Every Monday and Friday since July 2016, we publish a poem or prose text from our 'translation workshop'.

We've named this section of the site "Omer", in memory of Omer Hadžiselimović, one of the founders of Samizdat.



Beyond the bright cartoons                     

Are darker spaces where   

Small cloudy nests of stars

Seem to float on air.                                


These have no proper names:                 

Men out alone at night      

Never look up at them                             

For guidance or delight,    


For such evasive dust                              

Can make so little clear:   

Much less is known than not,                 

More far than near.


Philip Larkin, March 8, 2021






No! Revolution never crossed your mind!

For the kids who never made it through the schools

the Northern working class escaped the grind

as boxers or comedians, or won the pools.


Not lucky, no physique, too shy to joke,

you scraped together almost 3 weeks’ pay

to buy a cast-off uke that left broke.

You mastered only two chords, G and A!


That’s why when I’ve heard George Formby that I’ve wept.

I’d always wondered what the thing was for,

I now know was a plectrum, that you’d kept,

but kept hidden, in your secret condom drawer.


The day of your cremation which I missed

I saw an old man strum a uke he’ll never play,

cap spattered with tossed dimes. I made a fist

round my small change, your son, and looked away.


Tony Harrison, March 5, 2021






plato told


him: he couldn't

believe it (jesus


told him; he

wouldn't believe


it) lao




certainly told

him, and general






and even

(believe it


not) you

told him: i told

him; we told him

(he didn't believe it, no


sir) it took

a nipponized bit of

the old sixth



el; in the top of his head: to tell



Edward Estlin Cummings, March 1, 2021






I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed.

Inaction, no falsifying dream      

Between my hooked head and hooked feet:

Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat.


The convenience of the high trees!

The air's buoyancy and the sun's ray

Are of advantage to me;

And the earth's face upward for my inspection.


My feet are locked upon the rough bark.

It took the whole of Creation

To produce my foot, my each feather:

Now I hold Creation in my foot


Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly –

I kill where I please because it is all mine.

There is no sophistry in my body:

My manners are tearing off heads –


The allotment of death.

For the one path of my flight is direct

Through the bones of the living.

No arguments assert my right:


The sun is behind me.

Nothing has changed since I began.

My eye has permitted no change.

I am going to keep things like this.


Ted Hughe, February 26, 2021





Take off your shoe.

The last children’s size.

The glue’s instructions

in laughably small letters,

you’ll have to read yourself.


over the mussed wet shoe.

We’ll scuff the rubber surface

let the chemical process work into the crack.


our bodies too are made from the oxygen and carbon

of prehistoric stars.

Distant, lonely stars.

You talk about your mom.

So put your fi nger on the knot

we’ll tie the laces around the glued sole.

A shooting night,

A crazily tied shoe.

The last children’s size.


Petr Hruška (translated by Matthew Sweney), February 22, 2021






One morning early I met armoured cars                          

In convoy, warbling along on powerful tyres,                                  

All camouflaged with broken alder branches,                                

And headphoned soldiers standing up in turrets.                           

How long were they approaching down my roads         

As if they owned them? The whole country was sleeping. 

I had rights-of-way, fields, cattle in my keeping,                                

Tractors hitched to buckrakes in open sheds,                                

Silos, chill gates, wet slates, the greens and reds                               

Of outhouse roofs. Whom should I run to tell                              

Among all of those with their back doors on the latch 

For the bringer of bad news, that small-hours visitant 

Who, by being expected, might be kept distant?           

Sowers of seed, erectors of headstones...                      

O charioteers, above your dormant guns,                     

It stands here still, stands vibrant as you pass,                 

The visible, untoppled omphalos. 


Seamus Heaney, February 19, 2021






Vallejo writing about

loneliness while starving to


Van Gogh’s ear rejected by a


Rimbaud running off to Africa

to look for gold and finding

an incurable case of syphilis;

Beethoven gone deaf;

Pound dragged through the streets

in a cage;

Chatterton taking rat poison;

Hemingway’s brains dropping into

the orange juice;

Pascal cutting his wrists

in the bathtub;

Artaud locked up with the mad;

Dostoevsky stood up against a wall;

Crane jumping into a boat propeller;

Lorca shot in the road by Spanish


Berryman jumping off a bridge;

Burroughs shooting his wife;

Mailer knifing his.

– that’s what they want:

a God damned show

a lit billboard

in the middle of hell.

that’s what they want,

that bunch of





admirers of



Charles Bukowski, February 15, 2021






This celestial seascape, with white herons got up as angels,
flying high as they want and as far as they want sidewise
in tiers and tiers of immaculate reflections;
the whole region, from the highest heron
down to the weightless mangrove island
with bright green leaves edged neatly with bird-droppings
like illumination in silver,
and down to the suggestively Gothic arches of the mangrove roots
and the beautiful pea-green back-pasture
where occasionally a fish jumps, like a wildflower
in an ornamental spray of spray;
this cartoon by Raphael for a tapestry for a Pope:
it does look like heaven.
But a skeletal lighthouse standing there
in black and white clerical dress,
who lives on his nerves, thinks he knows better.
He thinks that hell rages below his iron feet,
that that is why the shallow water is so warm,
and he knows that heaven is not like this.
Heaven is not like flying or swimming,
but has something to do with blackness and a strong glare
and when it gets dark he will remember something
strongly worded to say on the subject.


Elizabeth Bishop, February 12, 2021






I wish you were here, dear,
I wish you were here.
I wish you sat on the sofa
and I sat near.
The handkerchief could be yours,
the tear could be mine, chin-bound.
Though it could be, of course,
the other way around.

I wish you were here, dear,
I wish you were here.
I wish we were in my car
and you'd shift the gear.
We'd find ourselves elsewhere,
on an unknown shore.
Or else we'd repair
to where we've been before.

I wish you were here, dear,
I wish you were here.
I wish I knew no astronomy
when stars appear,
when the moon skims the water
that sighs and shifts in its slumber.
I wish it were still a quarter
to dial your number.

I wish you were here, dear,
in this hemisphere,
as I sit on the porch
sipping a beer.
It's evening, the sun is setting;
boys shout and gulls are crying.
What's the point of forgetting
if it's followed by dying?


Joseph Brodsky, February 8, 2021






There were no undesirables or girls in my set,

when I was a boy at Mattapoisett –

only Mother, still her Father’s daughter.

Her voice was still electric

with a hysterical, unmarried panic,

when she read to me from the Napoleon book.

Long-nosed Marie Louise 

Hapsburg in the frontispiece

had a downright Boston bashfulness,

where she grovelled to Bonaparte, who scratched his navel,

and bolted his food – just my seven years tall! 

And I, bristling and manic,

skulked in the attic,

and got two hundred French generals by name,

from A to V – from Augereau to Vandamme.

I used to dope myself asleep,

naming those unpronounceables like sheep.

Having a naval officer

for my Father was nothing to shout

about to the summer colony at “Matt.”

He wasn’t at all “serious,”

when he showed up on the golf course,

wearing a blue serge jacket and numbly cut

white ducks he’d bought

at a Pearl Harbor commissariat . . .

and took four shots with his putter to sink his putt.

“”Bob,” they said, “golf’s a game you really ought to know how to play,

if you play at all.” 

They wrote him off as “naval,”

naturally supposed his sport was sailing.

Poor Father, his training was engineering!

Cheerful and cowed

among the seadogs at the Sunday yacht club,

he was never one of the crowd.

“Anchors aweigh,” Daddy boomed in his bathtub,

“Anchors aweigh,”

when Lever Brothers offered to pay

him double what the Navy paid.

I nagged for his dress sword with gold braid,

and cringed because Mother, new

caps on all her teeth, was born anew

at forty. With seamanlike celerity,

Father left the Navy,

and deeded Mother his property.

He was soon fired. Year after year,

he still hummed “Anchors aweigh” in the tub –

whenever he left a job,

he bought a smarter car. 

Father’s last employer 

was Scudder, Stevens and Clark, Investment Advisors,

himself his only client. 

While Mother dragged to bed alone,

read Menninger,

and grew more and more suspicious,

he grew defiant.

Night after night,

à la clarté déserte de sa lampe,

he slid his ivory Annapolis slide rule

across a pad of graphs –

piker speculations! In three years

he squandered sixty thousand dollars.

Smiling on all,

Father was once successful enough to be lost

in the mob of ruling-class Bostonians.

As early as 1928,

he owned a house converted to oil,

and redecorated by the architect

of St. Mark’s School . . . Its main effect

was a drawing room, “longitudinal as Versailles,”

its ceiling, roughened with oatmeal, was blue as the sea.

And once

nineteen, the youngest ensign in his class,

he was “the old man” of a gunboat on the Yangtze.  


Robert Lowell, February 5, 2021





I've got the children to tend

The clothes to mend

The floor to mop

The food to shop

Then the chicken to fry

The baby to dry

I got company to feed

The garden to weed

I've got shirts to press

The tots to dress

The can to be cut

I gotta clean up this hut

Then see about the sick

And the cotton to pick.


Shine on me, sunshine

Rain on me, rain

Fall softly, dewdrops

And cool my brow again.


Storm, blow me from here

With your fiercest wind

Let me float across the sky

'Til I can rest again.


Fall gently, snowflakes

Cover me with white

Cold icy kisses and

Let me rest tonight.


Sun, rain, curving sky

Mountain, oceans, leaf and stone

Star shine, moon glow

You're all that I can call my own. 


Maya Angelou, February 1, 2021






Mother, among the dustbins and the manure

I feel the measure of my humanity, an allure

As of the presence of God, I am sure


In the dustbins, in the manure, in the cat at play,

Is the presence of God, in a sure way

He moves there.  Mother, what do you say?


I too have felt the presence of God in the broom

I hold, in the cobwebs in the room,

But most of all in the silence of the tomb.


Ah! but that thought that informs the hope of our kind

Is but an empty thing, what lies behind? –

Naught but the vanity of a protesting mind


That would not die. This is the thought that bounces

Within a conceited head and trounces

Inquiry. Man is most frivolous when he pronounces.


Well Mother, I shall continue to think  as I do,

And I think you would be wise to do so too,

Can you question the folly of man in the creation of God?

       Who are you?


Stevie Smith, January 29, 2021






When I went to the film, and saw all the black-and-white

       feelings that nobody felt,

and heard the audience sighing and sobbing with all the

       emotions they none of them felt,

and saw them cuddling with rising passions they none of

       them for a moment felt,

and caught them moaning from close-up kisses, black-and-

       white kisses that could not be felt,

It was like being in heaven, which I am sure has a white


upon which shadows of people, pure personalities

are cast in black and white, and move

in flat ecstasy, supremely unfelt,

and heavenly.


David Herbert Lawrence, January 25, 2021






Morning, a glass door, flashes  
Gold names off the new city,  
Whose white shelves and domes travel  
The slow sky all day.  
I land to stay here;  
And the windows flock open  
And the curtains fly out like doves  
And a past dries in a wind.

Now let me lie down, under  
A wide-branched indifference,  
Shovel-faces like pennies  
Down the back of the mind,  
Find voices coined to  
An argot of motor-horns,  
And let the cluttered-up houses  
Keep their thick lives to themselves.

For this ignorance of me  
Seems a kind of innocence.  
Fast enough I shall wound it:  
Let me breathe till then  
Its milk-aired Eden,  
Till my own life impound it-  
Slow-falling; grey-veil-hung; a theft,  
A style of dying only.   


Philip Larkin, January 22, 2021





It is the whales that drive
the small fish into the fiords.
I have seen forty or fifty
of them in the water at one time.
I have been in a little boat
when the water was boiling
on all sides of us
from them swimming underneath.

The noise of the herring
can be heard nearly a mile.
So thick in the water, they are,
you can't dip the oars in.
All silver!

And all those millions of fish
must be taken, each one, by hand.
The women and children
pull out a little piece
under the throat with their fingers
so that the brine gets inside.
I have seen thousands of barrels
packed with the fish on the shore.

In winter they set the gill-nets
for the cod. Hundreds of them
are caught each night.
In the morning the men
pull in the nets and fish
altogether in the boats.
Cod so big – I have seen –
that when a man held one up
above his head
the tail swept the ground.

Sardines, mackerel, anchovies
all of these. And in the rivers
trout and salmon. I have seen
a net set at the foot of a falls
and in the morning sixty trout in it.

But I guess there are not
such fish in Norway nowadays.

On the Lofoten Islands –
till I was twelve.
Not a tree or a shrub on them.
But in summer
with the sun never gone
the grass is higher than here.

The sun circles the horizon.
Between twelve and one at night
it is very low, near the sea,
to the north. Then
it rises a little, slowly,
till midday, then down again
and so for three months, getting
higher at first, then lower,
until it disappears –
In winter the snow is often
as deep as the ceiling of this room.

If you go there you will see
many Englishmen
near the falls and on the bridges
fishing, fishing.
They will stand there for hours
to catch the fish.

Near the shore
where the water is twenty feet or so
you can see the kingflounders
on the sand. They have
red spots on the side. Men come
in boats and stick them
with long pointed poles.

Have you seen how the Swedes drink tea?
So, in the saucer. They blow it
and turn it this way then that: so.

Tall, gaunt
great drooping nose, eyes dark-circled,
the voice slow and smiling:

I have seen boys stand
where the stream is narrow
a foot each side on two rocks
and grip the trout as they pass through.
They have a special way to hold them,
in the gills, so. The long
fingers arched like grapplehooks.

Then the impatient silence
while a little man said:

The English are great sportsmen.
At the winter resorts
where I stayed
they were always the first up
in the morning, the first
on with the skis.
I once saw a young Englishman
worth seventy million pounds –

You do not know the north.
– and you will see perhaps huldra
with long tails
and all blue, from the night,
and the nekke, half man and half fish.
When they see one of them
they know some boat will be lost.


William Carlos Williams, January 18, 2021






Though  the  road  turn  at  last 

to  death’s  ordinary  door, 

and  we  knock  there,  ready 

to  enter  and  it  opens 

easily  for  us, 


all  the  long  journey 

we  shall  have  gone  in  chains, 

fed  on  knowledge-apples 

acrid  and  riddled  with  grubs. 


We  taste  other  food  that  life, 

like  a  charitable  farm-girl, 

holds  out  to  us  as  we  pass –

but  our  mouths  are  puckered, 

a  taint  of  ash  on  the  tongue. 


It’s  not  joy  that  we’ve  lost –

wildfire,  it  flares 

in  dark  or  shine  as  it  will. 

What’s  gone 

is  common  happiness, 

plain  bread  we  could  eat 

with  the  old  apple  of  knowledge.


That  old  on – it  griped  us  sometimes, 

but  it  was  firm,  tart, 

sometimes  delectable... 


The  ashen  apple  of  these  days 

grew  from  poisoned  soil.  We  are  prisoners 

and  must  eat 

our  ration.  All  the  long  road 

in  chains,  even  if,  after  all, 

we  come  to 

death’s  ordinary  door,  with  time 

smiling  its  ordinary 

long-ago  smile. 


Denise Levertov, January 15, 2021 






my sweet old etcetera

aunt lucy during the recent


war could and what

is more did tell you just

what everybody was fighting



my sister


isabel created hundreds


hundreds) of socks not to

mention shirts fleaproof earwarmers

etcetera wristers etcetera, my

mother hoped that


i would die etcetera

bravely of course my father used

to become hoarse talking about how it was

a privilege and if only he

could meanwhile my


self etcetera lay quietly

in the deep mud et





  cetera, of

Your smile

eyes knees and of your Etcetera)


Edward Estlin Cummings, January 11, 2021 





So when she hears him clearing his throat
every few seconds she’s aware what he’s raking
‘s death off his mind; the next attack. The threat
of his dying has her own hands shaking.

The mangle brought it on. Taking it to bits.
She didn’t need it now he’d done with pits.

A grip from behind that seems to mean don’t go
tightens through bicep till the fingers touch.
His, his dad’s and his dad’s lifetime down below
crammed into one huge nightshift, and too much.

He keeps back death the way he keeps back phlegm
in company, curled on his tongue. Once left alone
with the last coal fire in the smokeless zone,
he hawks his cold gobful at the brightest flame,
too practised, too contemptuous to miss.


Behind the door she hears the hot coals hiss.

Tony Harrison, January 8, 2021 





You like it under the trees in autumn,
Because everything is half dead.
The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves
And repeats words without meaning.

In the same way, you were happy in spring,
With the half colors of quarter-things,
The slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds,
The single bird, the obscure moon –

The obscure moon lighting and obscure world
Of things that would never be quite expressed,
Where you yourself were never quite yourself
And did not want nor have to be,

Desiring the exhilarations of changes:

The motive for metaphor, shrinking from
The weight of primary noon,
The A B C of being,

The ruddy temper, the hammer
Of red and blue, the hard sound –
Steel against intimation –  the sharp flash,
The vital, arrogant, fatal, dominant X.


Wallace Stevens, January 4, 2021 




This is newness: every little tawdry  
Obstacle glass-wrapped and peculiar,  
Glinting and clinking in a saint's falsetto. Only you  
Don't know what to make of the sudden slippiness,  
The blind, white, awful, inaccessible slant.  
There's no getting up it by the words you know.  
No getting up by elephant or wheel or shoe.  
We have only come to look. You are too new  
To want the world in a glass hat.


Sylvia Plath, January 1, 2021