las
idealized beaches of your childhood, and your rice and beans and the rest of your goddamn obsolete memories!
ELLA: ¡Pero soy la más fuerte!
SHE: I am as strong as you are!
ELLA: Soy la más fuerte…
SHE: I am the strongest…
ELLA: ¡Te robaste parte de mí!
SHE: You wanted to be me once!
ELLA: ¡Estoy harta de ti!
SHE: … Now you are!
ELLA: ¡Ojalá no estuvieras!
SHE: You can’t get rid of me!
ELLA: ¡Alguien tiene que ganar!
SHE: No one shall win!
playas idealizadas de tu infancia, tu arroz y frijoles y todo el resto de tus malditas memorias obsoletas!
SHE: But I’m the strongest!
ELLA: ¡Soy tan fuerte como tú!
SHE: I’m the strongest…
ELLA: Soy la más fuerte…
SHE: You stole a part of me!
ELLA: ¡Querías ser yo una vez!
SHE: I’m sick of you!
ELLA: … ¡ahora estás!
SHE: I wish you weren’t here!
ELLA: ¡No puedes librarte de mí!
SHE: Someone has to win!
ELLA: ¡Nadie va a ganar!
Translated by Mackenzie Hilton
Every plant has a domestic season when it grows, flowers, and ripens its fruit. Nothing grows before its domestic season, whether grown from root or seed, every plant waits for its domestic season, unaffected by water. Some plants grow and flower only in the summer, such as the golden thistle and wild cucumber, and just as is said about shrubs, konyza, capers, and the like. These plants do not bloom nor grow before their domestic season and, in light of this fact, seem to differ from trees. For, trees sprout all at once, or nearly so, so that they seem to grow in one season. Comparatively, plants grow and, more importantly, flower in many – rather – in all seasons, so that, if you think about it, plants grow and flower almost continuously throughout the year. One plant always succeeds from another, spanning across all seasons. Thus, after the dandelion comes the crocus, anemene, groundsel, and the other Winter plants, and after these come the plants of spring, summer, and autumn. Many plants, so it is said, span across seasons because they only bloom in part. Indeed, some plants bloom this way, such as dandelions, bugloss, chicory, plantains, and the like. Due to their continuity and overlapping, it is not always easy to see which plants are first to grow, and which are late, unless one were to contend that the year begins with the start of a certain season. The production and season of these plants are determined by when they produce ripe fruit and new growth. This seems mostly to occur after the autumn equinox. For then, most seeds and fruit trees are mature; then a change occurs, both of the seed itself and of the seasons. Seeds that are immature and unripe succumb and have their growth, flowering and ripening proportionally delayed. Due to this, some plants bloom at the Winter solstice, others at the rising of Sirius, and others still after Arcturus and the autumn equinox.
But these plants seem to require a wider investigation to determine precisely when they begin growing, since plants are, more or less, just as diverse as trees, and some are green all year around, such as germander, heliotrope, and maidenhair.
J.H. Prynne
In darkness by day we must press on, giddy at the tilt of a negative crystal. The toy is childish, almost below speech lip-read by swaying lamps. It is not so hard to know as it is to do: wresting the screen before the eyelet lost to speech tune you blame the victim. Pity me! These petals, crimson and pink, are cheque stubs, spilling chalk in a mist of soft azure. At the last we want unit costs plus VAT, patient grading: made to order, made to care, poised at the nub of avid sugar soap.
…
Standing by the window I heard it, while waiting for the turn. In hot light and chill air it was the crossing flow of even life, hurt in the mouth but exhausted with passion and joy. Free to leave at either side, at the fold line found in threats like herbage, the watch is fearful and promised before. The years jostle and burn up as a trust plasma. Beyond help it is joy at death itself: a toy hard to bear, laughing all night.
Extrait de “La fenêtre du vestibule”
Translated
by
Dans l’ombre par jour il faut marcher, maniaque à la pente d’un cristal négatif. Le jouet est infantile, presque indigne d’une parole, lu sur les lèvres par des lampes vacillantes. Il n’est pas si difficile à savoir mais à faire: arrachant l’écran avant l’œillet perdu à la parole musique, vous accusez la victime. Ayez pitié de moi! Ces pétales, carmins et roses, sont des talons de chèques, versant de la craie dans un brume d’azur mou. Enfin il nous faut des prix unitaires avec la TVA, organisation des patients: faits sur commande, faits fardelés par des soins, balancés au morceau avide du savon sucré. …
Débout à la fenêtre, j’ai l’entendu, en attendant la volte. Dans le clair chaud et l’air froid, c’était le courant croisant de la vie égale, la bouche blessée mais épuisé par la passion, par la joie. Libre à sortir par un côté ou l’autre, par le pli trouvé en les menaces comme l’herbage, la vigile est craintive, promise en avant. Les années trésaillent et brûlent comme une fiducie de plasma. Au-delà de la guérison, c’est une joie face à la mort elle-même: un jouet difficile à porter, riant toute la nuit. French
Seoirse Swanton
Natalie Diaz
It is December and we must be brave.
The ambulance’s rose of light blooming against the window. Its single siren-cry: Help me. A silk-red shadow unbolting like water through the orchard of her thigh.
Her, come—in the green night, a lion. I sleep her bees with my mouth of smoke, dip honey with my hands stung sweet on the darksome hive. Out of the eater I eat. Meaning, She is mine, colony.
The things I know aren’t easy: I’m the only Native American on the 8th floor of this hotel or any, looking out any window of a turn-of-the-century building in Manhattan.
Manhattan is a Lenape word. Even a watch must be wound. How can a century or a heart turn if nobody asks, Where have all the natives gone?
Translated by Aaron Groome
Mí na Nollag atá ann is tá orainn bheith cróga.
Rós solais an otharchairr faoi bhláth in aghaidh na fuinneoige. Gol a bhonnáin aonaraigh: Cabhraigh liom. Scáth síoda dheirg ag neamhbholtáil mar uisce trí úllord a leise.
Ise, tar—san oíche ghlas, leon.
Codlaím a beacha le mo bhéal deataigh, tumaim mil le mo lámha cealgtha milse ar an gcoirceog dhorcha. As an iteoir a ithim. A chiallaíonn, Is liomsa í, a choilíneacht.
Ní éasca iad na rudaí atá ar eolas agam: Is mise an t-aon Dúchasach Meiriceánach ar an 8ú hurlár den óstán seo nó ceann ar bith, ag faire amach fuinneog ar bith as foirgneamh a chasadh an chéid in Manhattan.
Is focal Lenape í Manhattan. Caitear fiú uaireadóir a thochras. Conas is féidir le céad nó croí casadh mura gceistíonn éinne, cá bhfuil na dúchasaigh go léir imithe?
If you are where you are, then where are those who are not here? Not here. Which is why in this city I have many lovers. All my loves are reparations loves.
What is loneliness if not unimaginable light and measured in lumens— an electric bill which must be paid, a taxi cab floating across three lanes with its lamp lit, gold in wanting. At 2 a.m. everyone in New York City is empty and asking for someone.
Again, the siren’s same wide note: Help me. Meaning, I have a gift and it is my body, made two-handed of gods and bronze.
She says, You make me feel like lightning. I say, I don’t ever want to make you feel that white. It’s too late—I can’t stop seeing her bones. I’m counting the carpals, metacarpals of her hand inside me.
Má tá tú san áit ina bhfuil tú, cá bhfuil iad siúd nach bhfuil anseo? Ní anseo. Sin an fáth sa chathair seo a bhfuil a lán leannán agam. Is leannáin chúiteaimh iad mo leannáin go léir.
Cad is uaigneas ann ach solas doshamhlaithe is tomhaiste ina lúmain— bille leictreachais a chaitear a íoc, tacsaí ag fánaíocht trasna trí lána lena lampa lasta, ór i ngannchuid. Ag 2r.n. tá gach duine i Nua-Eabhrac folamh is ag cur tuairisce faoi dhuine éigin.
Arís, nóta leathan céanna an bhonnáin: Cabhraigh liom. A chiallaíonn, Tá bronntanas agam agus ‘sé mo chorp, déanta go délámhach de dhéithe is cré-umha.
Deir sí, cuireann tú mé ag mothú mar thintreach. Deirim, níor mhaith liom riamh tú a chur ag mothú chomh bán sin. Tá sé ródhéanach—Ní féidir liom mo shúile a iompar óna cnámha. Táim ag comhaireamh na gcarpasach, meiteacarpaigh a láimhe ionaim.
One bone, the lunate bone, is named for its crescent outline. Lunatus. Luna. Some nights she rises like that in me, like trouble—a slow luminous flux.
The streetlamp beckons the lonely coyote wandering West 29th Street by offering its long wrist of light. The coyote answers by lifting its head and crying stars.
Somewhere far from New York City, an American drone finds then loves a body—the radiant nectar it seeks through great darkness—makes a candle-hour of it, and burns gently along it, like American touch, an unbearable heat.
The siren song returns in me, I sing it across her throat: Am I what I love? Is this the glittering world I’ve been begging for?
Tá cnámh amháin, an chnámh luanach, ainmnithe dá himlíne chorránach. Lunatus. Luma. Oícheanta áirithe éiríonn sí mar sin ionaim, cosúil le trioblóid/buairtcontúirt—síorathrú mall lonrach.
Meallann an lampa sráide naan chadhóite uaigníeach ag fánaíocht thart spaisteoireacht West 29th Street trína rosta fada solais a thairiscint. Freagraíonn an chadhóit trína cheann a ardú is réalta a ghol.
Áit éigin i bhfad ó Nua-Eabhrac, tagann drón Meiriceánach ar ansin bíonn grá aige do chorp—an neachtar niamhrach a lorgaíonn sé trí dhúdhorcadacht—a dhéanann uair choinnle as, is a dhónn go séimh leis, mar theagmháil Mheiriceánach, teas dofhulaingthe.
Filleann amhrán an bhonnáin chugam, Canaim é trasna a scornaí: An é mise a mbíonn grá agam do? An é seo an domhan drithleach a d’agair mé?
Vicente Campina
Chamava-se Catarina
O Alentejo a viu nascer
Serranas viram-na em vida
Baleizão a viu morrer
Ceifeiras na manhã fria
Flores na campa lhe vão pôr
Ficou vermelha a campina
Do sangue que então brotou
Acalma o furor campina
Que o teu pranto não findou
Quem viu morrer Catarina
Não perdoa a quem matou
Aquela pomba tão branca
Todos a querem p’ra si
Ó Alentejo queimado
Ninguém se lembra de ti
Aquela andorinha negra
Bate as asas p’ra voar
Ó Alentejo esquecido
Inda um dia hás-de cantar
Her name was Catarina Alentejo saw her first breath Farmwomen saw her in bloom and Baleizão would see her death
Harvesters in the cold dawn lay flowers on her gravestone the fields turned red from the blood shed watering the crops there sown
Oh fields, contain your fury your grief is not yet over those who saw Catarina’s death don’t forgive her murderer
the dove white like the snow Everyone claims it as their own Oh Alentejo scorching Left forgotten and alone
The dark swallow in the sky spreads its wings to fly away Oh Alentejo forgotten you will sing your song one day
Translated by Vicente Velasques
Ralph Waldo Emerson
On being asked, whence is a flower; In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook. The purple petals, fallen in the pool, Made the black water with their beauty gay; Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask, I never knew: But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.
Translated by Odhran Killally
Nuair a fiafraíodh dom, cad as a tháinig an bláth?
I mí na Bealtaine, nuair a pholladh ár n-uaigneas le gaotha ón bhfarraige,
D’aimsigh mé an Rhodora úr sna coillte, Ag scaipeadh a bhláthanna gan duilliúr sa chúil thais,
Chun an fhásaigh is an sruthán beag mall a shásamh.
D’athraigh na peitil chorcra, tite sa lóchan, cuma an uisce dhorcha lena n-áilleacht spleodrach,
B’fhéidir go dtiocfaidh an t-éan dearg lena chleití a shocrú, Chun an bhlátha a bhaineann dá scata a mhealladh.
A Rhodora! Má chuireann na saoithe ceist ort
An fáth go bhfuil an draíocht seo curtha amú ar an talamh agus an t-aer, Abair leo a thaisce, da mba rud é go raibh súile cruthaithe lena feiceáil, Is iomaí cúis, mar sin an Áilleacht a bheith ann ar mhaithe áilleacht amháin.
Cén fáth a raibh tú ansin, a choimhlinteoir an róis!
Ní raibh sé ar intinn dom riamh ceist a chur, ní raibh a fhios agam choíche; Ach do bhuíochas m’aineolas simplí, is dócha—
Gur tharraing an chumhacht cheannann chéanna mise, is a tharraing tusa.
Juan Rulfo
Después de tantas horas de caminar sin encontrar ni una sombra de árbol, ni una semilla de árbol, ni una raíz de nada, se oye el ladrar de los perros.
Uno ha creído a veces, en medio de este camino sin orillas, que nada habría después; que no se podría encontrar nada al otro lado, al final de esta llanura rajada de grietas y de arroyos secos. Pero si, hay algo. Hay un pueblo. Se oye que ladran los perros y se siente en el aire el olor del humo, y se saborea ese olor de la gente como si fuera una esperanza.
Pero el pueblo está todavía muy allá. Es el viento el que lo acerca.
Hemos venido caminando desde el amanecer. Ahorita son algo así como las cuatro de la tarde. Alguien se asoma al cielo, estira los ojos hacia donde está colgado el sol y dice:
—Son como las cuatro de la tarde.
Ese alguien es Melitón. Junto con él, vamos Faustino, Esteban y yo. Somos cuatro. Yo los cuento: dos adelante, otros dos atrás. Miro más atrás y no veo a nadie. Entonces me digo: “Somos cuatro.” Hace rato, como a eso de las once, éramos veintitantos; pero puñito a puñito se han ido desperdigando hasta quedar nada más este nudo que somos nosotros.
Tanta y tamaña tierra para nada. Se le resbalan a uno los ojos al no encontrar cosa que los detenga. Sólo unas cuantas lagartijas salen a asomar la cabeza por encima de sus agujeros, y luego que sienten la tatema del sol corren a esconderse en la sombrita de una piedra. Pero nosotros, cuando tengamos que trabajar aquí, ¿qué haremos para enfriarnos del sol eh? Porque a nosotros nos dieron esta costra de tepetate para que la sembráramos.
Nos dijeron:
—Del pueblo para acá es de ustedes.
Nosotros preguntamos:
—¿El Llano?
—Sí, el Llano. Todo el Llano Grande.
Nosotros paramos la jeta para decir que el Llano no lo queríamos. Que quería-
Translated by Eve Smith
After so many hours of walking and not finding even the slightest shadow of a tree, not even its sapling, not even a root, you could hear dogs barking.
One might sometimes think, along this endless road, that there would be nothing after it. That at the end of this dried-out plain of cracks and arid arroyos, nothing would be on the other side. But there is something. There’s a village. You can hear the dogs barking and feel smoke in the air, and we savour that smell of humanity as if it were hope.
But that town is still so far away. It’s the wind that brings it closer.
We’ve been walking since sunrise. Right now, it’s about four in the afternoon. Someone casts their gaze over to where the sun hangs and says:
—It’s about four in the afternoon.
That someone is Melitón. He, Faustino, Esteban and I are the people walking. There are four of us. I count: two in the front, another two in the back. Further back, there’s no one else to see. That’s why I say there are four of us. A while ago, at around eleven o’ clock, there were twenty-odd of us, but few by few they dispersed until there was nothing left but this small tangle we call us.
...
So much land, so much space stretching out for no reason. Only a few geckos emerge, popping their heads out of little holes, before they weary and, fearing the sun, run and hide in whatever shadow they can find behind a rock. But us, when we end up working here, what the hell are we going to do to cool down? Because this scab of slag was given to us to farm.
They told us:
—From the village across all the way over there is yours.
—The plain? We asked.
—Yes, the plain. All of the Llano Grande.
We fixed our mouths to say we didn’t want the damn Plain. We wanted what was beside the river. From the river to over there, maybe across the meadows, where the trees called she-oaks and grassland and good land are. Not whatever this dried
mos lo que estaba junto al río. Del río para allá, por las vegas, donde están esos árboles llamados casuarinas y las paraneras y la tierra buena. No este duro pellejo de vaca que se llama el Llano.
Pero no nos dejaron decir nuestras cosas. El delegado no venía a conversar con nosotros. Nos puso los papeles en la mano y nos dijo:
—No se vayan a asustar por tener tanto terreno para ustedes solos.
—Es que el Llano, señor delegado...
—Son miles y miles de yuntas.
—Pero no hay agua. Ni siquiera para hacer un buche hay agua.
¿Y el temporal? Nadie les dijo que se les iba a dotar con tierras de riego. En cuanto allí llueva, se levantará el maíz como si lo estiraran.
—Pero, señor delegado, la tierra está deslavada, dura. No creemos que el arado se entierre en esa como cantera que es la tierra del Llano. Habría que hacer agujeros con el azadón para sembrar la semilla y ni aun así es positivo que nazca nada; ni maíz ni nada nacerá.
—Eso manifiéstenlo por escrito. Y ahora váyanse. Es al latifundio al que tienen que atacar, no al Gobierno que les da la tierra.
—Espérenos usted, señor delegado. Nosotros no hemos dicho nada contra el Centro. Todo es contra el Llano... No se puede contra lo que no se puede. Eso es lo que hemos dicho... Espérenos usted para explicarle. Mire, vamos a comenzar por donde íbamos...
Pero él no nos quiso oír.
Así nos han dado esta tierra. Y en este comal acalorado quieren que sembremos semillas de algo, para ver si algo retoña y se levanta. Pero nada se levantará de aquí. Ni zopilotes. Uno los ve allá cada y cuando, muy arriba, volando a la carrera; tratando de salir lo más pronto posible de este blanco terrenal endurecido, donde nada se mueve y por donde uno camina como reculando.
out skin that they call the Plain is.
But they didn’t let us say our piece. The delegate hadn’t come to chit-chat. He pushed the papers into our palms and told us:
—You won’t mind being given so much land to share between so few of you, I hope.
—It’s just that the Plain, señor delegate…
—It’s miles and miles of potential farmland.
—There’s no water. Not even to make a crop of water.
And the climate? Nobody told them that they would be dealing with risky land. As soon as it rained there, the corn would be uprooted as if they’d lovingly laid it out there themselves, ripe for the withering.
—But, señor delegate, the soil is crumbling, it’s hard. The plough won’t make even a dent in it, the Plain is more like a quarry. You would have to make holes with a hoe to sow the seed and even then, that won’t even necessarily mean anything gives birth there. Not corn, not anything.
—Take that up in writing. Now go on. Complain to the owners of the estate, not the government giving you the land.
—Please sir, wait, señor delegate. We mean no critique of the government. But everything is up against the Plain, and you can’t go against something that won’t put up a fair fight. That’s all we’re saying. Please let us explain. Look, we’re going to start where we were planning to -
But he didn’t want to hear us.
That’s how they gave us this land. And they wanted us to sow seeds in this hot griddle of an excuse for land, to see if anything would come to life here. But nothing comes to life here. Not even black vultures. You see them around here now and then, high up, flying away, trying to escape as soon as possible from this hardened white cloud of dust, where nothing moves, and everything walks around like it’s surrendering.
Translated from French to English by
Laëtitia Saint-Loubert & Karen Fleetwood
Pub. date 10 Oct 2024,
Bullaun Press
However, on rue Descartes, parents torment their children twice as much as anywhere else. They know full well that, as they themselves once did, their children will sulk and start to hate them … before forgetting their rancour and eventually repeating the same absurdities. An eternal cycle of horror.
And even if one or two children never forgive their parents, by the age that major slanging matches start, their parents will already be dead. There is no danger of any recompense. The begetters of bitterness continue to say whatever they want, whenever they want.
As they did that July. We were picking our first oranges in the vast garden surrounding the house, as we did every year. The abundant crop put me in excellent spirits. My father, as always, warned me not to eat the pips. But while all parents of sound mind might justify this ban by referencing the risks of choking, the Dessaintes, once again, employed their usual technique, this time with a serious additional revelation.
‘Anyone who swallows orange pips will feel them start to grow inside their body, and they’ll end up becoming orange trees themselves. That’s the way it is and that’s that!’
It goes without saying that I was generally extra careful, even when devouring the smallest segment. But that day, no doubt distracted by the explosion of heat and light that flooded the fruit garden, I accidentally swallowed several pips. I can still remember it as if it was yesterday. I immediately realized what I had done but said absolutely nothing to my family. In my infantile head, where every parental maxim was planted as gospel truth, I could already feel this new metamorphosis taking root.
It would start with a vague prickling sensation, a barely perceptible tickle. The tantalizing feeling of nature working its wonders within me; it would make me smile
to myself all day long. But it quickly would become a splinter, disturbing my sleep and piercing through my fingertips, my earlobes and the thin skin of my bare feet. I would suffer in silence. Somehow or other, I would manage to conceal the fact that my belly was being torn apart by wooden shards and young buds ripening. But there would come a day when neither my hair nor my little spring dresses could cover up the branches laden with flowers, the juicy oranges and, eventually, the nests of insatiable weaverbirds and the stench of rotten fruit. I feared for my eyes, expecting at any moment a branch that would puncture them as if they were silk. One morning, when the metamorphosis was almost complete, I would not hesitate to throw myself at my father’s feet: ‘Forgive me, Father! Forgive me for not heeding your advice, for being a bad seed!’ And as my face was covered in leaves and my tongue became as hard as the bark from the bois benzoin,[4] I would extend my arm – my entire trunk – one last time in an attempt to seek my parents’ pity. ‘Farewell, Papa, farewell!’ My mouth would disappear under a branch before I could even ask him to pray for me. While some become oaks and others silver lindens, I was to be punished by the gods and transformed into a common orange tree.
Since this episode, I have cultivated a hatred for orange trees, citrus-flavour drinks and all those damn stone fruits. Nothing scares me more than a seed. I believe that all the children from rue Descartes are like me, petrified at the thought of coming across one of those sneaky little pips concealed in a juicy orange segment and ready to eviscerate you with its shoots. Once, some years later, I shouted at my dad and accused him of being a terrorist. He replied that no one had forced me to believe him back then and, completely absorbed by his umpteenth toothpick, ended the conversation with his usual ‘That’s the way it is and that’s that!’
[4] Tree whose bark can be used as incense or a remedy against skin conditions.
Evelyn Doyle studies English Literature and French. Somewhat arbitrarily, mais bon. She thinks that Arthur Rimbaud was a pretty cool dude and aims to be as well-established a flâneur as him, but maybe a little less reckless. You’ll find her rovin’ about Dublin’s cobblestoned streets in unsuitable footwear: tickled by seagulls’ wings, trampling vape packets.
Adam Dunbar is a recent graduate of TCD with a degree in Modern Irish and German, and enjoys the challenge of finding the perfect balance between loyalty and creativity required for the perfect translation.
Ciara Gallagher is an upcoming senior fresh student in Trinity College Dublin studying History of Art and Architecture with French. She has just returned from a year abroad studying these subjects in the Sorbonne Université in Paris. Her interests lie in 19th century art and literature. Previous publication credits include: Trinity News, The University Times, TN2 magazine, The Irish Independent and the Trinity Journal of Literary Translation.
Aaron Groome is a third year Integrated Computer Science student at Trinity. He speaks Irish and English.
Nayara Güércio is a PhD candidate at the Trinity Centre for Literary and Cultural Translation, Trinity College Dublin. She is generously supported by a scholarship granted by the Haddad Foundation. Nayara has an MPhil in Literary Translation from TCD and a Master’s degree in Communication Studies from the University of Brasilia, Brazil.
Mackenzie Hilton is a medical librarian in Toronto, Canada. Holding an MA in Classics, and an MI in Library & Information Science, Mackenzie’s research interests include Ancient Greek medicine and pharmacology, especially the intellectual commonalities and contrast between these two spheres.
Kevin Kiely: Poet, Critic, Author; PhD (UCD) in the Patronage of Poetry at the Edward Woodberry Poetry Room, Harvard University; W. J. Fulbright Scholar in Poetry, Washington (DC); M. Phil., in Poetry, Trinity College (Dublin); Hon. Fellow in Writing., University of Iowa; Patrick Kavanagh Fellowship Award in Poetry; Bisto Award Winner.
Odhran Killally is a third-year undergraduate of history and film at Trinity College Dublin. The included work was arranged on the ambition to integrate classical works of poetry into the ongoing re-emergence of older Irish culture.
Isabelle Mann is pursuing an MPhil in literary translation in Spanish, French, and English at Trinity College. Born and raised in New York, she obtained undergraduate degrees in cultural anthropology and Spanish literature from Fordham University. She has worked in Madrid and Marseille as an English teacher and freelance interpreter.
Ana Olivares Muñoz Ledo is from Mexico. She completed the MPhil in Literary Translation at Trinity College Dublin (2023). Her interests range from Japanese culture to video game translation. She is currently working in the localisation industry in Dublin and starting her path into literary translation.
Cillian Ó Diomasaigh is a recent Trinity-graduate of Early and Modern Irish. He is very interested in the revival and survival of the Irish language and her culture. Cillian likes to read in his spare time, with interests in Philosophy, Theology and Classical Literature.
Pól Ó hÍomhair is a 2nd Year student in Linguistics and Modern Irish.
Jes Paluchowska is a third year English Major in a constant struggle against modernism and the ghost of Hegel. They love modern gothic literature and overcomplicating their original writing with references.
Mo Pareles, born in New York City, is associate professor at the University of British Columbia and the author of Nothing Pure (University of Toronto Press, 2024), a book about Jews, Christians, and translation in the Middle Ages.
Eve Smith is a life-long fan of looking at the world and occasionally making noise. See: her first word was duck.
Nina Stremersch is a third-culture third-year philosophy undergraduate at Trinity College Dublin. She is glad that her work in philosophy heightens, rather than defeats, her impulse toward poetry and literature. Currently thinking about how metaphor introduces sense experience into language, and so enables thought,,
Seoirse Swanton is a graduate of English and French in TCD and has also recently completed an MSc (Agr) in Environmental Resource Management. He has had work published in Icarus and JOLT on a number of occasions.
Aimilia Varla is a literary translator from Greece, currently based in Dublin. She studied English Language and Literature and recently finished her masters in Literary Translation in Trinity College Dublin. She is very interested in language learning, cultural awareness and document adaptation.
Vicente Velasques is a Portuguese translator doing an MPhil in Literary Translation in Trinity College Dublin. He enjoys translating speculative and ergodic fiction. He is also
Jason Grace is an artist from Tallaght. He lives in a deaf household and is on the autism spectrum disorder. His piece was dedicated to roots in history.
Margot Guilhot Delsoldato loves photography. She is so good at it that the event organisers she’s worked for have paid her LOTS in exposure.
Penny Stuart is a regular art contributor to Trinity Jolt magazine. She likes seeing which translations her art has been matched with by the editorial team. She had an exhibition in July 2024 in the Joyce Tower Museum where her life drawings were matched with words from James Joyce’s Dubliners short story ‘The Dead’.
Naemi Victoria is a visual artist, film reviewer, and PhD student in Film Studies. She loves art, cinema, and a good laugh. Naemi primarily draws digitally, but also works with traditional media, like acrylics on canvas or pencil on paper. Her intuitive style weaves together line art and intricate detail into a mesmerizing visual narrative.
Vidya Vivek was born in Ooty, India. She now resides in Dublin, Republic of Ireland since 2018. A qualified Civil Engineer with a Masters in Business Administration, she took to painting full-time after a brief stint in the Corporate world. She has been a practising artist since 2014.
Isabella Wood is an English Majowr in her final year, she has been thinking a lot about roots and home-places after returning from six months in America. She believes in setting down roots in different places but also the importance of returning home.
My guest, seat yourself beneath my leaves and take a rest! The sun will not reach you here, I promise, Even if it is high, and straight rays Make the short shadows run back under the trees.
- excerpt from ‘On the Linden Tree’ by Jan Kochanowski transl. Czesław Miłosz
