[3 UNTITLED POEMS] by Kim Simonsen, trans. Randi Ward
In this millennium
you are like a bird that flew into a window,
a forgotten landscape,
a watch stopped on a wrist,
yellowing wallpaper.
Like the only guest
at every hotel.
If you hate yourself in this town,
you are not alone.
Summer is full
of signs without singularity.
A little spider
crawls on the wallpaper,
turns around, and hides.
From distant
mountain cliffs,
bedstraw hawk-moths.
Incorrectly
catalogued epochs.
What good does it do
to return
to this seashore?
The clear water smells
of tidal pools and tears.
The sun cleaves the water
like a diamond blade.
Randi Ward is a poet, translator, lyricist, and photographer from West Virginia. She earned her MA in Cultural Studies from the University of the Faroe Islands and has twice won the American-Scandinavian Foundation’s Nadia Christensen Prize. Her work has appeared in Asymptote, Beloit Poetry Journal, Words Without Borders, and World Literature Today; her work has also been featured on Folk Radio UK, NPR, and PBS NewsHour. She is a recipient of Shepherd University’s Appalachian Photography Award, and Cornell University Library established the Randi Ward Collection in its Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections in 2015. For more information, visit randiward.com.
Headshot credit: Perry Bennett
