Words Without BordersThe Online Magazine of International Literature Even Small Donations Make A Big Difference at Words Without Borders Dear Friend of Words Without Borders, Thank you for your support of Words Without Borders and its unique role in bringing literary voices from around the world to English-language readers. It has been an exciting year. As the premier forum for literature in translation, we marked our fifth anniversary with bold efforts to expand our circle of talent to include more professional staff dedicated to strengthening the organization and enhancing its offerings, more volunteers, more educators enriching the minds of more students, more active board members, and most important, more involved readers! Please join us in our continuing efforts to publish and promote the world’s best literature through a highly accessible and completely free online magazine, public events, education initiatives, and print anthologies. In 2008, with tremendous support from our donors, WWB:
We have even bigger plans for 2009. We will co-publish a special issue on international nature writing with Orion Magazine; publish an anthology and issue celebrating the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall; expand our education initiatives; provide in depth coverage of world literature through our blog; and curate more events both in and outside of New York City. But to do this we need your help. We must continue our work knowing dedicated readers like you expect it and appreciate and understand its importance. A gift at this time, no matter the amount, will make a significant impact on our small organization and will contribute to creating a global community that is based on mutual understanding and respect. We look forward to hearing from you. We wish you a joyous holiday season! Warm regards, The Staff and Board of Words without Borders |
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1933
Whole countries hover, oblivious on the edge
of history and in Cleveland the lake
already is dying. None of this matters
to my mother at seven, awakened from sleep
-Lynda Hull
Posted in hull, poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, Write, Writer, writing | Leave a Comment »
When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams
as the north wind lays waste the garden.
For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.
Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast.
All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life’s heart.
But if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.
When you love you should not say, “God is in my heart,” but rather, “I am in the heart of God.”
And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.
Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.
-Kahlil Gibran
Posted in poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, Write, Writer, writing | Leave a Comment »
In a Country
My love and I are inventing a country, which we
can already see taking shape, as if wheels were
passing through yellow mud. But there is a prob-
lem: if we put a river in the country, it will thaw
and begin flooding. If we put the river on the bor-
der, there will be trouble. If we forget about the
river, there will be no way out. There is already a
sky over that country, waiting for clouds or smoke.
Birds have flown into it, too. Each evening more
trees fill with their eyes, and what they see we can
never erase.
One day it was snowing heavily, and again we were
lying in bed, watching our country: we could
make out the wide river for the first time, blue and
moving. We seemed to be getting closer; we saw
our wheel tracks leading into it and curving out
of sight behind us. It looked like the land we had
left, some smoke in the distance, but I wasn’t sure.
There were birds calling. The creaking of our
wheels. And as we entered that country, it felt as if
someone was touching our bare shoulders, lightly,
for the last time.
-Larry Levis
Posted in Levis, poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, Write, Writer | Leave a Comment »
Posted in little notebooks, poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, short lines, Write, Writer, writing | Leave a Comment »
(from a law book)
Amelia was just fourteen and out of the orphan asylum; at her
first job–in the bindery, and yes sir, yes ma’am, oh, so
anxious to please.
She stood at the table, her blond hair hanging about her
shoulders, “knocking up” for Mary and Sadie, the stichers
(“knocking up” is counting books and stacking them in piles to
be taken away).
-Charles Reznikoff
Posted in poem, poet, poetry, Reznikoff, Write, Writer, writing | Leave a Comment »
Endnote
The great poems of
our elders in many
tongues we struggled
to comprehend who
are now content with
mystery simple
and profound you
in the night your
breath your body
-Hayden Carruth
Posted in carruth, poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, words, Write, Writer | Leave a Comment »
Mark Rothko
[ 01 Dec ]
London’s Tate Modern is currently
holding an exhibition of Mark
Rothko’s later works through to 1st
February 2009. The collection
plunges the viewer into his deep
“colorfields” – chromatic spaces for
meditation.
-Nina Alvarez
This is a found poem, stumbled upon on the front page of Artprice.com. If you have any found poems, send them in! This is found poem week.
Posted in poem, poem of the day, poetry, words, Write, Writer, writing | 5 Comments »
Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage [There is a pleasure in the pathless woods]
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean–roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin–his control
Stops with the shore;–upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own,
When for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.
His steps are not upon thy paths,–thy fields
Are not a spoil for him,–thou dost arise
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
For earth’s destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send’st him, shivering in thy playful spray
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth: —there let him lay.
-George Gordon Byron
Posted in byron, poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, Write, Writer, writing | Leave a Comment »
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune–without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
-Emily Dickinson
This poem uses slant rhyme. Can you pick it out?
Posted in dickinson, poem, poem of the day, poet, poetry, Write, Writer, writing | Leave a Comment »
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Poem of the Month 
“I have a new method of poetry. All you got to do is look over your notebooks… or lay down on a couch, and think of anything that comes into your head, especially the miseries. Then arrange in lines of two, three or four words each, don’t bother about sentences, in sections of two, three or four lines each.” -Allen Ginsberg
On November 23rd, I asked readers to try the exercise above and send me in their results. Here’s one from Muriel Inniss.
all red,
the life i dread,
stolen bread,
left for near dead,
blood in my head,
salty tears shed,
enough said