while I listen to Cohen, that is Leonard the night is fresh between sultry days I watch the cloud that passes by and Gillard does a shuffle in the lower earphone it’s apt now to cite Kierkegaard to pretend I already read a lot of tomes to steal, […]
Daniel Lipara—poet, translator, and editor—was born in Buenos Aires in 1987. He translated Learning to Sleep by John Burnside (2017), Memorial by Alice Oswald (in collaboration with Mirta Rosenberg, forthcoming), and The Beauty of the Husband by Anne Carson (in collaboration with Ezequiel Zaidenwerg, forthcoming). Otra vida […]
I wish that you were here, had been, will be. We call this lack a life, and if it grows, it grows in your direction, toward a nothingness, if truth be your address and that for death are inexplicably convergent—somewhere in eternity. Where else can such a […]
Once there was a boy with a wasps’ nest instead of a head. One winter he went out without a hat and all the wasps froze to death. Once there was a boy who collected butterflies. One time he caught a particularly rare and beautiful one with […]
Andra Schwarz was born in 1982 in Upper Lusatia in Saxony, Germany and currently lives in Leipzig where she studied creative writing at the Deutsche Literaturinstitut. She won the Open Mike Lyric Prize in 2015 and the Leonce and Lena Prize in 2017. She was awarded a residency […]
If you make time, music, and the night stand still, everything, according to tradition and fantasy, that love has the power to stop– the paths of stars, the course of rivers, the cautious pace of History and its guises– make light too stay in this one moment: the […]
What else to write to you? Equally you in the expanse outside the window—space that never ends, but grows, expands, extends, now most of all as I write—are infinitely smalls things the microscope cannot perceive. It’s always possible to crush the heart more finely. What appears as […]
you shed your skin on the sheet like a grass snake as the seasons change and a sack of seeds for the desert arriving beyond the fences, the levees up to the brim without relief. You’ll have to bury yourself turn into a warm root. * […]
The boy from the previous poem is still sitting here. And saying not a word he pulls out of his foot—what’s that? Thumbtack? Glass, maybe? Seeds spat out by a flat-rate crossing guard? Either way it was a different poem. And you’re no spring chicken or a boy, […]
We never spoke its name, but its realm is here. With its wet light, the rain slowly caresses the magnificent old stone of the church in the woods, spills out among the graves in the small cemetery, flows among ferns, slows to a pool, and grows still within […]