INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Shutta Crum
Paul B. Roth
Laszlo Slomovits
Duane Locke
Felino Soriano
Chris Lord
Jerry Blanton
Carmen Firan
Amelia Makinano
Connie Stadler
Fred Wolven
Duane Locke
Tolu Ogunlesi
Running Cub
Joanie Freeman
Gerald Clark
Karyn M. Wolven
Holly Day
Dike Okoro
Fred Wolven
Stau cu fratele meu evreu
si Il vorbim pe Dumnezeu
el manios, eu speriata
un sir de pescari
poarta pe umeri barne albe.
un sir de pesuitori in desert
ridica barnele
si le proptesc de porti.
el, rabdator, ii cere socoteala
pentru ratacitori si morti.
fericita eu, care nu pot visa din Dumnezeu
decat palmele
asezate deasupra capului meu sa ma apere.
stau cu fratele meu evreu
si luam cuvintele
de la inceput:
cate din lumina
cate din lut.
PALMS
I'm sitting with my Jewish brother
we chat about God
he's angry, I'm afraid
a line of fishermen appears
white beams on their shoulders
pearl divers in a desert
who raise the beams
to prop them against the gates
patiently he blames God
for the wanderings and the dead
whereas I cannot dream of God
except with His palms
spread wide to shelter me
I'm sitting with my Jewish brother
and we make a reckoning of the words
from the beginning:
how many from light
how many from clay
AM O POFTA NEBUNA SA SCRIU POEZIE
nu e bine, ma sfatuiesc paznicii neplatiti,
cand ploua sa nu scrii niciodata poezie
sterge-ti lacrimie, lustruieste-ti pantofii
si numara crapaturile din tavan
amintirile dispar cand nu mai ai ce face cu ele
asa cum sufletul mortilor se ridica pana la urma
destul de sus ca sa mi poata fi deranjat
de o melancolie oarecare ori de vreum ritual studiat
sa nu te dai niciodata pe mana poftelor,
se dezlantuie ursitoarele mele plictisite de stat,
poezie nu se scrie nici cand esti flamand nici indestulat
si mai ales nu cand iti cade cerul in cap
sau cand iti rasare vreo idee intr-o dimineata de iarna
zapada nu poate acoperi prea mult
si nici orizontul fugi prea departe
fericiti cei ce pot amana sentinta provizorie -
cuvantul mai mult decat cartile toate
I HAVE A CRAZY DESIRE TO WRITE POETRY
this is no good, my unpaid guardians advise me,
don't write poetry when it rains
wipe your tears, shine your shoes
go count the cracks in the ceiling
memories fade when you no longer need them
just as the souls of the dead ascend
high enough not to be disturbed
by random melancholy or rote ritual
don't indulge in sins,
the fates burst out, bored to death,
you can't write poetry when you're starving or well-fed
and especially not when you feel down in the dumps
if an idea dawns one winter morning
snow can't cover it too deeply
or the horizon flee farther enough away--
happy are they who postpone the provisional verdict,
the word more than all the books
Carmen Firan, Romania & Rego Park, New York
tr. Adam J. Sorkin, New York City, & Carmen Firan