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Two Poems by Iulia Militaru

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Translated from the Romanian by Claudia Serea

We conclude our celebration of Women in Translation Month this week. Katherine E. Young, Poet Laureate Emerita of Arlington, Virginia writes:

August is Women in Translation Month, an international event held every August since 2014. Why? Here in the U.S., fewer than 800 books in translation (that number covers all literary genres!) are published in any given year. Of those 800 books, fewer than one third are works written by women. Clearly, we are not hearing enough women’s voices from around the world – not even from those languages where their work is originally published as frequently as the work of men.


Women in Translation Month is the brainchild of Meytal Radzinski, an Israeli scientist and book lover who noticed how few women she was reading in translation. Radzinski had two goals in mind when she founded the event: to increase dialogue and discussion about women writers in translation, and to encourage people to read more books by women in translation. Her advocacy has been eagerly seconded by booksellers, literary programmers (including the Café Muse reading series here in the DC area), and online supporters. If you enjoy these poems, I urge you to support women authors, their translators, their publishers, and the booksellers who carry their work: go buy a book (or two!) by a woman in translation!

The bird, or about flying. The first seizure

1. Introduction
Birds are made of innocent but half-witted men who showed interest in heavenly matters, but who believed, in their simple-mindedness, that the surest evidence regarding those matters can be obtained with their own eyes. Those men grow feathers instead of hair.

2. Etymologies
They are called birds because they don’t follow established paths, but move in indeterminate directions. They are winged because they aim to the heights with their wings and rise, rowing with them.

3. The Albatross
According to Heidegger: The questions arise from the dispute with the things. And the things exist only where there are eyes to see them. That said, he started to slowly grow bald until, without being indifferent to what was happening, he found that there was

nothing

left on his head. And, because Nothing wanted to remain, the Dasein grew there, out of nowhere, a few feathers, a sight for sore eyes.

Finally, he thought he could fly. But
when he opened his wings, two giant eyes,
petrified with amazement, rolled on the asphalt. And no one
dared to look at them.      He became an albatross.

1st Strophe: They say albatross is the common name of over 23 species of birds from the Diomedeidae family. They vary in size from that of a goose to a swan.

(it’s a well-known fact that Heidegger reached the largest dimensions of this
species)

Albatrosses are widespread, from the Arctic to the tropics.

(and he liked extreme cold)

Sometimes, these birds spend months at sea, as they can sleep on the waves.

(The Dasein spent a lot of time there)

Plus, they are excellent predators

(of an uncommon voracity). They feed either on the young of other animals, or on marine birds.

1st Antistrophe: And in his simple-mindedness, Heidegger thought himself a Nazi. And in our simple-mindedness, we took him at his word.

2nd Strophe: Because the logos as “speech” brings into sight (a sonorous expression through which something is brought into the field of vision each time)

but there are also basis, reason, judgment, concept, definition, relation

Finally, what was seen was only Death, a concept perfectly defined by reason beyond judgment on the basis of the relationship between humans and beasts (different species divided into flocks, each one with its own leader who guarded them with the purpose of devouring them; let’s not forget, România has a tradition of grazing). Now, there is only logos. We can see that clearly

with our own eyes, because we were given the eyes to obtain evidence in logical speech.

Death. Monarch. Beast. Famine. The need to eat out of the other (even when we’re not hungry). Pleasure.

2nd Antistrophe: Stalin understood this the best, only he didn’t concern himself with philosophy and heavenly matters. Unfortunately!

3rd Strophe: Speech is all we have left while we wait for our wings to grow. This way, we’ll return to being birds!

3rd Antistrophe: But language lacks precisely this text. Unfortunately!

Epode: Flight is not a condition of innocence, maybe/only the feathers (but numerous exceptions still exist).

First published in Entropy

Pasărea sau despre zbor. Prima confiscare

1. Introducere

Păsările sunt născute din bărbați inocenți, dar cam săraci cu duhul, care s-au arătat interesați de cele cerești, dar care au crezut, în simplitatea lor, că dovada cea mai sigură cu privire la ele se obține cu ajutorul ochilor. Lor, în loc de păr, le cresc pene.

2. Etimologii

Sunt numite păsări fiindcă nu urmează căi certe, ci se deplasează în direcții nedeterminate. Înaripate, fiindcă țintesc cu aripile lor spre înălțimi și se ridică vâslind cu ele.

3. Albatrosul

Conform lui Heidegger: Întrebările se ivesc din disputa cu lucrurile. Iar lucrurile sunt doar acolo unde există ochi să le vadă. Și acestea fiind zise, a început să chelească treptat, până ce, fără să rămână nepăsător la ceea ce i se întâmplă, pe capul său nu

A mai rămas

Nimic. Și cum Nimic n-a vrut să rămână, Dasein-ul a făcut să răsară acolo, de nicăieri, câteva pene, de mai mare dragul îți era să le privești.

În cele din urmă, s-a gândit că poate să zboare. Dar,

când și-a desfăcut aripile, s-au rostogolit pe-asfalt

doi ochi uriași împietriți de uimire. Și nimeni

nu îndrăznea să-i privească.      Devenise albatros.

Strofa 1: Se spune că albatros ar fi denumirea comună a peste 23 de specii de păsări din familia Diomedeidae. Ele variază de la mărimea unei gâște, până la mărimea unei lebede.

(e bine cunoscut faptul că Heidegger atinsese cele mai mari dimensiuni posibile
ale acestei specii)

Albatroșii sunt foarte răspândiți, atât în regiunile arctice, cât și la tropice.

(și îi plăcea frigul extrem)

Uneori, aceste păsări stau luni de zile în largul oceanelor, putând dormi pe valuri.

(pe-acolo și-a petrecut o mare parte a Dasein-ului)

În plus, sunt răpitoare excelente

(de o voracitate ieșită din comun). Se hrănesc fie cu puii altor animale, fie cu
păsări marine.

Antistrofa 1: Și-n simplitatea lui, Heidegger s-a închipuit nazist. Și-n simplitatea noastră, noi l-am crezut pe cuvânt.

Strofa 2: Pentru că logosul ca „discurs” face să se vadă. (exprimare sonoră prin care, de fiecare dată, ceva este adus în câmpul privirii)

dar este și temei, rațiune, judecată, concept, definiție, raport

Ceea ce s-a văzut în cele din urmă a fost doar Moartea. Un concept definit perfect de o rațiune dincolo de judecată, al cărui temei fusese raportul dintre oameni și fiare (diferite specii împărțite în turme, fiecare cu șeful său, care le păzea în scopul de a le devora; România are o tradiție în păstorit; să nu uităm). Acum, e numai logos. Și vedem asta foarte bine

cu ochii, pentru că ochii ne-au fost dați să obținem dovezi, prin discursuri logice.

Moarte. Suveran. Fiară. Foame. Nevoia de-a mânca din celălalt (chiar și atunci când nu suntem flămânzi). Plăcere.

Antistrofa 2: Stalin a înțeles cel mai bine acest lucru, dar el nu s-a ocupat cu filozofia și cu cele cerești. Din păcate!

Strofa 3: Discursul este tot ceea ce ne-a mai rămas. Și așteptăm să ne crească aripile. Astfel, ne vom întoarcem la păsări!

Antistrofa 3: Dar limbajului îi lipsește tocmai acest text. Din păcate!

Epodă: Zborul nu e o condiție a inocenței, poate/doar penele (dar și aici există numeroase excepții).

Impression from Olympus

Heavy sky. Weighing. On us,

oppressive. Wave

of time steps out from us, onto us.

Blue. Blue. Blue

gull that splinters. Cry

blue blue white

star. White moon seen through daylight.

First published in Entropy

Impresie din Olimp

Cer încărcat. Ne. apasă

Greu. Sec

unda timpilor calcă din noi în noi.

Albastru. Albastru. Albastru

Pescăruș ce despică. Strigăt

albastru albastru alb

astru. albă Lună întrezărită în plină zi.

Iulia Militaru is the editor-in-chief of frACTalia Press and the InterRe:ACT magazine. After a few children’s books and her study Metaphoric, Metonimic: A Typology of Poetry, her first poetry collection Marea Pipeadă (The Great Pipe Epic) was published in 2010, receving two major awards in Romania. Dramadoll, co-authored with Anca Bucur and Cristina Florentina Budar, is part of a larger poetry/graphic art/video/sound project; a part of this video project (Images of the day number 8, directed by Cristina Florentina Budar) was selected for Gesamt 2012 (DISASTER 501: What happened to man?), a project coordinated by Lars von Trier and directed by Jenle Hallund. Her collection of experimental poetry Confiscarea bestiei (o postcercetare) (The Seizure of the Beast. A Post-research) was published by frACTalia Press in 2016. She has published poems and digital collages in MAINTENANT, A Journal of Contemporary Dada Writing and Art #9, #10, and #11. Her art exhibit “The Path. Filling-in Abstract Forms: Overwriting Barnett Newman” opened in 2016 in Iowa City at Public Space One. In 2016, she was also featured at The Third Annual Brussels Poetry Fest.

Claudia Serea’s poems and translations have appeared in Field, New Letters, Prairie Schooner, Gravel, The Malahat Review, carte blanche, Oxford Poetry, Asymptote, RHINO, and elsewhere. She is the author of five poetry collections and four chapbooks, most recently Twoxism, a poetry-photography collaboration with visual artist Maria Haro (8th House Publishing, Canada, 2019) and Nothing Important Happened Today (Broadstone Books, 2016). Serea co-edited and co-translated The Vanishing Point That Whistles, an Anthology of Contemporary Romanian Poetry (Talisman House Publishing, 2011) for which she received a grant from the Romanian Cultural Institute. She also translated from the Romanian Adina Dabija’s award-winning Beautybeast (Northshore Press, Alaska, 2012). Serea is the co-founder and editor of National Translation Month, and she co-hosts The Williams Poetry Readings in Rutherford, NJ.

Image by By Vincent Legendre – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=1413838

Two Poems by Julia Gjika

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Translated from the Albanian by Ani Gjika

We continue our celebration of Women in Translation Month this week. Katherine E. Young, Poet Laureate Emerita of Arlington, Virginia writes:

August is Women in Translation Month, an international event held every August since 2014. Why? Here in the U.S., fewer than 800 books in translation (that number covers all literary genres!) are published in any given year. Of those 800 books, fewer than one third are works written by women. Clearly, we are not hearing enough women’s voices from around the world – not even from those languages where their work is originally published as frequently as the work of men.


Women in Translation Month is the brainchild of Meytal Radzinski, an Israeli scientist and book lover who noticed how few women she was reading in translation. Radzinski had two goals in mind when she founded the event: to increase dialogue and discussion about women writers in translation, and to encourage people to read more books by women in translation. Her advocacy has been eagerly seconded by booksellers, literary programmers (including the Café Muse reading series here in the DC area), and online supporters. If you enjoy these poems, I urge you to support women authors, their translators, their publishers, and the booksellers who carry their work: go buy a book (or two!) by a woman in translation!

 

Lice Season

It’s the season when lice race up the oak bark
at dizzying speeds
all the way to the top where birds worship the skies.
It’s the season where everywhere their presence stuns.
The ambition to be first,
no, to be the best.
It’s the season that doesn’t resemble the promised season of change
but a whole different one, of deception.
When freedom is trampled on.
Like an iron curtain an impossibility hangs,
the impossibility to wipe out nits before they hatch.
A river in Canada
recently turned green.
Not a result of the reflection of the trees
but of transformation.
Lice, too, are transforming,
self-proclaiming that they resemble birds,
seeking wings, threatening to cover the sun.
What a season!
And now they’ve heard of a St. Valentine roaming the world
who keeps love stable.
Lice want to serenade a love song
as they run over undying freedom.

First published in Taos Journal of International Poetry and Art, Issue 9, 2017

Stinë Morrash

Eshtë stina, kur morrat u ngjiten pemëve
Me shpejtësi maramendëse,
deri në majë, atje ku zogjtë i luten qiellit.
Eshtë stina, ku të cudit prania e tyre kudo.
Ambicia për të qënë të pare,
Jo, më të mirë.
Eshtë stina, që nuk i ngjan stinës për ndryshim,
Por një stine të re për mashtrim.
Ku liria meret nëpër këmbë.
Si perde hekuri varet një pamundësi,
Pamundësi për t’i zhdukur parazitët nga rrënjët.
Ujrat e një lumi në Kanada,
U kthyen në ngjyrë jeshile
Këtë nuk e ndryshuan reflekset e pyjeve
Por tjetërsimi.
Morrat po tjetërsohen gjithashtu,
po vetshpallen se u ngjajnë zogjve,
Po kërkojnë krahë, dritën të zënë rezikojnë.
Oh c’fare stine!
Ku liria meret nëpër këmbë morrash.
Kanë dëgjuar morrat se nëpër botë endet një Shën Valentin
Që dashurinë e mban të patjetërsuar
Morrat duan të këndojnë serenatën e dashurisë
Duke marë nëpër këmbë të shkelur lirinë e amëshuar.

What Cannot Change

I try to write
but erase more
and further ache.
We lost one another.
Relatives became strangers,
with strangers we’ve come so close.
I search for someone
whose face might resemble my mother’s.
Sometimes I find the color of her hair
but not how she’d comb it.
A young woman on the street
tall and slender like my sister
without my sister’s voice.
An elderly man
pensive like my father
but his footsteps make no sound.
I search for what’s mine.
It remains out of reach.
That’s why I write
even though I erase
even though I ache.

Cfarë Nuk Mund Të Jetë Ndryshe

Përpiqem të shkruaj
e më shumë shuaj
e më shumë vuaj.
Era që fryu na ndau.
Tanët u bënë të huaj,
me të huajt rrimë kaq pranë.
Kërkoj dicka të ngjashme
me fytyrën e nënës sime
nganjëherë gjej ngjyrën e flokëve
por jo krehjen e saj.
Një vajzë në rrugë,
është elegante si motra ime
por nuk ka zërin e saj.
Një burrë i moshuar
i menduar si babai im
por nuk ka zhurmën e hapit të tij.
Kërkoj timen.
Ka mbetur larg.
Ndaj shkruaj
dhe pse shuaj
dhe pse vuaj.

Julia Gjika is an Albanian poet and essayist living and writing in the United States since 1996. She belongs to the first generation of Albanian women poets, having published her first book Ditëlindje (Birthday) in 1971, followed by Ku Gjej Poezinë (Where I Find Poetry) in 1978. Gjika is the author of three other collections of poetry characterized by intensely moving and deft writing about the immigrant experience. Her work is widely published in Albanian magazines, has been translated into Polish, and has appeared in English in Two Lines Online, Gobshite Quarterly, 236 Magazine, Taos Journal of International Poetry and Art and elsewhere. 

Ani Gjika is an Albanian-born poet, literary translator, and author of Bread on Running Waters (2013). She is the recipient of a Robert Pinsky Global fellowship, English PEN Award, and an NEA translation grant. Her translation of Albanian poet Luljeta Lleshanaku’s Negative Space (New Directions, 2018) was shortlisted for the 2019 International Griffin Poetry Prize.

 

Image: CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=170481

 

 

Two Poems by Maria Teresa Ogliastri

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Bourgeon continues its celebration of Women in Translation Month.

Rationing

In the line a woman shouts
there’s flour

I think of warm biscuits

Soon I hear
only rice is left
but my happiness is futile

They’re bringing sugar
Oh! miracle
I will wait
I hear words ricochet
the sugar is gone

The line begins to disperse

I persist
eventually they will bring something
finally a hand offers me a chicken
I leave with my treasure

In a bookstore nearby
a friend has the nerve to read me a long poem
the poet doesn’t know why I flee
such an ordinary goodbye fills me with guilt

You must live in a country with hunger
to understand how a poem’s symmetry
can be broken
by the slow drip of guts and blood

Translated by Yvette Neisser. Originally published in The Brooklyn Rail’s InTranslation series.


Racionamiento

En la fila una mujer grita
llegó harina

Pienso en panecillos horneados

Poco después oigo
solo queda arroz
pero mi alegría es vana

Van a sacar azúcar
¡oh! Milagro
esperaré
escucho palabras en rebote
se acabó la azúcar

La cola comienza a deshacerse

Persisto
algo van a sacar más tarde
al final una mano me entrega un pollo
salgo de allí con mi tesoro

En una librería cercana
un amigo se atreve a leerme un poema largo
el poeta no sabe por qué me despido
lo prosaico de mi huida me hace sentir culpable

Hay que vivir en un país con hambre
para entender cómo se puede romper
la simetría de un poema
por un ligero goteo de vísceras y sangre

Lark Please Look at Me

I know Newton’s Laws produce birdsongs
hence the tenacity of the lark
how it carries its song through the air
holding and releasing its river voice

the hanging feeder is replete with fruit
and the cage set in gold
I can’t understand what impedes her

outside the birdseed now ice

other birds come to peck the fruit
she crashes into the snow

twig by twig she builds a nest

though I try to sing like the lark
I am a woman imprisoned

unable to modulate
without the vibrato of another throat

I find myself at the throne of death

lark please look at me
and death shall have no dominion
because a lark can revoke the sentence
if a dying person meets its eye

From the book Del diario de la Señora Mao (From the Diary of Madame Mao), this poem is written in the voice of Jiang Qing, widow of Mao Zedong, at the end of her life.

Translated by Yvette Neisser and Patricia Bejarano Fisher.

Que me vea una alondra

Sé que las Leyes de Newton producen cantos
de allí la tenacidad de la alondra
la forma como sostiene su canto en el aire
conteniendo y soltando su voz de arroyo

el comedero colgante está provisto de fruta
y la jaula engastada en oro
pero no entiendo el impedimento del pájaro

afuera el alpiste de hielo

otras aves se acercan a picotear la fruta
ella se estrella en la nieve

ramita a ramita construye un nido

aunque imite el cantar de la alondra
soy una mujer cautiva

para modular
necesito el vibrato de otra garganta

me hallo en el trono de la muerte

necesito que me vea una alondra
y la muerte perderá su dominio
porque una alondra puede revocar la sentencia
si un moribundo encuentra sus ojos

Maria Teresa Ogliastri was born in Los Teques, Venezuela, and lives in Caracas. She is the author of six collections of poems, including Alambique (“Distiller,” Editorial El Taller Blanco, 2019) and Polo Sur (2008)which was published in English as South Pole/Polo Sur (Settlement House, 2011). Ogliastri has been featured at poetry festivals in Latin America and the US, and her poems appear in several anthologies of contemporary Venezuelan poetry. She is currently a professor in the School of Philosophy at the Universidad Central de Venezuela.

Patricia Bejarano Fisher, originally from Colombia, is a multidisciplinary language professional who has worked as a translator, teacher, and developer of learning materials. She is co-translator of Maria Teresa Ogliastri’s South Pole/Polo Sur (Settlement House, 2011) and From the Diary of Madame Mao (unpublished). Her translations have appeared in literary journals, as well as in Laura Shovan’s The Last Fifth Grade of Emerson Elementary (Random House Children’s Books, 2016), and in Danuta E. Kosk-Kosicka (Ed.) Szklana góra/Glass Mountain (2017). 

Yvette Neisser is the author of Grip, winner of the 2011 Gival Press Poetry Award. Her translations from Spanish include South Pole by María Teresa Ogliastri and Difficult Beauty: Selected Poems by Luis Alberto Ambroggio. Her poems, translations, essays, and reviews have appeared in such publications as Foreign Policy in FocusVirginia Quarterly Review, and the Bloomsbury Anthology of Contemporary Jewish American Poetry. She is a founding Board Member of the DC-Area Literary Translators Network (DC-ALT) and has taught writing at George Washington University and The Writer’s Center. By day, she is a writer for an international development firm.

Image by RASECZENITRAM [CC BY-SA 3.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)]

Two Poems by Lê Phạm Lê

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co-translated from the Vietnamese by Nancy Arbuthnot and Lê Phạm Lê

Editor’s note: August is Women in Translation Month. Bourgeon is celebrating by offering the work of four distinguished poets from several countries. Arlington Poet Laureate Emerita, Katherine E. Young, introduces the series:

August is Women in Translation Month, an international event held every August since 2014. Why? Here in the U.S., fewer than 800 books in translation (that number covers all literary genres!) are published in any given year. Of those 800 books, fewer than one third are works written by women. Clearly, we are not hearing enough women’s voices from around the world – not even from those languages where their work is originally published as frequently as the work of men.

Women in Translation Month is the brainchild of Meytal Radzinski, an Israeli scientist and book lover who noticed how few women she was reading in translation. Radzinski had two goals in mind when she founded the event: to increase dialogue and discussion about women writers in translation, and to encourage people to read more books by women in translation. Her advocacy has been eagerly seconded by booksellers, literary programmers (including the Café Muse reading series here in the DC area), and online supporters. If you enjoy these poems, I urge you to support women authors, their translators, their publishers, and the booksellers who carry their work: go buy a book (or two!) by a woman in translation!

Overseas Journey (In memory of PTM)

by Lê Phạm Lê
co-translated by Nancy Arbuthnot and Lê Phạm Lê

Your name, Mai: a yellow blossom.
Your smile, a sparkling in your eyes.
In the chaos, you dreamed.
In waves beyond waves, you risked
Your dream. Before reaching shore
You disappeared in the ocean.
Now, regret following regret,
I burn incense for your soul.

Trên Đường Vượt Biển (Khóc Bạn PTM)

Mai vàng: cánh lụa mong manh.
Nhớ đôi mắt phượng long lanh nét cười.
Đảo điên thế sự trêu ngươi.
Bên bờ sinh-tử, quyết liều ra khơi.
Đại dương bão tố tơi bời.
Giữa dòng nước cuốn, nửa đời mạng vong!
Tiếc thương, xao xuyến tấc lòng.
Tâm hương thắp giữa trầm luân kiếp người.

Memory River 

by Lê Phạm Lê
co-translated by Nancy Arbuthnot and Lê Phạm Lê

Childhood friends, that ancient village,
Purple reeds swaying by the bridge.
Đa Nhim River still flows in memory
And the lost calf moos, nghé ngọ …

Dòng Sông Tuổi Nhỏ

Quê nghèo, bạn cũ, phố xưa
Có hàng lau tím đong đưa bên cầu.
Sông sâu*, nước chảy về đâu?
Tiếng bê nghé ngọ…, nỗi đau lạc bầy!

*Đa nhim River running through the author’s hometown, Đơn dương

Born in Vietnam, poet Lê Phạm Lê is the author of two bilingual collections of poems (translated into English with Nancy Arbuthnot): From Where the Wind Blows, Waves Beyond Waves, and three children’s books written in English: Magical Voice in the Forest, Guava Hill, and Baby Sparrow Song. Her poems have been published in several poetry anthologies and periodicals including World Literature Today, Nimrod International Literary Journal, and Source, among others. After working at Los Medanos Community College for 22 years, Lê is retired and currently working on a play, Bequest of Wings, in collaboration with Nancy Arbuthnot.

Nancy Arbuthnot is professor emerita of English at the United States Naval Academy (USNA), author of Spirit Hovering: Poems, and co-translator with Le Pham Le of two books of her Vietnamese poems, From Where the Wind Blows and Waves Beyond Waves. She is currently seeking a publisher for her poems about growing up Navy and teaching at USNA. 



Image by Violetbonmua – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15698587

Three Poems by Alison Palmer

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Hunger

This morning is sickening— 
                                  the photograph on my desk from before
            the day the birds quit
                                                circling, you
a pair of silent eyes—

 

And how
            often can I write beauty
                                    into pain—

I want you
to know again the stunning curves of your calves, the
                        invitations from the bend in your arms
to come, dance—

But these are merely waking dreams. I begin
                                               as any cloud—
            will I be made of ice or water,
                                   will it be a low-lying day—

Our faces, fringes
                       on a sun-stiff background—
                                               I wish to unspool
       you down to bone where
                   no heart can be—

We Are Not Tied to Our Body’s Weight on Earth

So I lift you.

You are breath in my cupped hands.

You are less than air.

The flowers miss you.

I’ve become how they can’t blossom.

This time last year maybe laughter.

I think, how sorrowful is sorrow’s life?

I think, falling is instant loss.

You’re always somewhere behind my eyes.

How I wish they were blue like yours.

I look in the mirror to own a piece of you.

My mouth speaks your name and closes.

A Cartographer’s Confusion

The sun at Polaris.

Between the moon and the Pleiades.

Angles our hips destroy, one pressed on the other.

And east of our bed, vased-tulips, a card
with animals on the front that reads:

            Meant for each otter 

How closely I let my lips pull to yours
                                    as you fall asleep at a forty-five
                       arms splayed, and I have you, starfish.

If you’re an intercardinal direction, then
            southwest (SW). I lie
between the letters, the “x” degree, down

                        by your bare feet now, curling the map.

So, the sextant,
                       compass, quadrant. I turn the telescope
                                   on you.

You’re a space observatory.

You’re a weatherman.

You’re a spy.

Alison Palmer is the author of the poetry chapbook, The Need for Hiding (Dancing Girl Press, 2018). To read an in-depth interview with The Poet’s Billow visit www.thepoetsbillow.org. Alison’s work appears in FIELD, Bear Review, River Styx, Glass, Cimarron, Cincinnati Review, LAR and elsewhere. Nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best New Poets, and a finalist for Eyewear Publishing’s Sexton Prize, Alison lives and writes outside Washington, D.C.


Image by Bartolomeo Pareto (1455) – http://www.smoliy.ru/
img/anticuemaps/bartolomeo_pareto_1455.jpeg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=58376634