Journal

Two Lines Press
Print Archive
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Poetry | Mar 2017
By Fabio Morábito
Translated from Spanish By Curtis Bauer
"I don’t conceive writing as something illustrious but as something clandestine."
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Fiction | Mar 2017
By Yujoo Han
Translated from Korean By Janet Hong
"A trivial mishap could set off a fire in Mia’s home, Mia’s mother could suddenly go missing, Mia could spontaneously decide to run away from home without taking any clothes, or Mia could suddenly die. None of these scenarios, in fact or in theory, is impossible."
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Poetry | Mar 2017
By Mikhail Eremin (Yeryomin)
Translated from Russian By Alex Cigale
"How the brightened sky beyond the clouds opalesces"
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Poetry | Mar 2017
By Mikhail Eremin (Yeryomin)
Translated from Russian By Alex Cigale
"Of palmette fronds, friezes, monograms"
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Poetry | Mar 2017
By Mikhail Eremin (Yeryomin)
Translated from Russian By Alex Cigale
"Busy oneself with, something like, calculation, / Continuing a nearly forgotten dispute"
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Poetry | Mar 2017
By Mikhail Eremin (Yeryomin)
Translated from Russian By Alex Cigale
"Immersed in the unity of creation, / Among the mighty and multifarious"
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Fiction | Mar 2017
By Alejandro Saravia
Translated from Spanish By María José Giménez
"Cardán, I’m sure you remember that night, and correct me if I’m wrong, cross out this line, tear up this page, grab a new one and write down what you think really happened."
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Poetry | Mar 2017
By Mikhail Eremin (Yeryomin)
Translated from Russian By Alex Cigale
"Drop by drop out of the hole-riddled vessel"
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Poetry | Mar 2017
By Mikhail Eremin (Yeryomin)
Translated from Russian By Alex Cigale
"As long as the roses were fresh, exuded— / Sturgeon fish glue, honey"
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Fiction | Dec 2016
By Suong Nguyet Minh
Translated from Vietnamese By Charles Waugh, Nguyen Lien
There is a saying, A girl has twelve harbors, meaning only at the last will she find shelter. It took me thirteen.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Ewa Lipska
Translated from Polish By Margret Grebowicz
Gravity I run into it
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Ewa Lipska
Translated from Polish By Margret Grebowicz
Poetry was extinguished in its illiterate sleep.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Ewa Lipska
Translated from Polish By Margret Grebowicz
During the security check at the Zurich airport I stand in the magnetic gate.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
Oak
By Anonymous
Translated from Old English By John Estes
Its fruit the fodder that feeds the creatures
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Anonymous
Translated from Old English By John Estes
Lacking metes and bounds, the open-water seems two-faced and brazen
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Anonymous
Translated from Old English By John Estes
The well-born stride their mounts for weight and sway
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Anonymous
Translated from Old English By John Estes
Sky—watcher’s lonely waymark
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Anonymous
Translated from Old English By John Estes
The year ripens to joy
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Poetry | Dec 2016
Ice
By Anonymous
Translated from Old English By John Estes
Colder than cold, slippery without dimension
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Anonymous
Translated from Old English By John Estes
The whitest grain, heaven’s tempests throw it swirling down
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Anonymous
Translated from Old English By John Estes
Delight strives to avoid misfortune’s favor
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Fiction | Dec 2016
By Teolinda Gersão
Translated from Portuguese By Margaret Jull Costa
Yes, I put the ad in the newspaper. Someone who likes children and would be prepared to look after a few pets as well. Only a couple of dogs and some birds, but then not everyone likes dogs and birds.
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Fiction | Dec 2016
By Rodrigo Rey Rosa
Translated from Spanish By Chris Andrews
Like Paracelsus, the Swiss alchemist who, towards the end of his life, wandered from inn to inn across Europe, paying the innkeepers with gold coins that later turned into sea shells, Alicia Beerle, a girl from Zurich who went to New York to study modern dance, dreamed of drifting from apartment to apartment in Manhattan, paying the landlords with charmed money.
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Fiction | Dec 2016
By Jacques Réda
Translated from French By Neil Blackadder
Maps that show it bending like an elbow or even, approximately, describing a quarter of a circle, don’t begin to convey the feeling you get when you turn into rue Laferrière unexpectedly.
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Fiction | Dec 2016
By David Albahari
Translated from Serbian By Ellen Elias-Bursać
Miroslava dreamed she was in a fragile boat being tossed to and fro in the waves, and when she started awake she saw she was in bed, next to Nikola, who was leaning on his left elbow while masturbating with his right hand.
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