Journal

Two Lines Press
Print Archive
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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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Fiction | Dec 2016
By Cho Se-hui
Translated from Korean By Don Mee Choi
The women workers at Ungang Textile went on a hunger strike. Those who knew about it knew, and those who didn’t, didn’t.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Nima Yushji
Translated from Persian By Kaveh Bassiri
Night. A humid night, where the face of the land has lost its color.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Nima Yushji
Translated from Persian By Kaveh Bassiri
Phoenix, sweet singer, renowned bird, a refugee from the cold wind’s blast, sits apart on a bamboo stalk, surrounded by other birds on their branches.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Håkan Sandell
Translated from Swedish By Bill Coyle
I see you in this church without pews, stationed along the walls or at the iconostasis, in sparse bunches, and I describe you as though I were taking dictation:
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Tedi López Mills
Translated from Spanish By Cheryl Clark Vermeulen
What becomes of time or the error of time speculating with its moon suspended in air,
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Tedi López Mills
Translated from Spanish By Cheryl Clark Vermeulen
A time exists there Another air of gold Another skin bound to wind
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Rafael Courtoisie
Translated from Spanish By Anna Rosenwong
Think how I am not you, so that you won’t think about me. Look the other way look at the ocean, look inside.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Eunice Odio
Translated from Spanish By Keith Ekiss, Sonia P. Ticas
And the grain mixes with the drop of flesh, the high provider of touch and hearing
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Fiction | Dec 2016
By Carlos Labbé
Translated from Spanish By Will Vanderhyden
I had to write about Nathaniel Hawthorne, whose birth or death, I don’t remember, some important anniversary, was being celebrated. My wife had recently read a frightening story by Hawthorne called “Ethan Brand, A Chapter From an Abortive Romance.” She said I should claim that the puritan writer was one of the forefathers of contemporary fiction’s current obsession, citing the phrase that ends the story: “the relics of Ethan Brand were crumbled into fragments.”
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