Size / / /

sed revocare gradum superasque evadere ad auras,
hoc opus, hic labor est.

Yesterday the sibyl spoke
at Cumae one hundred mouths
one hundred lips, tunnels, screams,
tongues opened, and we heard

the god's voice shining: the sound
of death in rushing waters
the clouds array forth battle
there's blood in the flight of birds

and promises, promises, promises
the words you dream in ruins.

O Musegetes Hekebolos Mantikos
Phoibos Apollon Parnopios
what plague-born poem is singing
from the arrows of your tongue?

(I dreamed of Sappho first
forgot all after, thirsting
for the poem she would become.
O Muse O Muse O Muse—)

The thirst of Tantalos
to stoop and scoop and never drink
to drink and drink and never slake
with wine or water longing

Yesterday one hundred mouths
one hundred tongues spoke
inescapable Nemesis sounding
from every shadowy cave

with promises, promises, promises
the words you dream in ruins
the downward hellward path, the door
that night and day stands wide—

And are you brave, brave, brave?
And are you brave?




Liz Bourke is a cranky queer person who reads books. She holds a Ph.D in Classics from Trinity College, Dublin. Her first book, Sleeping With Monsters, a collection of reviews and criticism, is published by Aqueduct Press. Find her at her blog, where she's been known to talk about even more books thanks to her Patreon supporters. Or find her at her Twitter. She supports the work of the Irish Refugee Council and the Abortion Rights Campaign.
Current Issue
22 Apr 2024

We’d been on holiday at the Shoon Sea only three days when the incident occurred. Dr. Gar had been staying there a few months for medical research and had urged me and my friend Shooshooey to visit.
...
Tu enfiles longuement la chemise des murs,/ tout comme d’autres le font avec la chemise de la mort.
The little monster was not born like a human child, yelling with cold and terror as he left his mother’s womb. He had come to life little by little, on the high, three-legged bench. When his eyes had opened, they met the eyes of the broad-shouldered sculptor, watching them tenderly.
Le petit monstre n’était pas né comme un enfant des hommes, criant de froid et de terreur au sortir du ventre maternel. Il avait pris vie peu à peu, sur la haute selle à trois pieds, et quand ses yeux s’étaient ouverts, ils avaient rencontré ceux du sculpteur aux larges épaules, qui le regardaient tendrement.
We're delighted to welcome Nat Paterson to the blog, to tell us more about his translation of Léopold Chauveau's story 'The Little Monster'/ 'Le Petit Monstre', which appears in our April 2024 issue.
For a long time now you’ve put on the shirt of the walls,/just as others might put on a shroud.
Issue 15 Apr 2024
By: Ana Hurtado
Art by: delila
Issue 8 Apr 2024
Issue 1 Apr 2024
Issue 25 Mar 2024
By: Sammy Lê
Art by: Kim Hu
Issue 18 Mar 2024
Strange Horizons
Issue 11 Mar 2024
Issue 4 Mar 2024
Issue 26 Feb 2024
Issue 19 Feb 2024
Issue 12 Feb 2024
Load More
%d bloggers like this: