Published by Poetry Editor on August 24, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 27, Issue 27 Poetry

Cryonics

Deborah Rocheleau

I once asked
if you’d jump into a pickle jar
to save your life.
Since you weren’t here when I emerged, I assume
you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.

You are no longer here to unscrew brass lids
I never could do myself,
no longer here to eat the onions off my hamburgers,
or kiss the vinegar off my tangy lips.

I’ve tried to rinse the salt off
taking countless showers
till my skin wrinkled like California raisins.
Still, I can’t help but imagine that I look better
than you rotting in your grave, face splotched
like onions in the compost pile.

What if the jar leaks? you said.
What if the coffin collapses? I said.
I won’t feel it, you said.
You won’t feel it, I said.

They no longer sell pickles in jars
in the super markets,
glass has gone the way of tin.

I must admit, I can’t seem to find my way
in this world, and not just because you’re not in it.

I should have heeded the warnings
on all the pickle jars, on your shriveled lips.

In the very end:
            Do not buy if seal is popped
            Do not accept if glass is broken

Deborah Rocheleau has writings published by Tin House, 100 Word Story, and Brainchild, among others

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Published by Poetry Editor on August 24, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 27, Issue 27 Poetry

Always Wet and Humid Here

Lauren McBride

The daily downpour
relentless, incessant.

Could almost wring
water from the air

even inside. Sheets,
clothes, toes, toaster

never completely dry.
Mold grows mold,

walls unbleached.
On the spaceflight here,

regret reading Bradbury’s
The Long Rain.

Lauren McBride finds inspiration in faith, nature, molecular biology (a former researcher), and membership in the Science Fiction Poetry Association (SFPA). Nominated for the Rhysling and Dwarf Stars Awards, her work has been included in various speculative, nature, and children’s publications, and appears frequently in the Aurorean, Spaceports & Spidersilk, Scifaikuest, Star*Line and the Songs of Eretz venues. She shares a love of laughter, science, and the ocean with her husband and two children.

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Published by Poetry Editor on August 24, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 27, Issue 27 Poetry

The Man Who Loved a Poem

Sandi Leibowitz

The instant he read it, he loved it.
He adored its metaphors
marching across the page like an army
of black brides, exultant and shining.
He lauded its alliteration,
its loose and lovely vowels,
the queenly crooning of its consonants.
He admired its profundity.
It had changed his life.

He tore it from the book
and kept it in his pocket,
pulled it out six times each day,
wore its paper thin with caressing,
creased it into tatters with his constant
folding and unfolding, even though
he’d memorized it.

Once an hour, he declaimed it
loudly for friends and colleagues,
dramatically at cocktail parties
or on the occasional street-corner,
or softly to himself, such reverent whispers.

The poem, however, did not love him.
He didn’t understand her.
He read her all wrong,
stopping at the ends of lines,
ignoring her enjambments.
His tongue poked
at her soft syllables.
She detested his incessant handling,
the probing of his dread eye.
Always, always, he put her
on display.
He acted like he owned her.

One night, when once again
he had laid her down upon his desk
in the lamp’s cruel glare,
subject to his obsessive dissection,
she decided she had enough.

They found his body the next morning—
death by a thousand paper cuts.

And the poem? Gone,
flown out the open window,
free to pursue a million ears
or none,
to a world without pockets.

Sandi Leibowitz is a school librarian, classical singer and writer of speculative fiction and poetry. Her work appears in Liminality, Stone Telling, Inkscrawl, Mythic Delirium, Ellen Datlow’s Best Horror of the Year 5 and other magazines and anthologies. A native New Yorker, she has ridden in a hot-air balloon over the Rio Grande, traveled in the footsteps of medieval pilgrims to Santiago de la Compostella and visited with Arthur in Avalon.

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Published by Poetry Editor on August 24, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 27, Issue 27 Poetry

Another Place

Marge Simon

Because he’d have it no other way
—that man she thought she loved—
she went with him into the cosmos
to a temporary station on another world.

the forever sunset of a tangerine sky
strange perfumes from singing trees
flowers delicate as ancient lace
 
Because she’s lonely, misses home,
he brings her a lifeform for company.
She nurtures it from silky floss
to dazzling wings, whispers baby names.
She says it calls her Mother,
but he only laughs.
 
fragments of dreams
her children calling
wings fluttering
come fly with us
 
He finds her out wandering
without a mask, talking to herself
or dancing alone among the trees.
She refuses to eat their rations,
doesn’t like to be touched.

So, when his work is done there,
when he is tired of her laments,
and sick of her sickness,
her deformities growing
impossibly fast,
those ugly wings,
that rasping cry—

he leaves her there to dream,
even into the next dawn
of her beginnings.

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Published by Poetry Editor on August 24, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 27, Issue 27 Poetry

Lorca’s Duende

Patricia Williams

Patricia Williams, professor emerita, University of Wisconsin – Stevens Point, taught art and design for 35 years. Art, design, poetry and creative prose, she feels, are natural partners, their work being the creative examination of life and living. Her poetry is published or forthcoming in print and online in the U.S. and U.K. including Camel Saloon, Star*Line, Poetry Quarterly, Stoneboat, Inquisitive Eater (The New School), Fox Cry, Red Booth, Third Wednesday, Negative Capability Anthology, Midwest Prairie Review among others, and was nominated for a 2014 Best of the Net Award.

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Published by Poetry Editor on August 22, 2015. This item is listed in Editorials, Issue 27, Issue 27 Poetry

A Casual Discussion on the Challenges of Poetry in Translation

By John C. Mannone

This paper is not intended to be exhaustive, but aims to increase awareness of some of the challenges of translation, in general, but are amplified for poetry.

Though technically not a poem, Peter’s dream in the Acts of the Apostles (Acts 10: 10-16) is arguably poetic, and because of it being a dream sequence, it is speculative, as well. (I also chose it because I don’t have to worry about copyright.) A couple of the verses will serve to highlight some of the challenges in translation.

In translation of standard texts, much attention is paid to the mechanics of language, and rightfully so, but when that text is poetry, the poem is vulnerable to being robbed of its full meaning, or at least having it obfuscated.

I concur with Willis Barnstone in his 2001 essay, “An ABC of Translating Poetry” (http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/text/abc-translating-poetry). He says that translation is the art of revelation and that the art resides between the two tongues. I have always cautioned to be true to the language as much as possible, but that it’s far more important to be true to the poetic or emotional heart of the line. So in the strictest sense for me, speculative poetry in translation might be better called an exposition. But whatever you call the “translation,” understand that it is a new work.

When I teach about hermeneutics at a local college, I remind my students that a literal translation from one language to another is laughable to the linguist; there is no one-to-one mapping as there is for functions in mathematics. Function in language requires much more than translating words, especially if clarity and meaning is to be conveyed. It isn’t just the aggregate sum of the meanings of words to get the meaning of a line. (An easy example is the idiom or figure of speech: imagine a line in Spanish dialog, Vaya a freír los churros—which when spoken in Argentinian, this formal command, literally translated means You go fry churros! (a fried Spanish pastry akin to our funnel cakes), the problem is that this is an idiom meaning get lost or go jump in the lake.)

Therefore, repeating myself, the meaning of the line is not the aggregate sum of the meanings of the words. And for some languages, this is aggravated by other things. For example, in languages such as Hebrew, where each word may be loaded with rich images, many extra words in English might be necessary to convey that depth of meaning. Or in grammatically precise languages, such as Greek, the specificity and details would likely require additional words in English to tease out that importance from the weight of those words.

But in any case, when dealing with figures of speech and other idioms, as well as certain literary devices like synecdoche and metonymy (http://classroom.synonym.com/examples-metonymy-synecdoche-22055.html), it is essential that the translation reflects the correct interpretation of what the author had intended to the extent possible. These literary devices are ubiquitous in many languages, as well as in colloquial English. Classic and Koine Greek literature (from which the example below will serve to illustrate) are no exceptions.

In the case of tense, voice or mood, a correct translation might offer different options in English. For example, in Greek, the present active indicative form of, say, “I run,” could legitimately be translated as “I am running.” So which should one use? The one that promotes the best overall sense in context AND, for poetry, that which sounds the best to the ear together with the other words. However, in some cases, the original text might use a present tense verb, but in context might be past tense. (I’m not sure why.) Perhaps their linguistic style of speaking allowed for that, but in English, it could sound awkward. In English, the choice might be based on flow and clarity as well as sound—indeed the choice could be better in past tense than in the literal present tense. For example, in the Greek example below, θεωρεῖ is actually he is beholding, but the translators chose to use he saw because the clause immediately before it, ἐπέπεσεν ἐπ᾽ αὐτὸν ἔκστασις, is in the past tense—upon him fell ecstasy (which could be rendered, he dreamt). Therefore, the temporal sense of the passage would support past tense; i.e., the reader is immersed into the past so that the unfolding of the event seems to be in his present.

The semantic range of meaning of a word is very important, and it does change historically. Also, the modern day vernacular will likely be different (viz. Shakespearean English vs. Modern English). This too should be considered—today, saying quadrupeds might be awkward in conversation unless in technical discussions; animals would be an appropriate equivalent today (though clearly not synonymous).

Finally, syntax, and in particular, word order and punctuation, is something that might have to be altered to facilitate a smooth and sensible translation. In  English, we often place the subject, followed by the verb and then the object in a clause or sentence, but in Greek, the word order might be quite different and variable because the first words usually carry more weight than the following words. In Spanish, the adjective typically follows the noun, but in English it precedes it. And sometimes there are forms that don’t exist in English, like the particles, which are often untranslatable. Greek and Hebrew have them. For example, in Hebrew, there might be a difference between ha adam (adam or mankind) and eth ha adam (a specific man). The particle eth is untranslatable, but the article ha (the) is emphasized by the particle. Imagine an exclamation point after the article. Also, there is a construction called the noun-verb in Hebrew (nouns are generally correlated to verbs by their shared roots); that construction simply doesn’t exist in English despite the fact that there are some cognates because of the Latin influence.

Speaking of articles, the Romance languages, as well as Greek and others, are “always” specified in their writings, however, it doesn’t mean that they are always supposed to be translated in English. When translating text that contains articles, care must be taken, especially in poetry, to elide them unless the article is important for clarity and/or rhythm.

Let’s now consider an excerpt in Acts 10 (beginning with the end of verse 10 and going through verse 12). The Greek is from the Textus Receptus (from which the KJV is based):

ἐπέπεσεν ἐπ᾽ αὐτὸν ἔκστασις καὶ θεωρεῖ τὸν οὐρανὸν ἀνεῳγμένον καὶ καταβαῖνον ἐπ᾽ αὐτὸν σκεῦός τι ὡς ὀθόνην μεγάλην, τέσσαρσιν ἀρχαῖς δεδεμένον καὶ καθιέμενον ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς, ἐν ᾧ ὑπῆρχεν πάντα τὰ τετράποδα τῆς γῆς καὶ τὰ θηρία καὶ τὰ ἑρπετὰ καὶ τὰ πετεινὰ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ.

A literal rendering might look like this (where the he or him is Peter):

upon him fell ecstasy and he is beholding the heaven having been opened-up and descending on him a certain vessel as a great sheet, having been bound to four corners being let down to its earth, in which was every kind of quadruped of the land and the wild beasts and the creeping things and the birds of the air.

For comparison, here is the translation according to the KJV:

he fell into a trance, And saw heaven opened, and a certain vessel descending unto him, as it had been a great sheet knit at the four corners, and let down to the earth. Wherein were all manner of fourfooted beasts of the earth, and wild beasts, and creeping things, and fowls of the air.

In my modern translation, which takes some liberty with syntax (for clarity and flow), I consider the synedoche in the Greek text, which is unraveled to render the word “vessel” for what it really is. The Greek word σκεῦός, transliterated skeuos, typically means vessel (to contain liquid), or implement, or an object. But it could also mean tackle, as in the ship’s rigging, which I believe to be the case here. It is interesting to note that the etymology of the word ship can be traced to this Greek root via skiff. My translation is arguably correct because it seems to be true to the author’s intent first, and to language second:

He became entranced and saw the heavens open, as well as the tackle and ropes of a certain ship descending toward him as a great sail—its four corners having been bound—letting down to earth in which was every kind of animal of the land, including the wild beasts and lizards, and the birds of the sky.

Compare this to the usual rendering, which is truer to language than to the author’s intent, revealing an odd image: a bunch of animals inside a sheet descending from heaven. The rendering I have chosen is truer to the author’s intent than to the literal language. It reveals a clearer image: a large sailing ship full of animals. This adds significant subtext to the passage because of the allusion to Noah’s ark, and the symbolic significance of that ship with respect to salvation being extended to all mankind, beyond the Adamic race—not just the Jew, but also the gentile. I do not wish to wax theological here, but simply want to point out that the depth of meaning can only be approached with attention to the complexities of language and the realization of its nonlinear translation.

Here’s an attempt to render this excerpt into a poem by lineating the prose:

Peter’s Dream
            After Acts 10: 10-12
 
He became entranced
            and saw the heavens open,
as well as tackle and ropes of a certain ship
            descending toward him as a great sail
                        —its four corners having been bound—
letting down to earth
            in which was every kind of animal of the land,
                        including the wild beasts and lizards,
and the birds of the sky.

However, literary depth is missing. These verses can be lifted into poetry by subtext and with allusions to Noah’s ark and what happened there (Genesis 8:11). But that pushes the work beyond translation, perhaps even beyond exposition; nevertheless, it shows how a poem can be inspired by translation. I close this discussion with such an example:

Peter’s Dream
 
Entranced, he saw heaven
open, and the ropes and tackle
of a large sail ship.
 
It descended toward him, its great sail
fastened against the wind
drifting down to earth.
 
Inside its gunwales, there was
every kind of animal imaginable
in the land: wild beasts and lizards,
 
and the all birds of the sky,
and the one from heaven
singing with an olive branch
            in its beak.

Woodcut, 1695, by Johann Christoph Weigel

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Published by Poetry Editor on June 9, 2015. This item is listed in Editorials, Introductions, Issue 26, Issue 26 Poetry

Introduction to Issue 26 Poetry

by John Mannone

This issue’s slate of fine poets opens with the gripping poem, “Tread With Me” by Anna Autilio (Boise, ID). Form serves function well here.

“Heliopause” by Barry Charman (Harrow, Middlesex, England) goes beyond poetic science, it is lifted into poetry with a series of appositives extending beyond the page.

“One Persistent Eye” by Darrell Lindsey (Nacogdoches, TX) continues with that edge of space in the previous poem. Again, it says a lot more that is apparent. This almost-sonnet, with it’s well-placed volta in the final couplet, answers an arguably implied question.

“The water babies amuse themselves” by Melanie Bell (San Francisco, CA) is an surreal/bizarro poem, it is as much an experiment with image as it is with sound.

“illusions of man” by Deborah Guzzi (Monroe, CT) has it’s own kind of surreality. The poem is meant as a tribute and elegy for a gifted but troubled artist who had passed. The sawtooth structure lends itself well to perhaps an interpretive glimpse inside the mind of this artist with the overlapping, but jagged associative lines.

The selection closes with another “list” poem of sorts, but with its own measure of surrealism. “Five Doors” by Darrell Lindsey (Nacogdoches, TX) may be a short poem, but will linger a long time off the page.

Now, go enjoy these gems.

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Published by Poetry Editor on June 8, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 26, Issue 26 Poetry

Illusions of Man

Deborah Guzzi is a healing facilitator specializing in Japanese Shiatsu and Reiki. She writes for Massage and Aroma Therapy Magazines. She travels the world to expand her knowledge of healing and seeking writing inspiration. She has walked the Great Wall of China, seen Nepal (during the civil war), Japan, Egypt (two weeks before ‘The Arab Spring’), Peru, and France during December’s terrorist attacks. Her poetry appears in Magazines in the UK, Exsistere in Canada; Tincture in Australia; Cha:Asian Literary Review in China, Vine Leaves Literary Journal in Greece; and Travel by the Book, Eunoia, Silver Blade, Liquid Imagination, The Wilderness Literary Review, Illumen, and others in the USA.

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Published by Poetry Editor on June 8, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 26, Issue 26 Poetry

Five Doors

Stranger’s shadows
and blue angels appearing
in a broken mirror.

Snow in the long hair
of a one-armed hallucination
bringing us firewood.

The nearest distant mountain moving
like the nimble fingers
of a pianist.

Our daughter playing with a doll
that has lost its hair
and has a trembling voice.

Crows filling the front yard
with a pregnant answer
that locks all the doors twice.

Darrell Lindsey is the author of Edge of the Pond (Popcorn Press, 2012), and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize (2007) and a Rhysling Award (2014). He won the 2012 Science Fiction Poetry Association Contest (Long Form category), as well as the 2014 Balticon Poetry Contest. Most recently, he had two poems published in Outposts of Beyond (January 2015 issue). He loves the imaginative leaps found in good speculative poetry.

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Published by Poetry Editor on June 8, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 26, Issue 26 Poetry

The Water Babies Amuse Themselves

I planted a water lily in the bathtub
to keep myself company.

Watched it bob between the atolls of my knees
its rhizomes wormed beneath me.

On the third day it had children,
thumb-sized bodies tumbling out.

They filled the bathtub’s crevasses with mud and pebbles.
They went geo-cacheing in my navel.

Watched sinister blue-pelted puppets sing on television,
the Ritz cracker crackle of static.

I couldn’t budge to turn it off.
A fluid pooled in the lily’s curled center.

A glinting junebug crawled out pollen-backed
sauntered into my chest cavity.

The flower children watched and cheered,
admiring the bug like confetti.

Wings unwrinkled from its body.
Clicking noises echoed from me.

The children multiplied like grubs, like seeds in spongy berries.
The lily clung to my thighs. Petals browned and drooped.

The children learned the alphabet from song-honking puppets,
furry and scurrilous. Drank it as soup.

They giggled at my clicking voice, my mud-caked stomach,
my scum-tinged roots.

Melanie Bell is a writer and Enneagram teacher from P.E.I., Canada, who currently lives in San Francisco. Her writing has appeared in a number of publications including Art Animal, The Island Review, qu.ee/r, Jaggery, CV2, and Grain, and she is a past Managing Editor of Matrix Magazine. Her work can be found at MelanieBellWrites.com.

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