Audio

  • Photo by Kables/Flickr Their language rolls out, soft carpet in front of them.Strolling slowly beneath trees, men in white shirts, belts, baggy trousers,women in scarves,glinting cigarettes in the dusk.What they left to be here, in the cold country,where winter lasts forever,haunts them in the dark –golden hue of souk in sunlight,gentle calling through str...
  • Photo by Pieter Stockmans “Syrian refugees go about their business in a refugee camp in Mafraq, Jordan . . .”  Ropes on poles, jeans & shirts flapping in wind.He sits on a giant bag of rice, head in hands.  Too much or too little, rips & bursts & furrows. Something seared in a pan.  If you knew a mother, any mother, you would carefor...
  •   White Body Radiation Every day adjustments   before give upbefore make do   start where a clothespin clips a nose and breath is held until – What is a thing of beautyif it isn’t us? And if a body is hellwhat then? And if one can’t bear to look back at the sight of what one has come for then the other, the retrieved, just keeps waltzing toward light. Right?  Is six paces back far enough to danc...
  • Inventing Peace I make this room a country of peace. Within these walls, I am the harmony of an individualwith no nationalism, claims or agenda, no chorus of discord, no borders but redwood wainscotting. I invent this gold lightby noticing and appreciating the light. I am every human in this roomand I make this parlour a canton of peace. It starts with one, so I invent a space of calm – the furn...
  • Jesus Never Understood My Grandmother's Prayers
    Photo by Marjan Lazarevski Jesus Never Understood My Grandmother’s Prayers My grandmother never learned Spanishwas afraid of forgetting her godswas afraid of waking up in the morningwithout the prodigals of her offspring in her memory.My grandmother believed that you could onlytalk to the wind in Zoquebut she kneeled before the saintsand prayed with more fervor than anyone.Jesus never heard her...
  • Maize Flower
    Translators’ Note Juan Hernández Ramírez describes both Nahuatl and Spanish as mirrors for his writing: “sirven de espejo, kewak se teskatl.” He does not write solely in one language, but rather both Nahuatl and Spanish perform together to create the pastiche of images in his poetry. The title of his book is indicative of this, as Juan writes Chikome Xochitl as...
  • Photo by Katerina Cheiladaki
    Photo by Katerina Cheiladaki Translator’s note: Arvanitika, or Arberishte as it is called in the Corinthian mountain villages, is one of the many languages in the world facing extinction. It was once spoken in central Greece and in the Peloponnese and its islands. It has no official writing system or dictionaries and h...
  •    July 2013
    Translator’s note: Roubaud wrote the first poem, “À cinq heures du soir” (itself a nod to Lorca’s famous “La cogida y la muerte”), about Warren Motte’s dog Lucy, who shared with her owner a game of virtual fetch that evolved into a game wherein he struck the classic poses of the toreador while she charged him like a bull; see Motte’s “On Interspecies Love and Canine Tauromachy,” Cont...
  •    March 2011
    Dumitru Belinschi / keyboards & piano; Marius Gagiu / flute & percussion; Mario Florescu / drums & percussion; Virgil Mihaiu / poetry & percussion This audio sample is recorded fragments from Mihaiu and his jazz-poetry outfit (for the occasion, named JAZZOGRAPHIC /SHABAH) performing at the last World Exhibition of the 20th century, held in Lisbon in 1998. Because of the context,...
  •    July 2013
    Ghazal Shakeel Badayuni My heart longs to go beyond the obsession of love,and find joy in a new session of love.  Love drowned me in its tidesbut my heart hopes that was a mere digression of love. My lover and I are so far apart –my heart yearns to make a confession of love. For so long my life has been colorless,but my heart wants a new impression of love.  May God save heave...
  •    May 2013
        Placing Everything on the Line Zvonko Karanović A car stops in the middle of the screena gentleman walks out dressed in black, wearing a hat,  grabs a frightened girl by the armblackmails her to marry him  desperate, she jumps off the building and all the newspapersprint the news on their front pages  the machinery of death always goes hand in handwith the machinery of large circulations  B...
  • The four recordings here are from Poet in Andalucía, forthcoming from the University of Pittsburgh Press in January 2012.   "Tree of Red Leaves, Jaén" "Tree of Red Leaves, Jaén" by Nathalie Handal by worldlittoday   "Prophet in Andalucía" "Prophet in Andalucía" by Nathalie Handal by worldlittoday "La Guerra" "La Guerra" by Nathalie Handal by worldlittoday   "The Courtyard o...
  • Swallows. Photo by Kenneth Cole Schneider/Flickr
    Swallows. Photo by Kenneth Cole Schneider/Flickr The Swallows G. Mend-Ooyo  Returning from afar, swallows in flocksEmbrace the tales of the gentle, tranquil steppe.The waters of eternity were spilt into the yellow steppe’s palms,And, ever since, these little birds have dared not leave.  Once, out riding with my father many years ago,There were swallows flying over the lonely hil...
  • Amarsana Ulzytuev. Photo © Anna Dikareva.
      The author reading at the Gogol House Museum in Moscow, February 2014. Photo © Anna Dikareva. Listen to videotaped recordings of both Russian originals in the following clip (4:00-10:05).   Shenhen Buryat Out of the embittering mountains, out of faraway valleys, out of China,Legends from “under the counter,” the hiding places, Open Sesames,As though out of the blue the gold hoard of Kolchak’s...
  • Photo by Gwaga
       March 2014
    Photo by Gwaga Little Men  Animals no longer speakDrums refuse to beatTanganyika slowly retreats From her shoresBloodied by the nightmare of menWhose pettiness piercesThe deep slumber of the ancients.Little men with the hunger of giantsThey talk, they talk endlesslyIn the name of simple folksWhose names and afflictions they ignoreBut who nonethelessStare at them with the disdain of countless cu...
  • Kookaburras in a tree. Photo by Jaraslavd/Flickr I thought it said on the girl’s red purseA kind of sad dance and all dayWondered what was being defined . . .The real love that followsEarly delight and ignorance.A wonderful sad dance that comes after.– Jack Gilbert, “Pavane” I may be sitting inside the best afternoon The world has put on since the Permian Extinction.                  ...
  • Irma Pineda "You Will Not See Me Die"   Natalia Toledo "The Weaver"   "For T.S. Eliot"   Victor Terán "I Know Your Body"
  •    May 2012
      On the Edges of Autumn I shall close death’s doors.I am the autumn’s last flower.Edith Södergran   My body is like algaeExhausted by the night’s diving.Gather me up in your bluenessThat I might float on the surface of your sleep –A purple dream.Perhaps,Perhaps a plant shall bloomOn the edges of autumn.   Nothing . . .  On the outskirts of autumn,I...
  •    July 2013
    Photo: Daniel Boud   This is my devotion, then: to walk sometimes                                             with the dog through the sclerophyll Cathedral of the morning. To let myself Off my lead and follow a half-made track,                                                        thinking a dilapidated liturgy, Through bracken fern and native raspberry, three kinds Of gum and a hundred kinds...
  •    May 2012
      Following is a selection of four bilingual audio readings from Shizue Ogawa’s A Soul at Play, a collection of verse reviewed in the May 2012 issue of WLT. Donna Tamaki provides the English reading, and Hikaru Tamaki accompanies Tamaki and the author on the cello.     井戸 - (The Well)     ライラックの木の下 (Under a Lilac Tree)      炎 — 遊ぶ魂 (Flames — A Soul at Play)    足あと (Tracks)
  •    May 2012
    Audio versions read by the author Editorial note: Geoffrey Philp’s interview with Erika J. Waters appears in the May 2012 issue of WLT on pages 24–29.     A Prayer for My Children When you find yourself in a faraway land surrounded by men, animals that mutter strange sounds, do not be afraid: neither you, your parents,   nor your ancestors have ever been alone. So tr...
  • The Stream
      How tenderly the stream flowsamong the numberless blossomswhose heads dip and weavein the tepid east wind, how warmthe insect tune, and multitudethe ripe green grasses, rank on rankthrough which it runs, carryingthe sky in its light-rippled glass.  On either side the land smoothly risesto farther painted rocks wheretrails of all animals smaller than sheepcross and re-cross in the pale sand,pl...