This story begins long long long long ago So long ago that it was a place not a time There was a man He was so alone The only person he could talk to was Africa Luckily there was a tree nearby Even more luckily behind that tree That’s where his partner was hiding All the sun and all the water were condensed Into a single tiny block Which the man planted in the sandy soil He blew and he blew on that spot Each time he blew he thought he heard something What he was hearing was of course his partner singing
Bibliography: The Epic of Gilgamesh: The Babylonian Epic Poem and Other Texts in Akkadian and Sumerian, translated and with an introduction by Andrew George (Allen Lane The Penguin Press, 1999). The poem below and its editorial matter appear on pages 175–189.
Three times a year Abigail Lang, Olivier Brossard and Vincent Broqua organize a two-day "Poets & Critics" symposium in Paris – during which they welcome a multinational and multilingual group of writers, scholars and artists to discuss the work of one English-language poet. The terrifying but exhilarating condition: the poet will also be there. The poet will talk back to you. You will talk back to the poet. Hopefully you will begin talking together.
As a kid, you might have made a new pal on the schoolyard—over a game of kickball, say, maybe even after you'd kicked someone, or they kicked you. Such are the strange shifts of human relationships. The friendship of Sarah Stickney and Diana Thow began far less traumatically, though impelled by a similar desire to connect—if not on a playground, far from their respective home turfs.
In her essay, "Translating Writing/ Writing Translation," Cole Swensen articulates the sensation of palpable contact brought about by the process of translation, "the collision of … deep structures, assumptions, and traces" that simultaneously inhabits the translator and influences the yet-to-be-written. "The foreign here is the agent that prevents stagnation."