The island slays us. Morning. I arise and spurn the dawn over the eastern horizon. The east is where his body washed ashore: bone-colored board still leashed to bloating ankle and fin sticking up like a white shark beached among the rocks. Both poached by the coming storm— only the third of its size to […]
Poetry
SELF-PORTRAIT IN A POWDERED WIG by Ray De Angelo Harris Sr.
I dress up a lot as a Smurf or Pirate, but right now, I see two elements in wigs: tradition and the perspective required to write soliloquies on hookers, to call class “work-eth shop” and ride up in a horse and robe, with my collar alive in the wind, ruffling the white curls that adorn […]
[WHO SENT THE SCISSORS,] by Maya Sarishvili (translated from the Georgian by Nena Giorgadze, Timothy Kercher and Ani Kopliani)
Who sent the scissors, the gigantic scissors to my feet? They open and close with a bone-chilling screech. I guess, in place of ankles I have balloons. Instead of being subdued, no doubt, I’m going to cut myself down, I’m going to overturn the streets and city squares. Perhaps this is a means of sleeping. […]
[WHAT A SHAME I COULDN’T BUY SOMEBODY’S DRESS] by Maya Sarishvili (translated from the Georgian by Nena Giorgadze, Timothy Kercher and Ani Kopliani)
What a shame I couldn’t buy somebody’s dress in the second-hand shop. It was red with white spots. I yanked it out of a bag, other dresses in its way, other dresses clutching onto it. I barely managed to rip the dress out as if it were the bag’s heart. (A new blade is always […]
[THE MUFFLED SOUND OF THE FRUIT] by Osip Mandelshtam (translated from the Russian by Alistair Noon)
The muffled sound of the fruit as it carefully breaks from a branch, amid the incessant chant of the silence, deep in the woods. 1908 Return to table of contents for Issue 3 Fall 2010
A MAN ON FOOT by Osip Mandelshtam (translated from the Russian by Alistair Noon)
To M.L. Lozinskii Whenever I’m near mysterious mountain tops, there’s a fear I sense but can’t defeat. Watching the skies, I’m content with the swallows, and love the way a flight of bells will peal. As if some man walking out of antiquity who can hear the growth of snow, I’m crossing a chasm on […]
[AGAINST THE PALE-BLUE ENAMEL] by Osip Mandelshtam (translated from the Russian by Alistair Noon)
Against the pale-blue enamel that April makes conceivable, the branches of the birch-trees stand and gradually turn into evening. Their pattern is sharp and complete, the stiffened gauze is fine, like a drawing that someone has neatly traced out on a plate of china. Some merciful artist has performed that design on the glassy heavens, […]
UNTITLED by Osip Mandelshtam (translated from the Russian by Tony Brinkley and Raina Kostova)
In the raw, moist forest, with a freezing measure, an impoverished light-beam sows the light-world. I am lingering—like the gray bird in my heart—incurring sorrow. What do I do with this wounded bird? The dying firmament fell silent— from its clouded tower, someone had taken the bell— and there height stands, mute and orphaned, like […]
BLACK EARTH by Osip Mandelshtam (translated from the Russian by Tony Brinkley and Raina Kostova)
Every mound—cultivated, black— every furrow combed with air— ground crumbled, figured as a chorus, the damp ground is my soil and freedom . . . Spring mornings, tilled—black to blue—unarmed, peaceful labor— a thousand ploughed-up rumors— in its radius unbounded. And, nevertheless, the ground—mistaken thunder—unmoved if you plead, even pounding the ground metrics—a decaying flute […]
THE BIRTH OF A SMILE by Osip Mandelshtam (translated from Russian by Tony Brinkley and Raina Kostova)
A child’s first smile, its mountain- bitterness and sweetness, its ends— not easily—extend and nurse the ocean’s anarchy. He is well—invincibly—his soothed lips toy with names and stitch a rainbow suture, his unlimited awareness of appearances. Stirred, the subsoil paws— the snail mouth flows and hastens— tuning lightly in amazement, in my eyes this Atlas […]
