Writing

Literature in Translation |

from The World and Varvara

“I once read that it was so cold at Lenin’s funeral that the musicians had to wipe their instruments with vodka so their lips wouldn’t stick. That’s about how chilly it was on the January day some eighty years ago when Varvara entered the world.”

Poetry |

“Leaving Childhood” & “At the County Fair”

“Suddenly, I felt sad for the hardness / of polished floors where things hit and break, / get swept up, tossed in the trash, not left  // where they fall, to be buried under / layers of earth …”

Poetry |

“I Dream About Buying a Gun”

“I don’t want to hurt anybody, / I don’t want to cause sorrow or pain. / I don’t want to kill my enemies, / but I dream about buying a gun.”

Interview |

“A Conversation with Alta Price on Translation”

“It’s easy to bring one’s own baggage to the work of translation, and I’m convinced one of my key tasks in this profession is setting all possible presumptions aside before I sit down to work every day.”

Poetry |

“After Reading Bashō, I Remember the Rain”

“I found a quail’s nest under sage plants near the house /  woven, I think, while we were traveling,  / & the yard seemed abandoned. // The hen burst out under a torrent of hose-water / I unknowingly sprayed into the leaves.”

Poetry |

“Reading Nadezhda Mandelstam in Virgin Islands National Park”

“Every trinket and provision and provocation arrives / By ships riding over sunken ships few remember. / The sea turtles surface for air only when it is safe. / Time is boats rocking their length against waves.”

Fiction |

“A Collision”

“A tall short-haired blond woman got out of the Honda who looked familiar, vaguely, and then both were standing in the cold in the alley, and first one said, Are you okay? and then the other said it and Caroline said, My puppy dog’s a bit rattled, and the other was so sorry.”

Poetry |

“Returning” & “Shimmer”

“… we pass what once was America’s tallest / radio tower, flickering red now / to tell the planes there’s something here / sending sound out into the night.”

Poetry |

“January 29”

“He’s stage four, small cell lung. He shrugs. / A guy he knows feeds his flock, / but he doesn’t sit with them. He doesn’t know their names.”

Poetry |

“Messages”

“The porch light shining on my bedroom ceiling / means my son isn’t home yet and the clock / glows an hour I used to rock him in my arms / with the stealth of a woven web.”