beverley bie brahic's Writings
A Web Not a lace tablecloth laid out to dry. Not a tightrope tossed from point a to point b across a dry gulch of nothingness (spindly Joshua tree); not even a safety net to snatch the trapezist out of the blue star-spangled in gravity. No—nothing so predictable. Not your dew-studded-orb-at-dawn- when-sunlight-catches-it, but...
from Yves Bonnefoy, DEBUT ET FIN DE LA NEIGE (Paris, Mercure de France, 1991)
I had gone out To fetch water from the well, by the trees, And I was in the presence of another sky. Gone the constellations of a moment ago, Three-fourths of the firmament was void, The blackest black held sway there alone, But to the left, above the horizon, In among the tops of the oak trees, Was a cluster of reddish glowing stars A fire, from which even smoke...
BEVERLEY BIE BRAHIC was born in Canada, and lives in Paris and Stanford, California. A translator and poet, her work has appeared in Field, Literary Imagination, Notre Dame Review, Oxford Poetry, PN Review, Poetry, The Times Literary Supplement, and...