October 16, 2022April 9, 2024 edited by anders dahlgren

Emma Sullivan

Emma Sullivan is an emerging poet based in Berlin. She is originally from the US, born to an Australian father and a Sicilian mother. Nowhere, in particular, feels like home. You can explore her latest poems on Instagram at @in_klein_.

FIG SEASON IN HAMMAMET

I ask if you’ll buy me a magazine,
an issue of TIME published 3 months ago
You go
get the figs while I clack my nails
on a dusty can of tomato.
The radio
is blasting the music you hate.
It feels early and late, with an orange sky
Why
does time stretch like chewing gum here and bolt like lightning at home?
I roam
the cold marble floor with sandy bare feet
discreet when I slip in the sheets
I repeat
karmouse under my breath
and dream of my death.

Poetry in this post: © Emma Sullivan
Published with the permission of Emma Sullivan

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THE ODYSSEY - HOMER - FROM BOOK VIII

So he hurried up without even taking his cloak off, and seized a disc, larger, more massive and much heavier than those used by the Phaeacians when disc-throwing among themselves. Then, swinging it back, he threw it from his brawny hand, and it made a humming sound in the air as he did so. The Phaeacians quailed beneath the rushing of its flight as it sped gracefully from his hand, and flew beyond any mark that had been made yet. Minerva, in the form of a man, came and marked the place where it had fallen. “A blind man, Sir,” said she, “could easily tell your mark by groping for it—it is so far ahead of any other. You may make your mind easy about this contest, for no Phaeacian can come near to such a throw as yours.”

Translator: Samuel Butler