By Italo Calvino, Julio Cortázar, Fernando Pessoa, Paul Celan, Nicanor Parra, Francis Ponge, Czesław Miłosz, Vasko Popa, Zbigniew H
Editors: Charles Simic and Mark Strand
cover is for reprint; however it is unchanged
A stable selection--mainly of poems, but additionally a few choices from Calvino. Many striking authors, as you'll find from the checklist above. Paul Celan is winner of a Georg Buchner prize, and there's a pair Nobels up there too (Paz and Milosz).
First released in 1976, this fabulous anthology from U.S. Poet Laureates, Charles Simic and Mark Strand, compiles a range of the best translated literature of the time, showcasing the then-little-known writers who had a profound impression at the present iteration of poets.
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Lower than this roof lives the Jewess, lives whispering one hundred thirty / JOHANNES BOBROWSKI in the Jews’ silence — the faces of the daughters a white water. Noisily the murderers move the gate. We stroll softly, in musty air, within the tune of wolves. At night we seemed out over a stony valley. The hawk swept around the huge dome. We observed the previous city, apartment after residence working right down to the river. Will you stroll over the hill? the grey processions — previous males and occasionally boys— die there. They stroll up the slope prior to the slavering wolves. Did my eyes steer clear of yours brother? Sleep struck us on the bloody wall. So we went on unaware of every little thing. We appeared like gypsies on the villages within the oak wooden, the summer time snow at the roofs. I shall stroll at the stone banks lower than the wet trees, hear within the haze of the plains. there have been swallows upstream and the woodpigeon referred to as within the eco-friendly evening: My darkish is already come. JOHANNES BOBROWSKl / 131 North Russian city Pustoshka 1941 faded by means of the line to the North falls the mountain wall. The bridge, the previous wooden, the fuzzy banks. There the flow lives, white within the pebbles, blind over the sand. And the caw of crows speaks your identify: Wind within the rafters, a smoke towards the night. It comes, gleaming within the cloud, it follows the winds, it watches for the hearth. distant hearth breaks forth within the simple, some distance. Who stay close to forests, on streams, within the wood success of the villages, hear at night, lay an ear to the earth. 132 / JOHANNES BOBROWSKI On the Jewish broker A. S. i'm from Rasainen. that's the place you spend the second one evening within the wooden in the event you come from the river, the place the woods open and yellowish sand presses up within the meadows. There the nights are gentle. Our other halves extinguish the fires early. We breathe lengthy and deep with the darkish aimless sigh of the wind. All we've got, we have now from the fingers of the fathers. Their care retains us unsleeping. Their starry worry shines within the tree of our speech. Freezing we shut graves for them. The clouds loiter lengthy above. Smoke. anyone is usually leaving, doesn't glance again, no waving follows him. but the outdated men’s sayings on the gateposts nonetheless carry him over the sea. the sorrowful song of roads covered with birches wakes him within the far away land. JOHANNES BOBROWSKI / 133 Cathedral 1941 Which we observed around the wintry weather river, around the black torrent of the waters, Sophia, sounding center of benighted Novgorod. as soon as sooner than it was once darkish. yet a time got here, passing with homosexual foaming dolphins, orchards burnt your cheek, frequently at the back of your fences pilgrims halted, wet-faced, on your cupolas’ golden cry. And your evening, the moon-abyss, deathly light, the halcyon fowl glittered within the icy nest. Smoke has blackened your partitions, fireplace broke your doorways, how shall the sunshine be in your window sockets. All was once performed to our existence, the cry in addition to the silence, we observed your face, white, emerging over the plains. Then wrath sprang up outdoors within the marshes. Wrath, a heavy seed. How shall I name 134 / JOHANNES BOBROWSKl one day my eye nonetheless vivid. Latvian Songs My father the hawk.