Another Republic: 17 European and South American Writers

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 in addition a few decisions from Calvino. Many amazing authors, as you will see that from the record above. Paul Celan is winner of a Georg Buchner prize, and there's a pair Nobels up there too (Paz and Milosz).

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First released in 1976, this remarkable 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 impact at the present new release of poets.

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HENRI MICHAUX / forty three N ot one increases its head. this is often the main tightly closed society which may exist, even though outdoor they opened up consistently in all instructions. N o subject, their projected schemes, their preoccupations . . . they're between themselves . . . far and wide. And as much as the current time now not one has raised its head towards us. it can otherwise be overwhelmed. eleven She writes to him back: you can't think all that there's within the sky, you would need to see it to think it. So now, the . . . yet I’m not likely to inform you their identify straight away.

To birches and firs supply female names. To implore safeguard opposed to the mute and treacherous may than to proclaim, as you probably did, an inhuman factor. CZESLAW MILOSZ / a hundred forty five The grasp they are saying that my track is angelic. that after the Prince listens to it His face, hidden from sight, turns mild. With a beggar he may proportion energy. partial to a lady-in-waiting is motionless, Silk through its contact doesn't result in friendly conceited techniques And below a pleat her knees, far flung in a chasm, develop numb. every person has heard within the cathedral my Missa Solemnis.

I'll be born within the eye of the captain. Rain down on me, solar me. My arid physique via your physique will go back to a land the place they sow one and harvest 100. watch for me at the different aspect of the yr: you are going to meet me like a lightning-flash stretched to the financial institution of autumn. contact my breasts of grass. Kiss my abdominal, sacrificial stone. In my navel the whirlwind grows calm: i'm the guts repair that strikes the dance. Burn, fall in me: i'm the pit of dwelling lime that treatments the bones in their burden. Die in my lips.

And while the whip’s lightning claps, the clouds gallop swifter and rain tramples the earth. . . . from your stall, high-spirited over-sensitive armoire, all polished and smoothed! nice appealing interval piece! Polished ebony or mahogany. Stroke the withers of this armoire and instantly it has a far off glance. airborne dirt and dust fabric on the lips, feather mop on the rump, key within the lock of the nostrils. FRANCIS PONGE / 35 His epidermis quivers, irritably tolerating flies, his shoe hammers the floor. He lowers his head, leans his muzzle towards the floor and consoles himself with grass.

Sure, mild and civilized even though i'm, I’ll knock the doorways down, simply because at this second I’m no longer mild or civilized in any respect, I’m ME, a considering universe of flesh and bone, eager to get in And having to get in via strength, simply because whilst i would like to head in am God! Take this rubbish out of my means! placed these feelings away in drawers! Get out of right here, you politicians, literati, You peaceable businessmen, policemen, whores, pimps, A ll your type is the letter that kills, no longer the spirit giving lifestyles. The spirit giving existence at this second is m e !

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