testing

joined 2 years ago
MODERATOR OF
3
100 Refutations: Day 43 | InTranslation (intranslation.brooklynrail.org)
 

Clément Magloire-Saint-Aude (1912-1971) was a surrealist poet who published several volumes, including Dialogue de mes lampes y Tabou (1941), Déchu (1956), and Dimanche (1973). He was also a member of the black nationalist movement Noirisme, and one of the founders of Les Griots, a quarterly scientific and literary journal.

Addie Leak (French editor) is a freelance translator and editor currently living in Amman, Jordan. She holds an MFA in literary translation from The University of Iowa and has published translations from French, Spanish, and Arabic in various literary journals as well as in Souffles-Anfas: A Critical Anthology from the Moroccan Journal of Culture and Politics, edited by Olivia Harrison and Teresa Villa-Ignacio. She also coordinated the creation and publication of Lanterns of Hope: A Poetry Project for Iraqi Youth, a 2016 collaboration between The University of Iowa’s International Writing Program and the US Embassy in Baghdad.

5
I am the stranger (adimagazine.com)
 

Poem by Bassam Jamil, translated by Nicole Mankinen I am the stranger The shadow beneath the cloud Adrift and looming over my land Only the cloud beckons It has its purpose for me I succumb to its atmosphere Levitate and fall in billowing drifts I am pulled in all directions But my desire, oh

2
100 Refutations: Day 42 | InTranslation (intranslation.brooklynrail.org)
 

Lila Downs is a Mexican-American artist and
activist.

 

‘The script leaps across /the page to smack /your lips’: the sprung rhythms of Diasporenga startle and enchant the ear, as its stories of emigration and exile have the mind leaping between continents. This book’s revolutionary form is most revolutionary of all in making serious political engagement and sophisticated poetic pleasure inseparable. — Fiona Sampson, Professor of Poetry, University of Roehampton Peace grows from the interweaving of voices, and it’s hard to imagine two more aware and unmistakable poetic voices on the subject of peace in the Middle East than these: Hacker and Shehabi, two brilliant witnesses, one unswerving and crystalline, the other infused with memory and dream. This is a book to savor and to meditate on— and, finally, to exult in. — Annie Finch Poets, if asked ‘What is poetry for?’ often find themselves stumped for an answer. In this stunning sequence of renga, Marilyn Hacker and Deema Shehabi, have given us more than one. Poetry travels the globe, from Gaza to Syria, Beirut to California, brings each place to life, its people, stories, moments behind locked doors, while bringing them under one roof, the roof of the imagination. Poetry invokes the power of memory, of naming, by listening as much as speaking, by keeping the windows of the heart open in conversation. Poetry evokes landscapes of loss in a ruptured world, bridges differences, respects binaries, and yet still suggests a sense of oneness, of humanity, still celebrates the human spirit while mourning one wound, one world. We celebrate these two voices, bleeding in and out of each other, quicksilver, mercurial, eloquent in song and in silence. — Mimi Khalvati ‘These poets piece together the exact same shattered mirrors of identities that are the shrapnel of our ever-worsening global conflicts.’ ‘Written continents apart, Diaspo/Renga reads like one story, a story that challenges divisive notions, a story that contains scenes to which we all have an equal claim.’ — Shadab Zeest Hashmi on 3 Quarks Daily ‘bringing to readers a great cast of characters whose voices clamour to be heard. A very successful poetic experiment.’ — Banipal 51 ‘The book is not only a dialogue between the two poets, but also between the present and the past. The poets deal with these difficult human issues by tapping the wisdom of classical and modern masters, their poetry a collective eternal text written by all poets everywhere.’ — Miled Faiza in Al-Jadid ‘In true renga form, each piece carries on a theme or image from the previous poem, creating a continuous dialogue rich in language and meaning.’ — World Literature Today ‘The sequences of ten-line poems in alternating three- and twoline stanzas imagine the personae of dozens of victims of violence and displacement.’ — Moira Richards in Wasafiri ‘What a beautiful unique book! The poems are descriptive and full of life and emotions!’ — Maram Bata on Amazon ‘In it the two voices blend in and out of one another, picking up a word, an image, a line, from the poem preceding.’ — Kenyon Review ‘I have long followed Hacker’s work and admired her poetry. To add Shehabi’s voice to this global endeavor raises the bar several more notches, and reinforces and strengthens the power of the collection as a whole.’ ‘As our planet turns, as we are more and more steeped in violence, voices like Hacker’s and Shehabi’s are essential.’ — Marilyn Krysl on Women Write the Rockies ‘Diaspo/Renga dramatizes how Jewish and Palestinian experiences of exile (the diaspo(ra) of the title) come together in an act of imaginative empathy for and solidarity with oppressed and displaced peoples. The book’s intriguing origins speak to the possibilities of solidarity in a digital age.’ — Philip Metres in On the Seawall ‘The poems tell stories of exile, war, and loss, without ever letting go of day-to-day details, like someone singing Frank Sinatra, and someone else watching videos of Grease between blackouts.’ — Zeina Hashem Beck in The Common

 

Dedicated to his art form, Abdullaev was embraced by unorthodox artists in ex-Soviet republics.

2
100 Refutations: Day 41 | InTranslation (intranslation.brooklynrail.org)
 

This poem is taken from the Cantares de Dzitbalché, discovered in 1942 in the Villa of Dzitbalché, Calkiní, Campeche, Mexico. The codex is composed of fifteen religious Mayan songs corresponding to the Cacicazgo de Ah Canul. It is believed to have been composed in 1440, and the poetry found therein is considered a treasure of the poetic cosmogenic vision of the Maya of the region.

For more information, see FAMSI, the Fundación para el Avance de los estudios Mesoamericanos, Inc.

 

You line your shoes by the door.

2
100 Refutations: Day 40 | InTranslation (intranslation.brooklynrail.org)
 

Carl Brouard (1902-1965) was an influential figure in Haitian literature despite having published just one book in his lifetime, Écrit sur du ruban rose. Brouard practiced Vodou and belonged to Les Griots, a group whose goal was to reclaim the value of Haitian folklore.

1
Beneath the Rubble (www.poetsreadingthenews.com)
 

A plea, a prayer, a scream for the thousands buried in rubble by Israel's airstrikes on Gaza.

1
100 Refutations: Day 39 | InTranslation (intranslation.brooklynrail.org)
 

Carlos Guido y Spano (1827-1918) was a poet and political activist who strongly opposed Argentina’s war against Paraguay. During his lifetime he worked as the director of the General Archive of the Nation, served as a member of the National Council on Education, and co-founded the Human Society in Argentina.

 

Survivors of The Holocaust please Talk to me. Help me understand― Do you sanction what’s being done In your names?

I thought your spirits grew more gentle having lived through the unspeakable.

Bombs are not less lethal or evil― Stop being so deathly afraid of the other.

A thousand eyes for an eye? Children of the Holocaust please do not lash out as if you lost your sight.

3
100 Refutations: Day 38 | InTranslation (intranslation.brooklynrail.org)
 

Nezahualpilli (1464-1515) was an Aztec poet. Second in fame only to, perhaps, Nezahualcoyotl, his birth and death are shrouded in myth. It is said that when he was a child, Nezahualpilli’s nannies witnessed him taking many different animal forms in his cradle. Regarding his death, his own descendant, the historian Ixtlilxóchitl, wrote that “he gathered himself in the innermost room of the palace, where pensive, sad, and tired of the grief of life, he ended his own….” (Fernando de Alva, “Ixtlitlxótchitl,” Obras Historicas, t. II, p. 328).

[–] testing@fedia.io 1 points 10 months ago

from the article:

Umbra

Eyes without light, and an anxious mind Breath runs short inside the chest, In rude agitations, life passes by… Lost in vague penumbra I watch, strewn about, the little clothes of a holy home my children, in candid abandonment never knowing how precariously luck hangs, suspended just above them and above you, standing there, beneath an immense pain pupils fogged up from weeping

[–] testing@fedia.io 1 points 10 months ago

from the article:

Before the Sea

I am a foreigner in the promised city with suitcases full of desiccated crabs but in the Empire of Closed Windows, everything is rough and when I go into the street, I double bolt the door and try to forget the mermaid trapped in the bathroom pipes

and I am nostalgia when I painlessly deliver myself to the ordinary abyss of corners

and I am nostalgia when I fulfill my duty of being a good citizen.

[–] testing@fedia.io 1 points 10 months ago

from the article:

Beowulf’s Dream

It is vain ambition, that of the hunter who, tired of lions and second-hand beasts, looks to turn his room into a medieval bestiary.

He gathers books from a jungle sunken in shadow, hangs on the walls the head of a Danish dragon, the wings of a nocturnal angel.

And on the bare wall, awaiting his final trophy, he places the mirror.

[–] testing@fedia.io 1 points 10 months ago

from the article:

False Accounts

The black crows are hungry for rose-red meat; upon a deceitful moon I cast my reflection; they break their beaks upon it, banging them against the glass, and as I part—ironic, untouched and glorious— the black crows fly away, having grown tired of rose-red meat.

Mock love and cold, marble that tedium varnished to stony flame, or lily that blush wrapped in rose’s red, always that which belongs to, my God… fecund rosary beads living shirt collar that closes in around the world’s neck.

Chain of the earth, constellation fallen.

Oh rosary beads, magnetized by snakes glimmering to the end, between my fingers, that within your smile, fifty teeth full with a big kiss, my life was set aflame: a rose made of lips.

[–] testing@fedia.io 1 points 10 months ago

from the article:

Excerpts from Ollántay, a Quechua Play

LIGHT-FOOT

I have slept, and dreamt sinister things.

OLLÁNTAY

What have you dreamt?

LIGHT-FOOT

That I strangled a fox.

OLLÁNTAY

The fox was surely yourself.

LIGHT-FOOT

It is true that my nose grows sharp, and my ears long.

OLLÁNTAY

Lead me to Star’s house then.

LIGHT-FOOT

But it is still light out.

*

[…]

*

OLLÁNTAY

Run, Light-Foot; go tell [Star,] my beloved to wait for me this night.

LIGHT-FOOT

Just a moment ago, at night’s fall, I was in her home. And her house was deserted, and no one could give reason as to why. There isn’t even a single cat in this house! All doors are locked, except for the main entrance, which no one guards.

OLLÁNTAY

And the servants?

LIGHT-FOOT

Mice themselves, finding nothing on which to gnaw, have abandoned this house; and the owl, atop a roof ledge, sings a sinister song.

OLLÁNTAY

Perhaps her father has taken her, and hid her away in his palace.

LIGHT-FOOT

Perhaps he has strangled her. Her mother has disappeared as well.

*

[…]

*

OLLÁNTAY

My heart tells me she has disappeared from Cuzco, and the song of the owl sings, in a message meant for me.

*

[…]

*

STAR

How old are you?

BELLA

Very old, I imagine. Because, oh, how I detest this house, how it bores me, how time seems truly long.

SALLA (Bella’s Maid)

By my count, you must be ten years old, more or less.

*

[…]

*

OLLÁNTAY

Where is your mother?

BELLA

In a faraway corner of this house. Here it is, my lord, that my mother is consumed. Perhaps she is already dead.

*

[…]

*

MOTHER STONE

Is it real or is it a dream, seeing you here before me now, beloved king?

ASTROLOGER

It is my job to untie her, and console the wretched.

[–] testing@fedia.io 1 points 10 months ago

from the article:

Notes

I first arrived in Palestine, through the Jordan corridor, with the Palestine Festival of Literature in 2016, accompanied by such elites as J. M. Coetzee and Saidiya Hartman. Though Hartman, the only other Black American on the caravan, passed through easily, I was barred for an hour at the first checkpoint. How come?

Where I mention “doubler consciousness” I refer to W. E. B. DuBois’s theory of Black persons’ double consciousness, which keeps divided interests between Blackness and what he called “Americanness” (or whiteness) ever within the confines of Black life. Can there be more?

Where I mention “slum,” see the aforementioned Saidiya Hartman and her expansive theory on the afterlives of slavery and their impact on what she calls the “fungible body.” The slum, she theorizes, is where we find such marked bodies. But is that the only place?

I want to thank Sharif Abdul Koddous and all the organizers of the Palestine Festival of Literature; Kristina Kay Robinson, in whose seminal, performance project Republica: Temple of Color and Sound we meet Maryam DeCapita; and Ru Freeman, John Hennessy, and Emily Everett for all their various help in (re)shaping and shepherding this poem toward its present form. But is it done?

[–] testing@fedia.io 2 points 10 months ago (1 children)
[–] testing@fedia.io 1 points 10 months ago (3 children)

any guess why visibility on lemmy has been heavily affected, whereas from microfedi things looked normal?

[–] testing@fedia.io 2 points 10 months ago
[–] testing@fedia.io 2 points 10 months ago

just tried to view one of your recent posts from microfedi via sharkey - impossible > otoh, viewing threads from fedia.io posted to lemmy which don't appear at lemmy instances seems to be possible when i use sharkey (both link and thread type)

[–] testing@fedia.io 1 points 10 months ago

from the article:

Little-Little Man

Little-little man, little-little man: set free your canary, for she wants to fly… For I am she, little-little man: let me leap.

I’ve been in your cage, little-little man, little-little man, who gives me a cage. I say little because you have neither understood me, nor will you ever understand.

I don’t understand you either, but in the meantime open for me this cage, I want to escape; little-little man, I loved you half a wing’s worth; don’t ask me for more.

[–] testing@fedia.io 1 points 10 months ago

this article features links to three poetry films by ghayath al-madhoun:

(1) the city (2) your memory is my freedom (3) the celebration

view more: ‹ prev next ›