Journal

Two Lines Press
Print Archive
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Un Sio San
Translated from Chinese By Jeremy Tiang
I dreamt I was watching a disaster film. I bought popcorn and picked my seat—slightly left of center— No one had brought a kid along. Anyway, this wasn’t real.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Linor Goralik
Translated from Russian By Ainsley Morse
— . . . my son’s a sniper, he was in Alamin at the time, when there was that whole business with the little boy getting shot. Well, he was wounded later, but they saved the leg.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Athena Farrokhzad
Translated from Swedish By Jen Hayashida
My father said: To those who have more will be given and from those who lack even more will be taken My mother said: Take some more milk before it turns
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Essay | Dec 2016
By John Balaban
Translated from English By N/A
Hồ Xuân Hương is the woman who, around 1800, changed Vietnamese expectations about poetry . . .
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Amelia Rosselli
Translated from Italian By Deborah Woodard, Dario De Pasquale, Roberta Antognini
Intent upon describing the landscape I intruded; gushed from it restless the primary scene: spinning tops, caverns, demystifying scenes. It’s a scene this one that keeps me from thinking while with a machine gun I elegantly mow you all down.
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Fiction | Dec 2016
By Uršuľa Kovalyk
Translated from Slovak By Julia Sherwood, Peter Sherwood
I’ve kept them. Stowed them away on the top shelf. Where there’s no dust. Where nobody can see them. Few people can reach that high. I don’t know where they came from. I must have been born wearing them.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Gabor Schein
Translated from Hungarian By Ottilie Mulzet
On her chest, where they operated a picture was tattooed. An angel turned to the sky, descending, outside it snowed.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Gabor Schein
Translated from Hungarian By Ottilie Mulzet
Will nothing now ever break the evening’s cast weight?
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Jorge Gimeno
Translated from Spanish By Curtis Bauer
They weren’t the ferruginous hands of palm trees scratching the sky crazily —the dates splattered with red.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Jorge Gimeno
Translated from Spanish By Curtis Bauer
The sky is so close, as close as spilled bleach, it raises the level of the street.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Pedro Serrano
Translated from Spanish By Katherine Silver
Like a latent and buried blow, like relentless grief, like a bell that was its own endless echo,
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Fiction | Dec 2016
By Prabda Yoon
Translated from Thai By Mui Poopoksakul
Before it’s all too late, may I tell you, dear readers, that my name is not Marut? And I’m not sitting by the sea at all. If you want me to confess, I must admit that I don’t know my own name or what kind of landscape surrounds me.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Timur Kibirov
Translated from Russian By Jamie Olson
In our blissful stupor, in the golden glow of a warm evening, near the House of Pioneers on Lenin’s Hills, we stood together, just us two.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Timur Kibirov
Translated from Russian By Jamie Olson
Spake the madman from deep in his heart: “God is nothing!” And yet this doctrine is not half bad — like hell could you get a damn thing from your heart!
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Timur Kibirov
Translated from Russian By Jamie Olson
Not feeling well, bad boy? Disgusted, ugly duckling? Frightened, little freak? Can’t get enough, munchkin?
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Ingeborg Bachmann
Translated from German By Peter Filkins
Said it, and the toad leapt
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Timur Kibirov
Translated from Russian By Jamie Olson
When you open up your eyes then squeeze them shut against the glare of verdure from the open window, against the singing of these birds, against July — won’t you be ashamed? Won’t you be afraid?
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Li Li
Translated from Chinese By Eleanor Goodman
Beyond ten meters, the scenery can’t be seen You must be there in the fog.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Li Li
Translated from Chinese By Eleanor Goodman
The blurry world suddenly becomes clear, as clear as a childhood obsession —
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Li Li
Translated from Chinese By Eleanor Goodman
Did you lie there like this too? In the dawn and spreading cancer cells you turned over, peeled a tangerine.
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Fiction | Dec 2016
By Luan Starova
Translated from Macedonian By Christina Kramer
I stood on the edge of a great cliff that perched like a balcony above the blue eternity of the Lake. Behind me, in Macedonia, stood the Monastery of St. Naum.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Kim Kwang-Kyu
Translated from Korean By Brother Anthony of Taizé
The fractured rib was not made of stainless steel
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Essay | Dec 2016
By Willis Barnstone
Translated from English By N/A
To be a translator of poetry, at the moment of translation one must be a poet.
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Fiction | Dec 2016
By Marilú Mallet
Translated from Quebecois By J. T. Townley
Both of us refugees without a passport. Our coats salvaged from dumpsters. Trying to adapt. Casimir was taken in by a Jewish society looking for a tax write-off; me, by a group of old priests from Latin America. They gave him a TV and some black clothing, but all I got was an old mattress full of bugs. He talked about the synagogue, I talked about priests, both of us with a kind of skepticism, a bitter aftertaste in our mouths.
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Fiction | Dec 2016
By Göran Rosenberg
Translated from Swedish By Sarah Death
I want to write about the Place as I see it just then. And just then in this story is the time when a young man and a young woman, who have just got off the train on the road from Auschwitz, are living, working and dreaming, just here. It’s also the time when I, their first child, see the world for the first time and so see the Place as it will forever appear to me.
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