Journal

Two Lines Press
Print Archive
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Zhai Yongming
Translated from Chinese By Andrea Lingenfelter
There the steps are purple There the plants are red sunbirds There the stones grow human faces
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Fiction | Dec 2016
By Hortensia Papadat-Bengescu
Translated from Romanian By Dayana Stetco
The crowd was thinning more and more. Its excess, draining somewhere in the distance, had suddenly taken along those on duty as well, and the town seemed large and empty.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Maria Negroni
Translated from Spanish By Michelle Gil-Montero
One is the addled letter of my life,
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Fiction | Dec 2016
By Liana Badr
Translated from Arabic By S. V. Atalla
Her eyes are closed in the still dawn. Snuggled under the covers, nestled in the rosy glow that flows through the window, she wonders, What is time?
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Maria Negroni
Translated from Spanish By Michelle Gil-Montero
I, brittle, tenebrous man,
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Chika Sagawa
Translated from Japanese By Sawako Nakayasu
When the wind about to unravel her hair runs down through the thicket, it becomes a flame.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Chika Sagawa
Translated from Japanese By Sawako Nakayasu
Wrapped in a thick wool manteau purple like the fog
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Fiction | Dec 2016
By Carmen Boullosa
Translated from Spanish By Christy Rodgers
They’re so filthy! . . . No one can tell me otherwise . . . Filthy, noisy, stupidly crazy.—Me?
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Jirí Orten
Translated from Czech By Lyn Coffin, Zdenka Brodska
Sugar is dissolving and sweetness is seeping out, breakfast time.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Jirí Orten
Translated from Czech By Lyn Coffin, Zdenka Brodska
With a pocket knife the world had been cut.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Kirmen Uribe
Translated from Basque By Elizabeth Macklin
She asked us for a pocket radio to listen to the news in the hospital.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Melih Cevdet Anday
Translated from Turkish By Sidney Wade, Efe Murad
I begin my journey at dawn with my horse As the large morning bird wakes.
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Essay | Dec 2016
By John Felstiner
Translated from English By N/A
The rhythmic stretch of that richness reaches, for me, into Rilke’s lines, into those six charged stresses, gib ihnen noch zwei südlichere Tage, as in "grant them even two more southerly days." Maybe that yearning also shows up in the way he moves, augments, a stanza of three into four and then five lines?
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Ghassan Zaqtan
Translated from Arabic By Fady Joudah
When it was close and had found its way . . . the sound of its breathing and the scent by the door told of it.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Anna Szabó
Translated from Hungarian By George Szirtes
"What kind of spirit, what sort of fire?"
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