• Isabelle Macor

    Née en Tunisie, Isabelle Macor a vécu en France dans un milieu multiculturel, plurilingue, effectuant de nombreux séjours à l’étranger, Grande-Bretagne, ex-URSS, Europe Centrale, Israël, Maroc, et notamment en Pologne où elle a mené ses recherches sur la poésie polonaise contemporaine. Chercheur en littératures comparées, spécialisée dans le Monde slave et l’Occident,

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  • Trois nouvelles

    Ces assiettes moscovites étaient restées dans le buffet de notre cuisine à Forest Hill pendant 37 ans, quand mes parents vivaient dans notre appartement, et pendant les cinq ans qui avaient suivi la mort de mon père et de mon frère, alors que plus personne n’habitait notre appartement puisque ma mère très âgée avait déménagé avec moi.

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  • Alexander Manuiloff: Theatre can be a space of discussion

    After his 2017 tour to Washington’s ForumTheatre/Woolly Mammoth, the DC Theatre Scene called him “a rare creator”, the Washington Post found his piece “exceptionally thoughtful”, while the Broadway World defined Manuiloff’s writing as being “akin to magical realism”. In 2019 Alexander Manuiloff became the first non-German speaking writer to be invited to the prestigious 44-year-old Mülheimer Theatertage festival

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  • POEMS

    I am blowing the air around me I keep silent in their eyes and they are running away yes: they are probably running away to relieve the turbines that I have drifted away the lacuna carved by my spine they hit me with the pendulum of the space they look at me with suspect and fear they scratch me in their mind and then they leave me without seal without stamp without humanity

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  • Book Excerpt-The Night Time Raid on the Kitchen

    Cinnamon had to make the journey back. Again, he could barely make out anything. The blackness became a bit less intense but none the less, persisted. He decided to get down on all fours and crawl across. He bumped his head against the bedroom door on his way back. It was all he could do to stop himself from crying, but he bit his lips.

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  • Les chèvres de Vahid

    Des rhumatisants crispés par la douleur, des personnes à la colonne vertébrale opérée ou bien qui se préparent pour une telle opération, des retraités désorientés et des flâneurs comptent à contrecœur les enjambées restantes de cette vie éphémère. Dans la rue, à peine quelques personnes qui croient qu'elles sont encore en bonne santé et qu'elles n'ont pas été rongées par l'humidité du Luxembourg.

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  • Cement Rain

    The inner world has been cast in transparent concrete, flowing from an orange cistern on wheels. My mind has acquired a curvature and an opaque density, turned into a sandbox with playing kids caught inside a pearl as big as a dump truck. Yes, the gray cement drizzle was falling even then, at the beginning of time, when we were kids. No one could expect the tragedy then. We were drinking white wine in Valencia,

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  • POEMS

    I don’t remember exactly when I turned into a robot I got used to sleeping for three hours and working the rest of the time my free time was only when I was on public transportation of waiting for it in line that is when I read books life was others as well as hell I don’t remember when during the endless traffic congestion and the translations in which I saw little sense plus they paid barely a dime I trained myself not to think about

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  • POEMS

    It almost feels like you haven’t lived through all these disjointed years after the revolution, or the naive hypocrisy of growing old, -- perhaps this cage, security, or a slice of life like a piece of bought meat. If you only know what invisible thread what a taut and mendacious rope – I too under the flood The incalculable burden I too want to stop saying I

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  • TWO POEMS

    How many words to cover the heartless distance between us? And when you’ll take in your hands this antiquated letter, I will know that your palms will be sealing my faint fingerprints. I don't want them to be obvious, to offer my surrender so easily. I will then peel myself the few pretexts. Will I scare you?

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  • poèmes

    Son cerveau plein à ras-bord de matières scolaires en lieu et place de l'éthique, Ema a fermé les yeux dans mes bras rassurants pour encore une nuit. Toi aussi, cher Aïlan, tu les a fermés, mais toi c'est pour l'éternité, dans le giron d'eau froide. Tout seul tu t'es endormi pour toujours sur les plages de la Mer Égée, là où se baignent chaque année trop de touristes européens, qui en rentrant chez eux ferment leurs portes à double tour devant

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  • When I left “Karl Liebknecht”

    I am Ali from Iraq, I fled to Germany in 2016. A classic refugee journey: by foot, boat, foot, then train, foot, a taxi that robbed me, foot, then a van which took the last of my money, foot, swimming, foot, etc. until I reached Potsdam, without a penny, and my head bandaged because of a beating from two Syrians in a camp at the Austrian border. They thought we were taking their place in Europe and they would be sent back towards Syria,

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  • Joyeux Anniversaire Julian Assange, né le 3 Juillet 1971 La torture du Rêveur

    Je porte ma plume comme une croix sur mon dos, et j’avance. Voici Sisyphe roulant sa pierre à ma droite. La terre gronde sous ses pieds, il avance incessamment vers un but inconnu. Le mystère de sa torture se reflète dans mon âme, comme dans un miroir ténébreux. Je plonge au fond de la transparence de la glace en quête d’un Narcisse souffrant. Ses larmes sont les miens.

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  • TWO STORIES

    I am a rational man – I have never believed in what one can’t touch. I respectfully listen to stories about souls, connected by karma, and so on and so forth, but my attitude to the matter is over with this. At the end of the day, everyone has the right to believe in whatever makes them happy. Things are very simple to me – we came from earth and will become earth. But this is not the point now. The point is: I have faced a paradox for the first time in my life.

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  • Farid Ghadami: Literature is counter-cultural, inhuman and savage Interview by Irina Papancheva

    I write as I think, as I live. I think my novels are all completely different, but you can find me in each of them. My first novel, published about 13 years ago, is the story of a football player who is murdered at his home, but at the same time it could be perceived as a sharp critique of the Iranian educational system, Lacanian - Freudian psychoanalysis, and fundamentalism.

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  • THREE POEMS

    It’s Sunday where I am not - where roasted chestnuts are sold on the street, trams are orange and old, and someone else is learning to play the piano. The light solemnly says goodbye. Afternoons like this make me want to write poems about the smell of chimney smoke, about the unread books at home and about first loves. Of course, on such afternoons I don't carry a notebook with me.

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  • Interview with Christos Chartomatsidis by Irina Papancheva

    Some writers have influenced my worldview and approach to life, such as the classics – Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Kazantzakis, Zola, Radichkov. From others I have learnt the craft – Gogol, Vazov with his “Uncles”. Lately, I am more and more admiring Dumas, the father, who is an unbeatable master of plot. We know him best for “The Three Musketeers” and “The Count of Monte Cristo”, while he has written a series

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  • ABOUT TODAY

    I have a friend who is a communist and a friend who defines himself as one my neighbour is a fascist and what a fascist! it's impossible to find a radish the salad is here the onion is here but no radish! I was a nazi later on a socialist now I'm a Human

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  • Grandiosity of fake modesty

    i know they’ve all expected a downfall but instead they’ve found success and although they didn’t know what to do with it i didn’t help them when you exceed all their expectations you end up all alone * don’t accuse me i don’t love you every morning i wake up with a feverish desire to bite your toenails * when i wait for you i turn on a blinding light and then you arrive and turn it off (so that i can see you)

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  • THREE POEMS

    She has conspired with a woman dressed in green, who was missing a leg. She has resisted gridlines. She has stolen time from the bellies of spinsters. She has slept sitting, set tails on fire; with mountain folk she has eaten dark food. She has opened the shutters at night, taken out a ladder, switched on the lights, and washed the windows wearing only a bra.

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  • English Poetry and Modern Arabic Verse

    Ghareeb Iskander’s English Poetry and Modern Arabic Verse unravels the workings of the creative translational projects of early Arab modernist poet-translators, which revolutionised the Arab literary scene in the mid-twentieth century onwards—a fundamental contribution to Arabic literary and translation studies that is valuable for students and academics alike.

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  • POEMS

    and then you knock down the straw hut, alone / alone / alone in a hostile (in a sickly) universe, blinded by the Flash and the Bang, and then the iron hand will rise and it will try to crush you -- yes -- like a gnat -- (like a tiny gnat) -- yes -- corrupting your (very) / (mystical) essence, like a bombed-out sea of emotions... one day I will climb to the top of the hill one day I will find the bridge of moondust one day I will climb to the top of the hill

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  • POEMS

    Travel bureau Look, │ the seal sails like a boat on my dark blue ink tampon. │ Just a few centimeters away from the edge of the world. Fall We are not angels; it was known... Our wings won’t grow -was there any other suspicion? Have we lately become so superstitious as to deal with the Demon? Since fall is flying, we expect the change of times to clear our vision.

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  • Two Poems

    I often confess to the district tax collector to the court representatives who look in vain for my name in their lists To the gilded vestments of the bishops I confess To the open windows recently barred To the neighborhood butcher To the policeman patrolling alone at nights To the bailiff with scores of summonses that he releases to the wind like kites To the court martial I confess and their harsh punishment

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  • Poèmes

    Tôt ou tard s'en aller Plus rien à trimballer Partir après demain Prendre un des deux chemins Lumineux ou obscur Retenir les piqûres S'adresser au soleil Celui-là qui s'éveille Ah, toi qui es si froid J'accuse ton cœur droit De m'avoir laissée seule Pour me casser la gueule. Tôt ou tard s'en aller Plus rien à trimballer Plus rien à endosser Plus de cœur cabossé Marcher le long des rails Caresser la ferraille Gribouiller sur les murs

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  • Writing as Strolling Or Book as a Condom

    There is an ideal alliance between writer and transgressor (translator?): the Works of Marquis de Sade, James Joyce, D. H. Lawrence, Jean Genet, Sadegh Hedayat, and Henry Miller were (are) thus banned and censored and suppressed. Crime: they have not followed the stereotypes of language and have embarked on forbidden paths.

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  • When we are young, When we are girls, We climb trees, play hide and seek, We don’t have balls, but we have dolls It’s not a problem if we’re girls or boys As long as we share the toys. When we grow up We get the balls, lose the dolls, Release the braids and ponytails and wait for a suitable wind. And then we get a bit older. We become a mother or a woman, or if we are lucky, both. When we grow old, we look more like a father. Our breasts flatten and rest, we get a quite, unwanted moustache,

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  • L’enfer de l’amour au Viêt-Nam

    -Au-delà du charme esthétique de ce bâtiment, sa profondeur spirituelle a un effet hypnotisant. Tu n’es qu’une touriste qui se réjouit de la beauté. Mais, si tu tentes de poser un regard plus approfondi sur chaque détail de ce temple, tu plongeras dans l’abîme du sacré qui ouvre la porte à une nouvelle possibilité de soi. Chaque bouddhiste rêve d’atteindre

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  • Exhumation

    On the ground floor, the Syrian woman is already cooking soup using spices from her homeland, her front door ajar. On the landing, outside, there are her children’s tricycles and second-hand toys in a cardboard-box, bearing the name of a detergent brand, evoking the whiff of baby skin and dirty nappies. She can hear the mother’s voice joining those of her children;

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  • Tow poems

    The elegance of stone on a rock The liturgy of eternity. Cells. Stone guest, not a cross, but rook. The road was trembling, the rains washed away the ridges As a rainbow on hands the tears was dropping. I was living while losing faith. The sun, a yellow spot, was floating, Among the clouds, among the dots and the dashes of a sheet, Apostrophes, the softness of my tongue,

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