Category Archives: Translation
In Vienna there are ten girlsa shoulder on which death sobsand a forest of stuffed doves.There is a fragment of morningin the museum of ice flowers.There is a room with a thousand windows.¡Ay, ay, ay, ay!Take this waltz with its … Continue reading
You can’t go back because life is pushing you ahead like an unending howl. You’ll feel caged, you’ll feel lost and alone, perhaps wishing you’d never been born. But always remember what I wrote one day thinking of you as … Continue reading
As if I didn’t exist at all She passed by me Without a glance, Queen of Sheba I said, Aisha, take it, it’s all yours Take it all – the pearls, the jewelry The gold around your neck The fruits, … Continue reading
The rope has been torn; a knot Can tie it again, but It’s been torn. Perhaps we’ll meet again, but You won’t find me In the place where we parted ways. – Bertolt Brecht (1898-1956) English translation by Johannes Beilharz … Continue reading
My demon has no brothers, no sisters, no kin.
My demon thinks time’s just a waste and a sin. Continue reading
The moon tells me one thing, / the stars tell me another, / and the light of day sings me / this sad, sad song Continue reading
The guinea fowl The guinea fowl counts: one, two, three, four … Pray what is all that counting for, Out there among the deep dark pine trees? The bird, driven by knowledge’s itch, And doing so without a glitch, Is … Continue reading
Europe’s current favorite love story between French President Nicolas Sarkozy and ex-model/singer Carla Bruni keeps the tabloids busy these days. An opportune time perhaps to go and see what Carla Bruni has to say about love in her best-known song … Continue reading
Paul Celan, 1945 Epitaph for François The two doors of the world stand open: opened by you in the twinight. We hear them slam and slam and carry the uncertain, and carry the green into your always. – Paul Celan … Continue reading
Federico García Lorca Gacela of the Dark Death I want to sleep the dream of the apples, to withdraw from the tumult of cemetries. I want to sleep the dream of that child who wanted to cut his heart on … Continue reading
In prose the translator is the servant, in poetry the rival of the author. – Borko Vujicic This quote came about in a comment exchange on a Serbo-Croatian Charles Bukowski translation at Ivana Vojdovic‘s blog.