Complaints Vein Clinics

Todd Swift was born in 1966 in Montreal, Canada. He currently lives with his wife in London and works as a reviewer, editor and principal supervisor of "The Poetry School. Since 2002 he has been poetry editor of award-winning online magazine and in www.nthposition.com since 2004 Oxfam GB Poet Residence. After studying creative writing at the University of East Anglia, he worked as a writer for television and is the Author of three books of poetry. He is the editor of several anthologies of poetry and his poems were published in international poetry collections and magazines worldwide and on the radio. He won the Young Quebecer of the Year Award and was nominated twice for The Irving Layton Poetry Prize. Twice he rrepräsentierte Quebec in The League of Canadian Poets.

Theresa Neumeier

My violinist

fill their shelves in neat folds
auseinader their chrome music stand in the night,
ordered rows of air tickets,

for the same goal
only them to casually three weeks later
to cancel. You can keep order at home, retreat,

and play with it. Musing about things from
whatever reason hoards
passion, lets them fall again.

Married Have patience and duller,
elegance and whimsical dance-hall music,
is never wrong, until the last act

Turns law to theater, drama to
discipline with a long violin bow.
Cures bare nerves with ice and spring.

My violin player is more than talk.
your real talent is not the lawyer's existence.
Two houses blocks away from Baker Street

they solve small mysteries
of marriage in suspenders from Paris, held her
instrument in two purple-colored gloves.

Translated by Anna Barbara Brown



My violinist

her closet out thoroughly revealed
their chrome music stand at night;
ordered plane tickets in heaps,

for the same destination, only to cancel then
incidentally, three
weeks later. They ordered rest home

and plays with her. Thinks about things
for some hidden reason. Hortet
passion, then they can die.

Have Married with mindless Patience, grace
with wild dancehall songs.
is never wrong, right up to the last act Converts

law to theater, drama
punishment with a long violin bow.
Cures nerves with ice and feathers.

My violin player is more than talk.
your true calling is not Lawyer.
Two blocks from the Baker Street

it solves the secrets of marriage in
suspenders from Paris, her
tools in two purple gloves holding.

Translated by Chris anti Moukrioti



My violinist

capability resulting from their closets well
spreads her every night chrome Music stand out;
ordered tickets in quantities

to the same destination, zustornieren
umsie only three weeks later in passing.
invites you to order his house

and plays with her. Studying things
pious, for some reason. Hoarded
passion and lets them perish.

Married Have patience and sluggish,
grace and insane dancehall songs.
has until the last act never wrong.

power law to the theater, drama to
discipline, with a long violin bow.
Heals nerve with ice and feathers.

My violin player is more than just talk.
your true calling is not Avocatin.
Zwei Blocks von der Baker Street entfernt

löst sie die winzigen Rätsel
der Ehe in Strumpfbändern aus Paris, ihr
Instrument mit zwei violetten Handschuhen haltend.

Übersetzt von Theresa Neumeier



Meine Geigerin

lagert ihren Kasten gut, entfaltet
ihren Metallnotenständer jede Nacht
bestellt Flugtickets in Mengen,

zum selben Ort, nur um sie
zu stornieren etwa drei Wochen
später. Sie bestellt Aufträge nach hause

und spielt damit. Studiert Dinge
zu einem heimlichen Zweck. Hortet
Leidenschaft, dann läßt sie sie fahren ins Nichts.

Coupled parts with dull patience,
elegance with mad dance music. Plays
never wrong, until the last act

united law and theater, drama and
discipline on a bow.
Heals nerve with ice and feathers.

My violinist beyond my words.
your true calling is not a lawyer. Two blocks further
replaced by Baker Street

them the little mysteries of marriage
in garters from Paris, her instrument
holds a pair of purple gloves.

Translated by Julia Offermann

I Think I Might Be In Love With You Quote

Todd Swift was born in Montreal, Canada in 1966. He now lives in London with his wife, where he works as a reviewer, university lecturer and Core Tutor for The Poetry School. He has been poetry editor of the award-winning online magazine www.nthposition.com since 2002, and Oxfam GB Poet In Residence since 2004. Having received a Creative Writing MA from the University of East Anglia, he has worked as a TV writer and is the author of three poetry collections. Being himself editor of several poetry anthologies, his own poems have been anthologized, have appeared in international poetry magazines and have been broadcast around the world. He is a winner of a Young Quebecer of the Year Award, and has been short-listed for The Irving Layton Poetry Prize. He has twice been the Quebec representative for The League of Canadian Poets.

Quelle: poetry p f

My Violin Player

stocks her cupboard well, unfolds
her chrome music stand nightly;
orders airline tickets in multiples,

for the same destination, only to
cancel them casually three weeks
later. She invites order home,

and plays with it. Studies things
for some quiet sake. Hoards
passion, then lets it go to waste.

Marries haste to duller patience,
elegance to mad dancehall songs.
Is never wrong, until the last act.

Turns law to theatre, drama to
discipline with a long violin bow.
Cures nerves with ice and feathers.
My
violinist is more than talk. Her real vocation
's lawyer not.
Two blocks from Baker Street

she solves the mysteries
of marriage in petite garters from Paris, her
instrument held in two purple gloves.

in collection Rue Du Regard , 2004,
DC Books, MontrealISBN 0-919688-11-X (pbk)

Boho Clothing Stores Logos

Amanda Sewell, born 1945, has already begun as a child to write. She continued her education at the universities of Birmingham and East Anglia and taught English in Paris, Sydney and Brighton. She is married and has one son. 2001 saw her first book of poems The Appropriate Country (Waterloo Press, Brighton), which was already published in various magazines such as London Magazine, The Listener, Twentieth Century Poetry Nineties, Quadrant and Eratica. The time of their work covers more than 30 years. Alan Ross, Stevie Smith, George MacBeth and encouraged them to write.

Valentina Codevilla

northern Alaska

Today the sky is white as snow.
The sun rises: red as Bac n 'Pieces
in the Arctic Coastal Trading Store on the corner of
Ankovah street where
frozen ocean, solid as Pompeii, as crème de menthe green
is:
shiver framework without end and limits.

Black as bullets, caricatured snow figures,
like Batman is this frozen Gotham,
in the tundra is snow-like ice sheet
as Johurt the polar bear with Johanesbeeraugen,
accumulate under the Gothic Arken of Bowhead
Wal-jaw-bone, from Hunger died, reigns everywhere
gigantic, more optimistic spirit unvermesslich; terrible.

Aurora weaves colorful
curtains in the sky. Browerville
's bracelet shines in the stars. Laikas in their dog-sled tours
barking all night - to calm drifts
down the road. Tipped over, a Chevy
rest rely in the snow:
taking upon himself the burden of the impacts of the Arctic wind.

Translated by Tatiana Cherezova



northern Alaska

Today the sky is white as snow
The sun is rising: red as Bac n 'Pieces
In the Arctic Coastal Trading Store on the corner of
Ankovah Street , where the frozen ocean
, such as Pompeii resistant
a painting of green crème de menthe is:
a frozen surface, repeated several times.

Black as bullets, imaginary snow machines,
Batman Gotham
outside those frozen in the wilderness, with its ice rink, as
buttermilchige and black-eyed polar bear
collection under the Gothic vaults of Bowhead: umgerahmt
jaw bones of starving whales,
huge, mythical ghosts: huge, immense.

bind the lights in the north
colored curtains in the sky. Browervilles bracelet
lighted up at the stars. Huskies bark in their kennels
subdued all night by Snowden-
on the road. upturned
lies in the snow an abandoned Chevy:
Fighting against the arctic wind.

Translated by Valentina Codevilla



northern Alaska

Today the sky is white as snow.
the Sun is rising: red as Bac green n 'Pieces
in Arcitica Coastal Trading Store
at the corner of Ankovah Street where
the frozen ocean, sound such as Pompeii,
a painting such as crème de menthe:
a still image, again and again repeated.

Black as bullets, cartoons Snowmobiles,
Batman out of this frozen Gotham,
up on the tundra, with its skating rink, ice cream,
like buttermilk-Polar Bears with currant eyes
gather under the Gothic arches of the Bowhead
Walkieferknochen: emaciated , framed,
gigantic mythical spirits: immense, inhuman.

The northern lights weave colorful curtains
in den Himmel. Brownerville ist ein
durch Sterne erleuchteter Armreif. Huskies in ihren Hundehütten
bellen die ganze Nacht – gedämpft durch Schneeverwehungen
die Strasse hinab, nach oben gewandt, liegt ein Chevy
verlassen im Schnee:
er schultert die Hiebe des arktischen Windes.

Übersetzt von Judith Königer



Nordalaska

Der Himmel ist heute weißer als Schnee.
Die Sonne geht auf: rot wie Schinkenstücke
im Laden für Waren der arktischen Küste.
An der Ecke der Ankovah Street, dort wo
die gefrorene See liegt, hart und ewig wie Pompeji,
ist ein Gemälde, grün wie Crème de menthe:
a still image, frozen in countless variety.

Black as a projectile, the gross subscribed snowmobile
Batman storms out of the frozen Schilda
on the tundra and ice,
while buttermilchige polar bears with brombeerigen eyes
under the Gothic arched jaw arches
gather the bowhead whale: starved framed
giant spirits of the myth, powerful, scary. It

weave the colorful Northern Lights
canopies in the sky. Browerville is a bracelet
radiated from the starlight. Huskies in the kennel
barking all night, muffled by snow drifts along
der Straße. Darunten liegt ein Chevy
verlassen im Schnee.
Auf sich nimmt er die Böen des arktischen Windes.

Übersetzt von Isabella Wiegand

Hot Mid Night Clothes

Amanda Sewell was born in 1945, and has been writing since childhood. She was educated at the Universities of Birmingham and East Anglia, and has taught English in Paris, Sydney and Brighton. She is married, with one son. Her first volume of poems The Appropriate Country was published in 2001, by Waterloo Press, Brighton. She had previously been published in magazines as diverse as London Magazine, The Listener, Twentieth Century, Nineties Poetry, Quadrant and Eratica. Her work spans more than three decades. The late poets Alan Ross, Stevie Smith and George MacBeth all encouraged her to write.

Quelle: poetry p f

North Alaska

Today the sky is whiter than snow.
The sun rises: red as Bac n’ Pieces
in the Arctic Coastal Trading Store
at the corner of Ankovah Street, where
the frozen ocean, solid as Pompeii,
is a tableau of crème de menthe green:
a freeze frame, repeated again and again.

Black as bullets, cartoonish snow-mobiles,
batman out of this frozen Gotham,
on to the tundra, with its skating-rink ice,
as buttermilk polar bears with curranty eyes,
gather under the gothic arches of Bowhead
whale jaw-bones: famished; framed,
gigantic, mythic ghosts: immense; immane.

The Northern Lights weave coloured
curtains in the sky. Browerville’s a bracelet
lit by stars. Huskies in their dog lots
bark all night – hushed by snow drifts
down the streets. Upturned, a Chevy
lies abandoned in the snow:
shouldering the blows of the Arctic wind.

published in collection " The Appropriate Country ",
Waterloo Press, 2001

Wrestling Nike Freeks Shoes 9.5

Jane Routh ist Dichterin und Photographin. Sie betreibt Forstwirtschaft und hält Gänse im Wald von Bowland, north of Lancashire, where she has lived for 30 years. On the books of American writer Charles Wright it always comes back and she would like to travel long distances to take into account to see exhibitions of photographers like Thomas Joshua Cooper and Olivia Parker can. As an experienced teacher, she taught at the Poetry Business Writing School. Her first collection
Circumnavigation (2002) won the Poetry Business Competition. Teach Yourself Mapmaking followed in 2006.

Christoph Hueber

signal flag K: I want to talk to you
KILO

In the evening we sit on the cliffs above the bay
and watch the tides. When a beautiful sunset
announced, take your jacket and an apple.
A nod may mean that the buzzard back
is on the fence post, a small gesture
commented on the dark streak in the waves.
Neither of us has something to say
significant enough to break the silence.
I think I may prefer Ebben,
the bay an empty bowl,
missed the moment of change.

In the winter we will be putting the chairs
closer to the stove, all lights light
and read to us poems,
we do not understand.
The sound says most everything.
We can take turns, get tea and oranges.
Before spring comes not out of here.

When I'm alone again and used to the fear
at night when the sheep on the walls, crowd
I will remember to bars of the old tunes;
I will remember, to the singing in the bathroom.
be wrapped in white towels I
staring out through my reflection pass, on the dark sea.
on the red lights half a mile outside
find a dull deck lights with binoculars and watch the nightly
work of tiny figures.

Translated by Christopher Hueber



flag Winker K: I would like to contact you record
KILO

evening we sit on rocks overlooking the bay
and watch the tides. Are there signs
for a good sunset, you cross a jacket and an apple.
A nod may indicate that the buzzard back
is on the fence post, questioning an insignificant gesture
a dark streak in the waves.
None of us has something to say,
that would be significant enough to break the silence.
I think the low water spring are my favorite,
the bay an empty pool,
the elusive moment of change zwischen Ebbe und Flut.

Im Winter werden wir die Sessel
näher an den Ofen rücken, die Lichter entzünden
und uns einander Gedichte vorlesen,
die wir nicht verstehen,
für den Fall, dass Klang für sich spricht.
Wir können abwechselnd Tee und Orangen holen.
Niemand kommt hierher bis es Frühling wird.

Sobald ich wieder alleine lebe und Ängste gewohnt bin,
nachts wenn Schafe gegen die Wände reiben,
erinnere ich mich womöglich wieder Fetzen alter Melodien;
vielleicht erinnere ich mich daran, im Bad zu singen.
Eingehüllt in weiße Handtücher starre ich
durch meine Reflektion hinaus auf die dunkle See
removed after red lights half a mile,
find a weak light deck with binoculars and watch the night work
tiny figures.

Translated by Maria Louise Schlayer



signal flag K: I would like to contact you
KILO

In the evenings we sit on rocks overlooking the bay
and watch the tides. If it looks to a promising
sunset, grab a jacket and an apple.
A sign could read, the buzzard is back
on the fence post, a small gesture
could ask for a dark strip in the shafts.
None of us has something zu sagen,
das es wert wäre, die Stille zu unterbrechen.
Das Ablaufen der Ebbe bei Voll- und Neumond habe ich am liebsten,
die gesamte Bucht ein ausgelassenes Becken,
der Augenblick des Wechsels, den man nicht einfangen kann.

Im Winter werden wir die Polstersessel
näher an den Ofen schieben, alle Lampen
anmachen und einander Gedichte vorlesen,
die wir nicht verstehen,
sofern der Klang für sich selbst spricht.
Wir können einander Tee und Orangen holen.
Kein Mensch kommt vor dem Frühling hier raus.

Wenn ich wieder alleine lebe und an die nächtlichen Ängste
gewöhnt bin, wenn die Schafe an den Wänden wetzen,
I think perhaps scraps of old tunes;
I think maybe back to the singing in the bathroom.
be wrapped in white towels, I stare out
removed by my reflection on the dark sea of \u200b\u200bred lights
half a mile,
a weak light deck with binoculars and night make up look
plant tiny figures.

Translated by Sabine Stiglmayr



signal flag K: I will contact
KILO

evening, we sit on rocks above the bay
and watch the tides. When a rewarding
announces sunset, get a jacket and an apple.
Promised could believe the buzzard's back
on the fence post, a small gesture
explores a dark streak in the waves.
None of us has something to report so important
that it would be worthwhile to break the silence.

I think I like best the low waters
the bay emptied out of a pool,
the eternally fleeting moment of change.
In the winter we move the chairs of the oven
closer, the lights burn all
and other poems, we do not understand, read
, because of the sound.
Alternately, we will take tea and oranges.
It is hardly a get out of here before the spring.

Wenn ich wieder alleine lebe und mich an die Furcht gewöhne
nachts wenn die Schafe an die Wände reiben,
erinnere ich mich vielleicht an Fetzen alter Weisen;
erinnere ich mich vielleicht an das Singen im Bad.
Umhüllt in weisse Tüchern werde ich,
durch meine Spiegelung hindurch, Ausschau halten
nach roten Lichtern, Meilen entfernt, auf dem dunklen Meer,
werde mit meinem Fernglas ein blasses Licht entdecken
werde das Nachtschaffen winziger Silhouetten beobachten.

Übersetzt von Aprilia Zank

Favor Tags Wording For Wedding

Jane Routh is a poet and photographer who manages woodlands and a flock of geese in the Forest of Bowland, North Lancashire, where she’s lived for the last thirty years. Books she returns to most often are by the American poet Charles Wright, and she’d travel a long way to see exhibitions by the photographers Thomas Joshua Cooper or Olivia Parker. An experienced teacher, she was a tutor for the Poetry Business Writing School.
Her first collection Circumnavigation won the Poetry Business Competition. Teach Yourself Mapmaking followed in 2006.

Quelle: poetry p f

Signal Flag K: I wish to communicate with you
KILO

Evenings, we sit on rocks above the bay
and watch the tides. If there are signs
of a good sunset, take a jacket and an apple.
A nod might say the buzzard's back
on the fence post, a small gesture
question a dark streak in the waves.
Neither of us has anything to say
significant enough to break the silence.
I think I like low springs best,
the whole bay an emptied bowl,
the uncaught moment of the turn.

In the winter we shall drag the armchairs
nearer the stove, light all the lamps
and read each other
poems we do not understand
in case sound speaks for itself.
We can take turns to fetch tea and oranges.
No one comes out here till spring.

When I live alone again and am used to fears
at night when sheep rub up against the walls,
I might remember scraps of old tunes;
I might remember singing in the bath.
Wrapped in white towels I shall stare out
through my reflection at the dark sea
for red lights half a mile off,
find a faint deck-light with binoculars
and watch the night-work of tiny figures.

Jane Routh
in collection Circumnavigation , 2002, Smith/Doorstop,
ISBN 1-902382-43-9
previously published in Signal Flags , 2001, Blue Nose Poetry

Wemon Playing Withthemselfs

Die Londonerin Jo Roach begann 1994 an Lyrikseminaren teilzunehmen und wurde insbesondere von Mimi Khalvati und anderen Mentoren an der Poetry School gefördert. Jo war ein Gründungsmitglied des Literaturkabaretts All mouth no trousers . Sie hat Poetry and Jazz im Poetry Café mit Hylda Sims mit vorbereitet und organisiert seit drei Jahren Poetry Street als Bestandteil des Stoke Newington Festivals. Ihre Gedichte wurden in zahlreichen Zeitschriften und Anthologien veröffentlicht, wie beispielsweise in Oxford Poets (hg.v. Bernard O’Donoghue und David Constantine, Oxford University Press und Carcanet, 2007). Ihre Broschüre Dancing at the Crossroads erschien bei Hearing Eye.

Miriam Bross

Gespenst in der Maschine

Jack Davis, in Overalls und Cap,
repaired after his full-time job as a bricklayer
used bikes to earn to
to pay the mortgage for the house he
green, white and yellow highlighted at the time of the ads
in shop windows: "room for rent, no blacks no Irishman. "
In the storage room of number four p.m.
spare wheels attached to six-inch nails, the floor of a gravel
nuts and bolts, the smell of 3-IN-ONE Oil
heavy as Kaki. With hands, rough steel wool, aluminum rims
he polished silver, away from the chain fits
links to them. His memory is full
sea, gentle tones in each wave
as she was the one that broke when he left a country in which it
no words for yes and no are.
Sue-Sue Lambert, for purchases in Dunlaoghaire
meets one of the Davis and asks:
"Is not Jack because just come home"

Translated by Miriam Bross



ghost in the machine

with Jack Davis a cap in his day job as a bricklayer and
repaired Overall
used bikes to deserve to
to him by the mortgage on the green, white and yellow
to pay whitewashed house, at the time of the kiosk store ads
to rent "rooms, no blacks, no Irishman. "
hanging in the store room number 16
spare tire is six inches of nails, the bottom is a boulder
of nuts and bolts, the smell of three-in-one oil
as hard as Kaki. With hands, wear of steel wool, aluminum rims
he tampered with silver, it fits
away parts of the chain until it. His memory is completely full of sea
, finely attuned to each wave
as if it would be those who break when he leaves a country
where there are no words for yes and no are.
When Sue-Sue Lambert shopping in Dunlaoghaire was
she meets one of the Davis and asks
"Jack is but recently home come, right? "

Translated by Mara Tues Domenica



ghost in the machine

Jack Davis in overalls and cap,
fulltime Maurer, repaired after work
used bikes, a bit dazuzuverdienen,
to pay off the mortgage for the house he
green, white and yellow line in the time of the ads
in mom and pop shops, "room for rent, no blacks, no Irishman.
In the storeroom of the number sixteen spare tire hanging
six-inch nails, the floor paved with
nuts and bolts, the smell of 3-in-1 Oil
schwer wie Khaki. Mit seinen von Stahlwolle rauhen Händen
poliert er Aluminiumfelgen silbern, löst
Glieder aus der Kette bis es passt. Seine Erinnerung,
so voller Meer, stimmt jede Welle so fein ab
als wäre es die, die brach als er ein Land verließ,
in dem es keine Worte für ja und nein gibt.
Sue-Sue Lambert trifft beim Einkaufen in Dunlaoghaire
einen der Davis‘ und fragt:
„Jack ist nach Hause gekommen, nicht wahr?“

Übersetzt von Anna Hubrich

Black Sightings Closed High Cervix

Jo Roach, a lifelong Londoner, started taking poetry classes in 1994 and has been particularly encouraged by Mimi Khalvati and other tutors at the Poetry School. Jo was a founder member of All mouth no trousers , a literary cabaret; co-organised Poetry and Jazz at the Poetry Café with Hylda Sims; and has organised Poetry Street as part of the Stoke Newington Festival for three years running. Her poems have appeared in many magazines and anthologies (including Oxford Poets, 2007, OUP and Carcanet, eds Bernard O'Donoghue and David Constantine) and her pamphlet, Dancing at the Crossroads , was published by Hearing Eye.

Quelle: poetry p f

Ghost in the Machine


Jack Davis in overalls, wearing a cap
after his day job as a brickie, repairs
secondhand bikes, to earn extra
to pay the mortgage on the house he painted
green, white and yellow, at the time of ads
in corner shops, ‘Rooms to let, no blacks no irish’.
In the box room of number sixteen, spare wheels
hang from six inch nails, the floor a shingle
of nuts and bolts, the smell of three-in-one oil
heavy as khaki. Hands fretted from wire wool
he polishes aluminium rims to silver, removes
links from the chain until it fits. His memory
full of the sea, fine tunes into each wave
as if it were the one that broke when he left
a country where there are no words for yes and no.
Sue-Sue Lambert shopping in Dunlaoghaire
meets one of the Davises and asks,
“ Is Jack not after coming home? ”


previously published in Poetry Wales
and Dancing at the Crossroads

How To Clean A Snowmobile Crankshaft

Under the following labels you will find the 13th issue of our translations (poetry tREnD #13) and some information about the authors.