OSIRIS 88 · 2020. 4. 14. · The Osiris Archive: The Poetry Collection, ... through my veins, wait...

3

OSIRIS 88

andrea moorhead editor | rédactionrobert moorhead design & typography | conception graphique

•editorial board | comité de rédaction

Gerald Chapple Hamilton, Ontario canadaRobert Dassanowsky Colorado Springs, Colorado usa

Flavio Ermini Verona italiaJean Chapdelaine Gagnon Montréal, Québec canada

Małgosia Salinska-Górska Warszawa polskaFrançoise Hàn Paris france

Pansy Maurer-Alvarez Strasbourg franceMarie-Christine Masset Marseille france

Robert Melançon Canton-de-Hatley, Québec canadaGeorge Moore Shag Harbour, Nova Scotia canada

André Ughetto Marseille france

•

OSIRIS ISSN 0095-019XPublished in June & DecemberOSIRIS 2019—#88 & #89

Subscription | Abonnements—$20.00 18€106 Meadow Lane Greenfield Massachusetts 01301 USA

•Osiris is on Facebook (OsirisPoetry).

[email protected] for electronic submissions.The Osiris Archive: The Poetry Collection,

State University of New York at Buffalo

•

OSIRISHumanities International CompleteIndex of American Periodical Verse

Member C.L.M.P. (Community of Literary Magazines & Presses)©2019 The Authors & OSIRIS

danish | danois

Annemette Kure Andersen 55, 56, 57Translated byThom Satterlee

•english | anglais

Patty Dickson Pieczka 4, 5Paul B. Roth 6-7, 8, 9

Maria Stadnicka 10, 11Rob Cook 12-13

Ray Keifetz 14, 15, 16Simon Anton Diego Baena 17

Jonathan Hayes 32Charles Hadfield 33

Simon Perchik 38, 39Andrea Moorhead 42, 43, 44, 45

Alan Britt 46-47, 48-49George Moore 50-51, 52

•french | français

Marie-Christine Masset 18, 19, 20Fabrice Farre 28, 29, 30, 31

Diane-Ischa Ross† 41Christian Arjonilla 53

•german | allemand

Ute von Funcke 34-35, 36-37Translated by Stuart Friebert

•norwegian | norvège

Hanne Bramness 22-23, 24-25, 26-27Translated by Anna Reckin

•visual art

Robert Moorhead 21, 54Andrea Moorhead 40

4 | o s i r i s e i g h t y - e i g h t o s i r i s e i g h t y - e i g h t | 5

5

I follow my grief to the edge of this haunted evening and wait. My hair is in fumes. My feet push out to sea. My bonesno longer speak. They have forgottenhow to translate the language of waves.

I wait for stones to turn into strawberries,for their sweet red juice to bleedthrough my veins, wait to heara serpent’s sloughed skin hissits secrets of Eve,

wait to drape myself in the muse’s silken shadowas her shifting light colors my skinbrown, then yellow, then red until I learneach hungry mouth and angry heart that echoes its voice through this melting earth.

WAITING FOR THE MUSE

Patty Dickson Pieczka

She pulls the mud from my heart,sifts pebbles from my veins,plants seeds of lightthrough my mind and along my bones.

Her hair is the pond at night.Black diamonds fall to her feetin trails of ginger, sliced oranges,Queen Anne’s lace.

She releases childrenfrom their cages, lets loosethe war-torn weak from their nightmare,feeds the hungry spirits,

shows me how to peel darknessback from the night. I feelthe homeless wind searching,its fingers empty and cool,

hear the final sigh of a meteorlearning to leave with grace.

the muse arrives

Patty Dickson Pieczka


7

[ paul b. roth : aging beauty ]

aging beauty

Paul B. Roth

Stretched so farmy body suffering the length of its life

cracks and achesholding handrails down ladders into shallow blue therapy pools

The sun that used to soften the skynow covers my skinwith its burning body

To heal has meant taking on the ever-changing name of a river

with no beginning beyond its first measure of timebeyond its first drop of water

so that my mouth having dried out from uttering too many of its own words

may finally dream of having its tongue touch it all at once


9

UNDERCOVER FUTURE

Paul B. Roth

Flagged down at each crossingI’m abandonedor else reduced to my old self

Invisible I’m hustled through time through its slow-motionsalt shaker of stars all around me

My hands speed farther aheadthan any signalwarns of their approach

I hardly noticecolliding with any space I’m born into

and feel most alivewhen everything else fails to show me my own remains

my only proof that if I’d existedit would have been just like this

WE’RE NEVER THERE

Paul B. Roth

A black cloud’sgold edge at sunset

brightensan expressionlessface of snow

deepens its visibility,its blue darknessbetween skin and ice

between an absence of words not yet heardand those not quite silent

where inner lips quiver mere vibrations over and over again

so the heart bursting from its ice encased cage

may finally thaw itself alive among the lifeless

1 0 | o s i r i s e i g h t y - e i g h t o s i r i s e i g h t y - e i g h t | 1 1

11

kafka

Maria Stadnicka

The other day, during an afternoon nap, a tramp came to my door with a letterfor the man in apartment three, ground floor.

The knock made me jump, then I thoughtI could give out some change in return, but the beggar refused; he was holdinga bunch of keys and left saying ‘till tomorrow.’

When I opened the envelope, lying flat in my bunk, a pair of handcuffs and steel neck chains dropped on my chest.

woman walking

Maria Stadnicka

I always wanted mother’s nightdress, hoped she would leave it to me; the flowery cotton she wore on Saturdays when she carried yellow baskets of laundry out to the garden’s well. Our nights followed her around; washed, starched, pegged rainbows on silver wires. The street inhaled jasmine-fresh clouds.

I wanted blue shadowed eyelids, shiny stilettos down Pushkin Avenue when she hurried back home from the office with doughnuts kept warm at her breast.And to wear adulthood just like that:battle decoration pinned on yellow dress.

When last we spoke, she looked away;she’d forgotten what yellow meant, put a finger inside curled petals to feel heat.A foreign woman in black walked on cobwebs, calling my name. The moon grew largerand trees split, struck by an axe of frost. Mother went silent - maybe she fell asleep -and her nightdress turned into snow.


13

meditation on brautigan breathing underwater

Rob Cook

A stone thrown into the lake and the water not moving.

A minnow tossed from the dock

into the drowned lake,

and shining on the surface, the sky lit with carp lanterns and birds floatingto where the rain survives the dimming of the sun—

claw and fin scratched by late drizzle,

and the Swan Nebula trembling underwater

without plumage.

The sky, indicated by the view from a sunken tire café,

nothing more than the remains of a canoe-wooded child

luring the lake

into the wisdom of a trout hook

dragging up the air and carrying it to shore.

[ rob cook: meditation on brautigan breathing underwater ]


15

You come upon a crateof silenced seeds,a shingle gouged please don’t desecrateleavethe knife . . .

In the heatpoppiesdroop and sink,yarrow poolsover acid furrowswhere children sleepin stonestoo heavy to pry.

But no forget-me-nots fallfrom a sky that never darkens,no knife flashesin the incandescenceyou left instead.

house in the weeds

Ray Keifetz Ray Keifetz

prayer

From a bobbing willow wandyou reached across the water.His vast back before you, his eyeson the distant mountains,he never heard the splash,never saw the peonyripples spreading,your infant faceamong the leavesthat fell from his hair.

1 6 | o s i r i s e i g h t y - e i g h t o s i r i s e i g h t y - e i g h t | 17

17

Simon Anton Diego Baena

SUMMER, NEAR SAMARKAND

With her key, I opened the chest behind the doorwayof the village that I entered, once near an oasiswhere the cup was filled for every passing caravan.Veiled faces bright like the moon over an ancient ruinI did not name—names, easily forgotten in the citiesas crowded hospitals emptied themselves of the deadto welcome the living—I dug for clues, here, (the desertakin to the ocean with its moans) for miles, I foundshards of skulls and arrowheads beneath the hoofprints.

let them stay

Ray Keifetz

Someone must have prayed for this—lashing hail, ice . . .rivers rising, banks crumbling—We have little room here, yet we must make room.They stream in,fur, feathers dripping,so cold they let even ushold them.They have nothing—no black plastic to wrap their paws,no pylonsto break the wind,no soggy newsprintto rest their heads.Let them stay.How long can it rainuntil the rainbowand we must opentheir eyes?


19

la paix des arbres

Marie-Christine Masset

Dans les arbres,parfois,les histoires des nouveau-néss’enroulent aux branches.

Il faut, pour les deviner,faire la nuit ces rêvesqui traversent les flammessans brûler.

Alors seulement est-il possible,sous la Constellation du Feu,de voyager les uns avec les autreset d’inventer, mêmesans parler,la Paix des Arbres où allersans brûler.

dans la blancheur de l’horizon


Ceux qui frappentles herbes la nuitde leurs longs bâtonsdisent que les eauxne dorment jamais.

Les mots qu’ils prononcentressemblent à un filde sang rouge.

En fermant les paupières,ils étourdissent les rivièreset font dériver les rêvesdans une ligne de vie brisée.

Sous la chair,s’anime un paysagesans ombre, ni double,ni chemin. Fou

celui qui entend alors résonnerun rire d’enfantet dans le tremblé de l’aube l’écritsur la terre.


21


Juste après son départ,le fond des herbes a rougi.Ce n’était pas le signed’un oubli ou d’un adieu.(Certains paysages se replienten cas de silence).

Quand, fossilisés, les motsn’ont plus de résonnances,ce qui se terre dans les visagesest un gouffreoù le masque du tempsa figé une histoireimpossible à effleurer.

Si une nuit d’orage,elle s’anime et engloutitjusqu’à son reflet,une pluie mêlée de clartéécartera les herbes.

Il fera bon revenirmarcher entre les brinscomme entre les notesd’une musique nouvelle.

partition nocturne

constantinoplerobert moorhead

2019


23

Hanne Bramness

In your gaze the darkness of great treesis reflected, rows of linden, flecks of sun.We have embarked on a journey to evening´s gate,rolling along.

Late summer breezes rustle though the tops of the treesand sweet smells run through the park. Cold gushes outfrom the mud under the weeping willows and the shallow pond.

We walk in and out of air currents, aimingfor a bench where we settle down. It is as ifsomeone is watching us, keeping track, scurryingalong the path.

Then, suddenly, a strange child is standing there,close by. It strokes your cheek. We are aware of itspresence. How amazingly quiet history is!You startle.

According to the law of simultaneity such things can happen.Shadows break through the wall of sensations ina repeated echo. Over an interval of seventy-five yearswe cross each other’s tracks.

a park in berlin en park i berlin

Hanne Bramness

I blikket ditt speiles de store trærnesmørke, rekkene med linder, flekker av sol. Vi har lagt ut på reisa mot kveldens port, triller avgårde.

Seinsommervind drar gjennom kronene og søte dufter jager gjennom parken. Fra gjørma under sørgepilene og den grunne dammen, veller kulda fram.

Vi går inn og ut av luftstrømmene, tar sikte på en benk hvor vi slår oss ned. Det er som om noen ser oss, følger etter oss, pilende langs stien.

Da står det et fremmed barn der, plutselig, like ved. Det stryker deg på kinnet. Vi merker nærværet. Så underlig stille historien er! Du rykker til.

Ifølge loven om samtidighet kan det skje. Skygger bryter gjennom sansningenes mur i etgjentatt ekko. Med syttifem års mellomromkrysser vi hverandres spor.

Translated from the Norwegian by Anna Reckin

24 | o s i r i s e i g h t y - e i g h t o s i r i s e i g h t y - e i g h t | 2 5

25

[ hanne bramness : a park in berlin ] [ hanne bramness : en park i berlin ]

Kveldssola gløder i parken. Lyset balanserer på ei grense, tangerer de dødes sted, stuper ned i dammens omvendte himmel med umerkelig hast.

Skjøre stokkroser dupper i bølgene av tid som kommer mot oss forfra, bakfra, det er ikkelett å si. Du svaier fra side til side i vogna, nesten oppreist nå.

Før mørket omslutter oss, og stien med grus fortsetter inn i himmelen, passerer vi en åpen strekning i parken, et rom som gjenlyder av uskyld.

The evening sun glows in the park. Light is ata tipping-point. Drawing a line tangent to the curve of the dead, it drops into the pond´s inverted skywith undetectable speed.

Frail hollyhocks dip in waves of timecoming towards us from in front or behind; it is noteasy to tell. You sway from side to sidein the pram, almost upright now.

Before darkness envelops us, and the gravel path continues up into the sky, we pass anopen stretch in the park, a spaceresonant with innocence.



27

hjulwheels

Hanne Bramness

I saw a park with wheels and underneath it another parkwith other wheels, bigger and smaller, spinning round time´s axis; I heard the whispering from wheel-hubs.

It was in summer, at dusk, when the dark blue light comes sifting through, or it was in winter when our breathswirled from our mouths.

On the white footpaths’ various layers—hard-trodden and light and airy—I saw rabbits jumping and hares, now extinct, leaping around on their strong hind legs.

I saw the prams with rocking creatures, aliens withnarrow shoulders and big heads with dark gazes, turnedto the heavens, transfixed.

I saw the prams’ pathways over thousands of brief afternoons, double-exposed.

Hanne Bramness

Jeg så en park med hjul og under parken en annen park med andre hjul, større og mindre, som spant om tidas akse, jeg hørte hviskingen fra nav.

Det var om sommeren, i skumringstimen, da det mørkeblå lyset kom sigende, eller det var om vinteren da pusten virvlet fra munnene.

På hvite stier i flere lag, både hardtrampa og luftige, så jeg kaniner hoppe og utdødde harer med kraftige bakbein bykse omkring.

Jeg så vognene med ruggende vesener, skapninger medsmale skuldre og store hoder med mørke blikk, bådehimmelvendte og gjennomborende.

Jeg så barnevognreisene gjennom tusener av knappe ettermiddager, dobbelt eksponert.



29

HERBE

Le ruban d’herbe ploie sous la rosée.Une goutte grossit la nervure du monde en dessous. Le bouton de fleur tout prèsbat pour notre cœur et par la bondede nos bouches pas une histoire ne fuyait.Pour nous le silence s’était recourbé.

cantus

Fabrice Farre

VISITE

Dans ce monde atone où le cœur s’épanchele son est un chant d’oiseau mécaniquela rue est déserte, elle peuple l’univers.Après la place jaune, jamais identique,tout comme l’arbre bouge le vent devient vert,tu aimais me rendre visite le dimanche.

[ fabrice farre : cantus ]


31

TRAIN DE NUIT

Le langage des roues sur les fleurs des railsje pars, qui part, et les murs léopardfranchissent la masse tachée de rares maisonss’abaissent et bondissent plus noirs dans l’écartje pars, qui part, électriques déraisonslient puis séparent en ce champ de bataille.

[ fabrice farre : cantus ][ fabrice farre : cantus ]

GÉNÉRATION

Le jardin observé toute une vie entre tout entier par la fenêtre.La sève de l’arbre habité murmure,je crie derrière l’écorce une lettrepour les vivants qui abandonnent les murs,donnant un souffle à ceux que j’ai surpris.


33

& againhere it is: the realisation, the thought

on a far horizondrum stormclouds surf on the reef

now fishcast your mind back to that perfection of sunsetsbut unknown weathers building beyond

is it already gone

too soon

there was always this possibility of doubt

on & on

Charles Hadfield

fingertips inscribe balladsupon the sidewalk

gravity as co-artist

each breath a soldierattacking memory

arresting the emptyframe of creationin space

Jonathan Hayes

the impoverished bottle


35

midnight sun

Waking up disquietedin bright nights

in the stillnesswords without sound and

the seductive light ofthe glaucous sun

longing, consuming silentlyabsent any understanding

return of rollingwaves without messages

suddenly the remembered scentvoice without body

bewildering realityin the time of the midnight sun

translated from the German by Stuart Friebert

Ute von Funcke

beunruhigendes Erwachen in hellen Nächten

in der Stille lautlose Worte und

das betörende Licht der blaugrünen Sonne

schweigend verzehrte Sehnsuchtohne jegliches Begreifen

Wiederkehr rollender Wogen ohne Botschaften

jäh der erinnerte GeruchStimme ohne Körper verstörende Wirklichkeit in der Zeit der Mitternachtssonne

mitternachtssonne

Ute von Funcke


37

certainty giving way

Her bright eyesshadowed in black

her mouth, fully redno make-up, sincere

so whyhis fear

her blond lashescould loosen

feathers in the windwhich she’ll fly after

and just her white armwould be left in the black etui

certainty likethe gold ring on her finger

Ute von Funcke

translated from the German by Stuart Friebert

auflösende vergewisserung

Ute von Funcke

Schwarz verschattet ihre hellen Augen

ihr Mund, füllig rot ungeschminkt, wahr

warum nur seine Angst

ihre blonden Wimpern könnten sich lösen

Federn im Wind denen sie nachfliegen wird

und nur ihr weißer Arm im schwarzen Etui bliebe zurück

Vergewisserung wie der goldene Ring am Finger


39

•

Simon Perchik

Before each meal you write the letterword for word, holding the pen overheadthe way an axe tightens one arm

before the other, makes a markwhere there was none before, not yetthe call between one shore and another

mapped with sand and shallow water—you write out loud as if the paperwas once wood, used to reaching down

as bedrock. holding your handsin place, steady the sentences :criesthat could only be written, still too weak

to be heard, to leave your mouth, be alonethough you eat dry roots and twigsthat will grow again from your fingertips

have a beginning and an end thathas everything to do with hungerand no place else to go.

•

You want the rain to look like youchange its color the way each warm breezedisguises your breath as snow

letting it fall to its death alonenot sure which one was the lastknows all about shovels for paths

and currents that no longer moveare waiting here as if air and waterwere once the same, split in half

by the sun already swaying side to sidesnapping off the darkness covering youwith bottom stones—you want each drop

to have your eyes, see the Earthstill resting on your shoulderswhere there is no sky yet, just clouds

that smell from salt broken apart for tears—you dead never forgot how to wantcome here looking for someone you know.

Simon Perchik


41

*C’est sous les ailes que les mouettesont des cartesdu ciel des philosophesdes jardins javanaisde tes souvenirs en papiers trouéet je te raconte la dynamite le vent trop fortet l’accostage dans la Baie des ours noirs

*

Je ferais le travail de mortfleur par fleurdans ce pays de pollen inutilej’abraserais le solnulle beauté pacifiantemais quels ocres et quels rougesmangeurs de crépuscules

Osiris 81

in memorium

Diane-Ischa Ross (1947-2019)

bass swamp—mount gracewarwick, massachusetts 2019

andrea moorhead


43

discoveries

Andrea Moorhead

Something is rattling in the attic, it sounds like a milk can, but you didn’t put any cans up there, did you? I found bats hidden in the inside shutters, but they don’t rattle, and they’re asleep anyway. Maybe it’s a loose star, they do detach sometimes and slip off the hinges; I’ll go up and take a look, you’d better stay here, someone might try to call the environmental police, interfere and pull apart the winter. I’m up now, and the attic is quiet. The bats are still hanging upside down and nothing else is here. I’ll come down in a while, it’s so peaceful up here and I can’t discover any reason to return.

march orchards

Andrea Moorhead

Those are smudge pots, they keep the apricot trees in bloom, the peach trees warm; your hands are cold tonight, whispering leaves all around us, the air is hard to breathe, my lungs pull in the snow, frosted nostrils, your eyelashes are stiff now, we’d better move along, take the lower trail by the gorge, the orchards are cold tonight, the smudge pots so heavy that my arms creak and rattle, my ribs pull against the air, won’t you brush the smoke away, I can’t see any farther than the edge of the rock, something is shifting behind us, something glows all around us, have you seen this before, have you melted the night, wrapped the apricot trees with your breath, covered the peach trees with this unsteady light pulsating from beneath your skin? Let’s go now, move over to the edge of the rock: the waters are turqouise green and spring is beginning without a sound.


45

Andrea MoorheadAndrea Moorhead

Phantoms don’t walk with silver-toed shoes, they slip and glide, whispering about without touching anyone anything, they have gold teeth, though, and violet hair all the way down the back of the moon, are you with us again, can you see the stars off in the distance? Ringing bells out on the rocks, the waves compete for attention, your foot is already in the surf, pulling down pulling up, skin wrack covered, eyes glowing blue and gold, green and scarlet clouds drift by, phantoms don’t walk here anymore, they’ve taken off their shoes, no one can recognize them without their shoes on, they don’t wear stockings, they don’t wear socks or tights or anything else, they’re naked on the moon with violet hair all the way down the back of the sun stars and your mind has slipped off with the phantoms, told a lie or two, invented where facts were missing, but your shoes are crimson-toed, long and slender, emerald green and shining all through the daylight, the nightlight, the captured turbulence of candles snuffed and still burning wax.

if you see something strange

It’s beautiful in the rain. A silly story. They won’t buy it. Why not? It’s too simple. Their hair gets wet anyway. Why anyway? Because they’re in the water. In the sea. In the salt water over there. Over where? I don’t see anything except rocks and trees. Yes, over there, beyond the rocks and trees. Oh that, that’s just a band of monkeys writing poetry. Monkeys don’t. How on earth would you know? There’s a velvet slipper behind us. It wasn’t there before. A beautiful object from nowhere. A slipper for an unknown foot. Someone who wants to relax. On a silk divan? Who knows, maybe. It’s beautiful in the rain when the monkeys sing. I can’t hear them. Listen for a while. Their music comes on the breeze.

fantasies


47

flamingo sunrise

I found the rest of it, rainy months filled with dump trucks hauling away families of possums, red foxes, & zebra-striped skunks so that concrete neighborhoods might flourish, reminding me of chimney sweeps haunted by insomnia & coughing up charcoal dust instead of semi-healthy stinky London air.

Each beam of light refracted my skull & polished every prayer bead consisting of desnudo verbs sizzling with night blooming jasmine, anise & cinnamon.

I wandered into a typhoon just to see, as Bill advised, just to see what I could see beyond what I saw before I could see.

[ alan britt : flamingo sunrise ]Alan Britt

I wandered into a typhoon just to see, as Bill advised, just to see what I could see beyond what I saw before I could see.

While inside this swirling quartz moonlight shattering shards of clouded berries, unripe cherries, & bruised plums from the afterlife,I guzzled beams of astral light tastingof nickel with a hint of guava, kiwi, & strawberries dipped into a fluid flowing from the universe’s afterbirth.

Distant galaxies guzzling Reisterstown cognac had indigestion,but I suffered none.

Instead, in the potato light of dawn,I collected strength from a midnight tsunamiwhile spread-eagled upon slick pine needlesbelow webbed Palmetto fronds to detailcreamy mascara on palmetto bugs the size of indigenous thoughts fluttering my new crystal consciousness.


49

Violin with a feathered emotionrequests my hand in marriage,but I’m betrothed to words,words that invoke religionwherein angels sprout wingslike a black widow tapestry tasting the slightest aberration,slightest sensual algorithm of terra firma’s expanding universe,so I decline her request with a regretthat resembles a piece of chewing gumstuck to the bottom of my 6th gradeplywood desk, plywood desk lacquered to resemble beloved maple. Violin, electrostatic microorganism with oozing body & crystal for a brain.

Violin that prefers tangos over minuets.

Violin with a real estate license, yet turning the tables by preserving lakes, ponds, streams, & puddles, even, into nationalparks, thereby defying the zeitgeist.

violin

Alan Britt

Violin that cinches an alpaca skirtabove left knee far enough to entice the kerosene flame to betroth her to a British textile merchant.

This violin never sleeps.

No matter what.

She never sleeps.

[ alan britt : violin ]


51

What do I know of tradition?It is an empty milk factory inhabited by cats

here at the ghost center of Ventspilshere near the market on a Saturday

when cooing pigeons bump and twirlon the edge of the town hall steeple

once a Lutheran church and now the bellsring out and scatter the devils and birds

across the square. But people are stirring coming in groups of twos and threes

crossing the cold cobblestone comingto market. The market is old world

farmers in open wagons and flatbed trucksopening boxes of black mushrooms

garlic ropes and giant cabbage heads or wool socks and neon clothes.

It is a celebration of the liberation of Latviafreed from the Soviets from the Nazis

black rooster bread ventspils market

George Moore

from the Livonian Knights. Bakers roll outcakes and biscuits and the heavy dark loaves

of black rooster bread with the heft of a cobblestone. Old rye seed-heavy bread

a galaxy of caraway and thick smell of malta bread that survived the fires and thefts

the disappearances and forest crops of the dead. A dark bread I carry

in a re-used sack like a gold bar a rune a talisman or spell placed on the past

conscious of its weight and freed from my ignorance

of tradition.

[ george moore : black rooster bread ]


53

ode to dinosaurs

Geeorge Moore

I am more the Tyrannosaurus each yearcloser to the echo of footsteps on marble

in the halls of the Natural History Museumcloser to the tower of bones like letters in words

the secrets first found by a child’s omnivorous eyecloser to that era that passes and is buried

with cousins and grandparents and parents who disappear into the echoes of different halls

closer to the giant masks in archaeological tombsof the unknown and closer still to the small

iron replicas of the giants of the earth there on the shelves in glass cases in the museum

there on my dresser and there on my deskstanding by me when I wrote out the first words

awkward as lumbering creatures of an untamed worldextinct before we were born

and closer at last to the box that they filledand the disappearance of that box into memory.

Au loin en une langueHauturière et d’envolUn vieux magicien chanteQuand tu m’embrasserasAlors je reviendraiDe ce monde des mortsMais ces mots étrangersHier déjà le ventLes portait par iciAvec tous les nuagesCourant sur l’océanDe la nuit évanouie

mots du retour

Christian Arjonilla


55

Kirsebærtræerne blomstrer og enbyge af støv med farve som ibenholtlægger sig på arket for at forstærkeskitsens antydede forsøg på at fastholde dagene der svandtalt for hurtigt for hendes blik

Cherry blossoms and ashower of dust the color of ebonylie on the paper further hintingat the sketch’s attemptto hold onto the days that passedall too quickly before hereyes

•

Annemette Kure Andersentranslated from the Danish by Thom Satterlee

istanbulrobert moorhead

2019


57

•

Annemette Kure Andersen

•

Annemette Kure Andersen

Hvordan kunne skitsen afefeuen på papiret være så hårdttrukket op at hendes pupillermåtte bløde ved synet

How could a paper sketch ofivy be so heavily inked as to make her eyes bleedat the meresight

Indramningen af billedetpresser essensen af alle plantens forgreninger ind i et punkt der slår en dyb flænge i hendes blik da hun gårforbi

The picture frame squeezes the essence of everybranch in the plantto a point that cuts a deepgash in her gaze asshe walksby

translated from the Danish by Thom Satterlee translated from the Danish by Thom Satterlee


59

OSIRIS 88

ANNEMETTE KURE ANDERSEN, born in 1962 in Ribe, Denmark. She studied at the Uni-versity of Aarhus, where she earned an M.A. in Italian literature. Her eleventh collection of poetry (Reaktionsmønster/Response Pattern) was published in 2017.

CHRISTIAN ARJONILLA est poète, écrivain, peintre. Il a publié dans une trentaine de revues en France, au Québec, en Belgique, aux États-Unis, en Espagne. Auteur de seize recueils de poèmes, de cinq romans, de nouvelles, d’essais (tous inédits).

SIMON ANTON DIEGO BAENA, a resident of the Philippines, has work in The Cortland Re-view, Fifth Wednesday, Clackamas Literary Review, Construction Literary Magazine, The Inflectionist Review, Chiron Review, and elsewhere. He and his wife, Xandy, publish the online poetry/art journal, January Review.

HANNE BRAMNESS, poet, editor, transla-tor, and novelist who runs Nordsjøforlaget (The North Sea Press, nordsjoforlaget.com). Her latest books include Fra håpets historie (From the History of Hope, 2017) and Håp bygger huset (Hope Builds the House, 2018). Shearsman Books will publish both books as A Book of Hope in 2020, translated by Anna Reckin.

ALAN BRITT has published 16 books of poetry and teaches English/Creative Writing at Towson University. His work has appeared in numerous journals including International Gallerie (India), Kansas Quarterly, Letras (Chile), Magyar Naplo (Hungary), Midwest Quarterly, and Agni.

ROB COOK’s latest book is Asking My Liver for Forgiveness (Rain Mountain Press, 2014). Work has appeared in The Bitter Oleander, Heavy Feather Review, Indefinite Space, Iodine, Great Weather for Media, and Wisconsin Review.

[ OSIRIS 88 ]

ANDREA MOORHEAD’s collections include À l’ombre de ta voix (Le Noroît) and The Carver’s Dream (Red Dragonfly Press, 2018). She is the featured poet in the 2018 autumn issue of The Bitter Oleander.

ROBERT MOORHEAD, born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Recently, he exhibited his paintings at The Oresman Gallery at Smith College. Saras-wati (Saintes, France) featured his work in their October 2017 issue.

GEORGE MOORE’s collections include Saint Agnes Outside the Walls (FutureCycle, 2016) and Children’s Drawings of the Universe (Salmon Po-etry, 2015). Poems have appeared in The Atlantic, Poetry, North American Review, Orion, and The Colorado Review. In 2018, his work was shortlist-ed for the Bailieborough Poetry Prize and long-listed for the Gregory O’Donoghue Poetry Prize.

SIMON PERCHIK’s poems have appeared in Partisan Review, Forge, Poetry, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. His most recent collection is The Osiris Poems (box of chalk, 2017). Visit his web-site at www.simonperchik.com.

PATTY DICKSON PIECZKA, author of the novel Finding the Raven. Her second book of po-etry, Painting the Egret’s Echo, won the Library of Poetry Book Award from The Bitter Olean-der Press. Other books are Lacing Through Time and Word Paintings. Winner of the ISPS, Fran-cis Locke Memorial, and Maria Faust Sonnet Contests, she has contributed to over 50 literary journals.

ANNA RECKIN a British poet and writer based in Norwich, England. Shearsman Press published her second poetry collection, Line to Curve. Her poems, essays, and book reviews have appeared in the UK, the US, and internationally.

PAUL B. ROTH is editor and publisher of The Bitter Oleander Press, and author of seven collec-tions of poems, including Owasco: Passage of Lake Poems (Finishing Line Press, 2018), and Long Way Back to the End (Rain Mountain Press, 2014).

FABRICE FARRE a publié Mémoires (revue Ce qui reste), Inflexion (Rafael de Surtis) et Partout ail-leurs (éd. p.i.sage intérieur). Dans les revues et sur les sites : Revu 4-5, “Pieds nus sur la lande”, Alke-mie n°21, Mot à Maux 7, Rrose Sélavy 4, La piscine 3, “Apparaître”, anthologie proposée par Florence Saint-Roch et Beauty will save the world.

STUART FRIEBERT recently published First & Last Words: Memoir & Stories (Pinyon Publish-ing), Decanting: Selected & New Poems, and, with Christiana Wyrwas, Votives: Selected Poems of Kuno Raeber (Lost Horse Press).

UTE VON FUNCKE, author of three collections of poems, most recently, frau auf der flucht (scaneg Verlag/Munich). Two earlier collections appeared from Deutsche Nationalbibliothek/poesia vol. 1 & 2.

JONATHAN HAYES lives by the San Lorenzo River in Santa Cruz, California, where he pub-lishes Over the Transom, a literary / arts magazine. His most recent publication was in the anthology The End of the World Project (Moria Books, 2019).

CHARLES HADFIELD divides his time be-tween England and New Zealand. The fragments printed in this issue of Osiris are part of an on-going exploration of the tricky ‘border dispute’ between prose and poetry.

RAY KEIFETZ is the author of Night Farming In Bosnia, winner of The Bitter Oleander Press Library of Poetry award. His poems and stories have appeared in the Ashland Creek Press, Briar Cliff Review, Bitter Oleander, Kestrel, The Louisville Review, Sugar House Review and others. His work has received three Pushcart Prize nominations.

MARIE-CHRISTINE MASSET, membre du Comité de rédaction de la revue Phœnix, poète et traductrice. En 2017, Le Castor Astral éditeur a publié Le versant noir, sa traduction de Kevin Gilbert, en édition bilingue (Australie / France).

THOM SATTERLEE, writer and translator. His translations of the Danish poet Annemette Kure Andersen have appeared in Agni, Black Warrior Review, The Connecticut Review, The Literary Re-view, Osiris, Tupelo Quarterly, Verse, and Washing-ton Square.

MARIA STADNICKA, writer and freelance journalist based in Gloucestershire, United King-dom. Her publications in English include A Short Story about War (Yew Tree Press, UK, 2014), Im-perfect (Yew Tree Press, 2017), and The Unmov-ing (Broken Sleep Books, 2018). www.mariastad-nicka.com.

OSIRIS is available at:

•

Amherst Books—Amherst, Massachusetts 01002 usa

Booklink Booksellers—Northampton, Massachusetts 01060 usa

City Lights Books—San Francisco, California 94111 usa

Librairie L’Exedre—Trois-Rivières, Québec canada

Librairie Gallimard—Montréal, Québec canada

Grolier Poetry Bookshop—Cambridge, Massachusetts usa

St. Mark’s Bookshop—New York, New York 10009 usa

The Strand Bookstore—New York, New York 10003 usa•

J U N E 2 0 1 9 T I G E R P R E S S

E A S T L O N G M E A D O W M A S S A C H U S E T T S

P R I N T E D I N T H E U N I T E D S T A T E S O F A M E R I C A

OSIRIS 88 · 2020. 4. 14. · The Osiris Archive: The Poetry Collection, ... through my veins, wait...

Documents

Transcript of OSIRIS 88 · 2020. 4. 14. · The Osiris Archive: The Poetry Collection, ... through my veins, wait...