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Derrick Austin
I can’t imagine myself reading bedtime stories to a toddler, and I’m older than my father was when he read those brightly colored books to me.

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The English translation is a reminder of linguistic colonization. English now surrounds both Irish and Ojibwe, but in my translation is not the primary vehicle for interpretation. Providing an English version of the poem ensures it can be read by Ojibwe speakers who may not know Irish and Irish speakers who may not know Ojibwe. It also reflects that this is a poem primarily concerned with the connection between Irish and Ojibwe which is a decolonial act of reclamation.

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Máirtín Ó Direáin (translated from the Irish into Ojibwe & English by Margaret Noodin)
I will find Solace A short while only Among relatives Without sorrow Without mind worry Without loneliness Without confusion In the west

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Sarah J. Sloat

An erasure from Sarah J. Sloat's book of visual poetry, Hotel Almighty.

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Jane Wong
Hunger eats through the air like ozone. You ask: what does it mean to be rootless? Roots are good to use as toothpicks. You: how can you wake in the middle of a life? We shut and open our eyes like the sun shining on tossed pennies in a forgotten well.

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Cherene Sherrard

Mouth organ at midnight.
One woman supine, another
quadrilles—all blush crinoline
and caramelized curls—in a swamp:
what slithers and steams, moss.

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Kathryn Smith
Tell me again of the lepers who learn                   to shed their disastrous skin by eating the meat of vipers: something transmutable in the flesh. The ancients                                       spent lifetimes considering the resurrection of irretrievable parts:

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Walt Whitman
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong, The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work...

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Charlie Clark
To be serious is to have something unwavering inside you. And, oh, how I waver. I’d write anything so long as it was beautiful. It’s beautiful to touch either of my wife’s hands. My wife’s hands are warm as flagstones set out beneath the sun. When I touch them the ringing in my ears becomes the tuning of viola strings. I think it was something like this that made Andre Breton write “Free Union.”

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Perhaps, through my translations, I am driven by a similar impossibility: the desire to sense in other languages, through other filters, my grandfather's poems, and layer them on top of each other until he feels present.

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