Journal

Two Lines Press
Print Archive
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Aleksandr Anashevich
Translated from Russian By Vitaly Chernetsky
girls dreamt: if only cocks could fly like birds
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Eva Ström
Translated from Swedish By Eva Claeson
The paper boy had fallen asleep. He lay curled up next to his bag of papers.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Eva Ström
Translated from Swedish By Eva Claeson
Work went on in the hospital without patients. The pregnant women died outside in the meadows. The birds protected the dug up fields.
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Fiction | Dec 2016
By Enrique Anderson-Imbert
Translated from Spanish By Donald A. Yates
He realized that he had just died when he saw that his own body, as if it were not his but that of a double, had fallen across the chair, dragging it down as it fell.
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Fiction | Dec 2016
By Félix Morisseau-Leroy
Translated from Haitian By Guerda Romain-Châtelain
I have seen the ocean stand up straight as a wall. It depends on where you stand to look at it. When you stand on White Hill, when you stand on Chamber Pot Post or at the head of Lil Coffee, it is like you see a huge wall of water before your eyes. All the time.
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Fiction | Dec 2016
By Nazli Eray
Translated from Turkish By Ozlem Sensoy
It’s nighttime. I’m alone. Alone, I went to Dream Street. I’m walking there. There isn’t a soul around. A dog is barking in a distant garden. I shiver.
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Fiction | Dec 2016
By Tununa Mercado
Translated from Spanish By Rhonda Dahl Buchanan
Listening to love is like hearing the sound of the sea in a shell. Eyes do not see, the nose does not smell, hands do not touch, but that sea crashes its wild waves against the cliffs or sends them like a gentle caress to the shore.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Agustín Fernández Mallo
Translated from Spanish By Zachary Ludington
My time by your side showed me there were no more reasons to believe in the impossibility of life after death than there are to believe that it’s equally impossible before. That the light that arrives at every instant and makes you happy and well-made is made of kisses that you sent out, and that in the form of an irrefutable truth [invisible] come back [who sees the light].
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Fiction | Dec 2016
By Nobuo Kojima
Translated from Japanese By Wayne P. Lammers
I hope you don’t mind if I skip the formalities. I’m writing because I read the column in your paper called "Can This Marriage Be Saved?"
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Kazuko Shiraishi
Translated from Japanese By Yumiko Tsumura
one who dies does not return to life so we make a memorial day call to the dead person
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Fiction | Dec 2016
By Juan José Saer
Translated from Spanish By Steve Dolph
Tomatis continues: Mario Brando considered himself an experimentalist, but he was a barefaced bourgeoisie. According to Tomatis, he lived and thought like a bourgeoisie.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Daniel Faria
Translated from Portuguese By Paulo da Costa
The women vacuum the house into their lungs
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Benito del Pliego
Translated from Spanish By Forrest Gander
They lie who claim they’re free and no one holds their reins. I’ve heard it said there are unmastered horses, but I think about their riders.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Constantin Abaluta
Translated from Romanian By Victor Pambuccian
I know the chronicler of the big rain. For my part, I will write about a small rain, a rain that’s slipping through your fingers.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Margarita Rios Farjat
Translated from Spanish By Matthew Brennan
I’m not here for good, I know.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Angélica Freitas
Translated from Portuguese By Hilary Kaplan
down below a samba does not call me because it does not know my name
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Jose Eugenio Sanchez
Translated from Spanish By Anna Rosen Guercio
help: I need somebody
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Arseny Tarkovsky
Translated from Russian By Philip Metres, Dmitry Psurtsev
I’m not a walled city above a river, I’m the city’s coat of arms.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Fanny Rubio
Translated from Spanish By Rebecca Kosick
The manner of closing a coffee pot distinct and particular in each case or the time spent on the toilet is what marks the quotidian rhythm.
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Fiction | Dec 2016
By Ján Rozner
Translated from Slovak By Julia Sherwood
It was around seven o’clock by the time he got home, somewhat later than in the previous few days, his head empty from hours of the intense effort to stay alert but also feeling hungry and, as a result, angry and irritable.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Shamshad Abdullaev
Translated from Russian By Valzhyna Mort
Sunstuck, a boy on a red-hot square, light and shadow. Beads in the hand of an old woman.
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Fiction | Dec 2016
By João Gilberto Noll
Translated from Portuguese By Stefan Tobler
On the following morning the Englishman knocked at my door. I woke up. He told me not to be concerned, but that he would take me to the hospital to see if everything was all right.
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By X-504
Translated from Spanish By John Oliver Simon
In Yard Seven there was a twenty-year-old kid who was in love with a metal icosahedron
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Dec 2016
By Benjamin Fondane
Translated from French By Nathaniel Rudavsky-Brody
I left behind one city’s sidewalks for other city sidewalks, millions of men for other millions of men,
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Poetry | Dec 2016
By Benjamin Fondane
Translated from French By Nathaniel Rudavsky-Brody
The world opens within us at the view of ships departing—they depart with their hair in the wind
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