deviant art

Deviant Login
Buy ArtBuy T-Shirts & Gear Buy adCast Buy Premium Membership
Shop		  Join deviantART for FREE Take the Tour
:icontransliterations:

#transliterations

from one world to another
+Watch
HomeAbout UsGalleryJournal
Group Info Group Founded 2 Years ago Statistics 318 Members
24,158 Pageviews351 Watchers
Join our Group Send a Note
Join Now 
Buy T-Shirts & Gear 
Advertise Here

All About Asymptote

:iconzebrazebrazebra:




George Bernard Shaw once said: "If you have an apple and I have an apple and we exchange apples then you and I will still each have one apple. But if you have an idea and I have an idea and we exchange those ideas, then each of us will have two ideas." Asymptote Journal embodies this sentiment, battling bravely against the two tyrannies of distance and every beautiful and irritatingly different language on this planet to bring you the best literature in the world. They've just celebrated their second anniversary with events in Barcelona, Beijing, Berlin, Chicago, Islamabad, New York, Singapore, and Taipei--and, seeing as how deviantART is practically a separate country in its own right, I thought I'd bring the party here too.

So why have I come out of the woodwork like a bookworm that lost its way to spout at you, spit and glittering eyes, about this great magazine? Well, you may not know that one of the past heroes of the dA literature community, !lovetodeviate, is poetry editor at Asymptote. That fact recently led me, like a lamb to a tea party completely sans slaughter, to inquire about getting involved myself, with the happy outcome that I am now interning for the journal myself. And I'm excited. I really am. And I want to share that excitement with you.

But personal factors aside, this is also an extremely valuable submission opportunity for those of you who work in more than one language; Asymptote is always looking for fiction, poetry, drama, and literary nonfiction which has been translated from another language into English, as well as criticism and interviews either translated into or written in English. They're also always on the lookout for visual artists for their covers. And to be published in Asymptote is to be published in incredibly good company; in the past two years they've seen contributions from such greats as Haruki Murakami, Etgar Keret, Howard Goldblatt and three separate Nobel Prize winners. That's one hell of a dinner party. 

On that note: Asymptote's submission guidelines can be found here. Please follow them carefully, or it'll be on my head. Note the current call for fiction from Africa!

But what if your tongue only swings one way? The good news is, it doesn't matter if you're monolingual or a disgusting polyglot like `tiganusi; if you love literature and want to help us bring you more amazing work from around the globe, you can. As you might have ascertained from the swish video up above, Asymptote is currently running an Indiegogo campaign, and we really need your help. Perks include postcards, posters, literary care packages and an exclusive series of totes I personally spent a very harrowing two weeks arranging, so I can guarantee they're good. I'm so serious about this that anyone who puts their money where their mouth is will get a free poem from me. To put in their mouth. Or something.

Or everything. Because this is serious. And right now, if the curious monogreen of our little community is the Garden of Eden, then I'm the snake wisping down a tree with an apple. That apple is Asymptote. And if you bite into it, you'll be just like Eve. You'll discover an entire world.
36 Comments
All About Asymptote January 28 36 Comments 17 Favourites
More Journal Entries

Transliterated DDs

A Pinpoint Viewlook, they said
     what do you see
you can only have a pinpoint view

----------------------------------------------------------------

I turned the lenses upside down, sometimes it is good to look at things askew :
I saw crumpled paper hanging by a girl's head, she lay on earth suspended, looking
down upon the pages she was tearing from a book ..

Those Other Pages

time sometimes hangs
             upside down.

here we are again, reliving old transcripts
of who said what;

and then there are those 'other conversations'
which run in our heads When God Sleeps.I. So it comes to this: pangea tearing itself raw
from our throats to pour into squares of newly open sky
where the stars grew aches and darkened lakewater
once bloomed into bruised winters. Somewhere
beyond the thick of snow, prayers are strung
on moon-rattled winds
and birds' teeth tear apart the poetry
of our hands. They will raise something beautiful
from these ruined words.

Continents shift slowly. They are
dirt-bound titans, these beasts;
rootless giants that mold themselves
to fit the vision we hold inside our heads. Oceans sigh
and their tides crawl ever upward.

II. Our shadows become umbilical
in certain light. Unknown children cas AppassionataClaire does not find him at his funeral.

Dean's body lies in an open casket, face-up with soft wrinkles and loose muscles. There is nothing of her husband in this corpse. He was rough and jagged. It seems wrong to see his edges smoothed down.

She hovers over his body and feigns sorrow. She hears family and friends weep and whisper comfort into each others' ears behind her. They offer their words and shoulders to her and she nods politely and pretends to cry.

All the while, she traces the ring on her finger and does not flinch when the diamond cuts into skin.

Claire looks for her husband. It is exhausting, but she has time.

In the rooms o illuminate my heartSeptember falls outside his window and the two-story house feels June. Time tilts here, the days canted to the left like the apple tree their grandchildren planted sometime last winter. It hasn't grown much since then, a few leaves on dry branches but no blooming flowers when spring arrived.

Today his fifty years seem like thirty. Sitting up in bed is easier. He doesn't feel as weak as before. The Pacific breeze touches his hair, chills his pale face and he thinks, Maybe Anna and I could drive down to the beachfront today.

He rolls to his side. She's burrowed under the covers, a blue blanketed lump, white hair poking out over dark blue pill I Chingscratch deep
language should be a startling of birds
letters mad as March hairpins
gratifying too: war on muddy Spring brings
gifts of demons
tears from home
end of shorter days
to life in this defeated country Me and My Shadowi.

My shadow slips to silence among the aquatic acacias. Even here, leaves abound, draped over the fuzz-curves of his figure as he soaks up the moonlight. Papa's soft voice turns my gaze to the moon. Remember, Carlos, our shadows are but imprints of the moon. Remember the Eclipse. I shiver and hold onto an acacia branch. I'm careful not to let my shadow near the shoreline where sea meets sand. That's why acacias are aquatic; they drowned their fate with the sea, Papa says. We cannot, we must not let it be our shadow's fate. We are nothing without our shadows. And yet the tide sweeps towards my toes as the moon charioteers across the silver n ffeminyddiaethEn road: Il y a du frost outside sur les fields ou el moëbius sobre la historia de la humanidad ou 'ffeminyddiaeth'

                  (I was feeling very lost
                  very utterly defeated
                  until this yesterday with the
                  travel and the S blue sluicecast off care like blue
snowfields into rigid water,
and wash with mud the thrust
of earth, our skin soft as salt mines.
built you are
of bitch and buttercream,
of soured elements in the blue
dot of a pin-prick spotlight
and windowed skull.

we can watch the fire fade
into a black rat canvas,
into blue gates that tumble up
and loose finger grooves,
smear eyes across your face like warpaint,
faster and faster,
momentum in the race to nowhere.

and once done, we turn,
we go aground and push
up the lines of blue backs
orbiting the moons of that
rising ass, around corners,
a shattered life in starshine,
the masks
beneath the :thumb256290568: to Yellow Plumto Yellow Plum (in blue
china bowl):

      
     afternoon's slit of sun slips
     between thick curtains
     & woos you to ripeness.
    
     it chooses you
     not for flecks of honey-russet
     held low in your seam of shadows,
     nor your symmetry & swell;
     but because
     
     you slink in shade, sink
     behind green pear & clementine

     & cannot hide
     from each spear of light
     that ricochets
     through--

     even now
     nested warm
     against these lips

     even now:
     a tea-stain stone
     hugging close
     the trashbin floor. a shut in placeMeg's world is a world of uneven earth and blue skies, surface rock cracked and blown about by howling wind. She runs through wasteland, stumbles with purpose towards a wooden desk in the distance. She runs and runs, dirt and stones scuffing Mary Janes, but the writing desk is a finish line she can't reach.

"Why a writing desk?" her friend Alex says when she tells him about the dream. He emphasizes the question with a hand, waving the sandwich he's holding towards her before taking a bite.

She's left out details: how she is smaller, younger, a smooth-faced child with little hands dressed in her Sunday best instead of the twenty-one-year-old

Notice

#transliterations is about quality writing, kickass prompts and off-kilter living. If you've come to ask us to actually translate something for you, you may be in trouble.

On the other hand, if you have any suggestions for upcoming prompts and activities, please note us. Or throw a brick through our window with a note tied to it.

Wait, don't do that.

Group Info

transliterations aims to promote and prompt literature in translation. Translation here means to move from one language to another, whether that language be English, Greek, paint, photography or music; we are all about bringing different artforms and artworlds together.
Group
Founded 2 Years ago
Dec 30, 2010

Location
Global

Group Focus
Art Creation

Media Type
Literature

318 Members
351 Watchers
24,158 Pageviews
Daily Pageviews
Join our Group Send a Note

Testimonials


'I was utterly inspired by the work of #transliterations, of the power of translation between mediums and the stories that can arise from that, and the ideas became fused just like that.'--=julietcaesar




'#transliterations is a the best sort of dA group. It provides its members with interesting prompts and then rewards them for participating. Sometimes with prizes. Other times with love. And Sarah will always let you submit your prompt response late. You may not get prizes, but you can let everyone know you tried.

And that is the best thing about #transliterations. It goads a person into producing work. Work that is silly, or fun, or serious, or Art with a capital "A". Work of which one may be proud. So go ahead and join. And get writing. And have fun.' --*CailinLiath

Random from Featured

Me and My Shadowi.

My shadow slips to silence among the aquatic acacias. Even here, leaves abound, draped over the fuzz-curves of his figure as he soaks up the moonlight. Papa's soft voice turns my gaze to the moon. Remember, Carlos, our shadows are but imprints of the moon. Remember the Eclipse. I shiver and hold onto an acacia branch. I'm careful not to let my shadow near the shoreline where sea meets sand. That's why acacias are aquatic; they drowned their fate with the sea, Papa says. We cannot, we must not let it be our shadow's fate. We are nothing without our shadows. And yet the tide sweeps towards my toes as the moon charioteers across the silver nMe and My Shadow by =julietcaesar
48 Comments
Pillow Memories
May 9th 2006

Dear Harry,

You’re gone.

People always told me death was a numbing experience, that I wouldn’t feel the pain for quite some time. It has already been three weeks, four days, and twenty-one hours, and they were wrong. I felt the loss of you that very second in the dreary hospital room. You were barely conscious, but Robert and I talked your way into a private room. Small, and unnaturally white, but I know you preferred the privacy over the bustle of the wards – cheery blue-gowned nurses, and the sickly aroma of flowers hurriedly purchased from the hospital shop by hoards of reluctant relatives.

I didn Pillow Memories by ~Sandstar12
51 Comments
mountain-womanmountain woman, mountain woman,
won't you come down to the river?

where bears sing falsetto groans and wolves stripe their fur in cranberry;
you are bare-footed climbing the grandfather trees, wild-bird paint in your
eyes, prickles under your toenails, and thunder drowns in water below.

raccoon-children with their mischief-hands sleep in your hair and crawl
down your slate-rock nose; skeleton-men along your gorge beneath your
upper lip where sirens would ride their horses along your jawline,

and grey is your wisdom with empty caverns. mountain-man paws his
gravels, sits against the lightning where war-husbands eagle themselves.

yomountain-woman by ~baharimtoto
17 Comments
In San Bernadino Countysmoke moves slowly during rush-hour on sundays
constellations abandon your throat and ask for time

sometimes i mean the illness was photographs of oak trees
and the collar bones of strangers kept
and posted electric all along the curvature

i'm older now and the sky is an occupation of grief
outside the silhouettes of old industries bankrupt, deferred
and re-manufactured into successive arcing giants painted
like a storm with the black outline of a woman in the foreground

i mean there are people drinking
in an empty room in the yard and we talk about America
as a strange language of freeways exchanged between oceans who speak fondlyIn San Bernadino County by ~MrsShrodingersBox
48 Comments
deviation in storage by ~Vocable
Come DeathEXT. CABIN IN SNOWFIELD - NIGHT

Snow is falling in the winter of 1930 upon the exterior of a wood cabin set deep in a forested snowfield. We can hear the sounds of WIND and TREE BRANCHES RUSTLING as SHIPP begins to narrate.

SHIPP (V.O.)
Another one down.

A hole begins to burn in the side of the wall, spreading out quickly, almost as though it were paper, and we hear the FLAMES CRACKLING.  Through the hole we see that Shipp sits at a desk inside, writing furiously with audible PEN SCRATCHES.

SHIPP (V.O.) (CONT'D)
Another one down...

Shipp's notebook has a variety of names written within it, some of which are crossed out. Come Death by ~Quemaqua
4 Comments
Browse Folder

Affiliates

:iconhammeredpoetry::iconscreamprompts:

Deviants

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
Preview   Add Comment
:iconsmadams:
*SMAdams Jan 13, 2013  Student Writer
*prod* :D
Reply
:iconselimeia:
~Selimeia Dec 7, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
So... This group is still active and giving prompts, I hope?
Reply
:iconzebrazebrazebra:
`zebrazebrazebra Dec 8, 2012  Professional Writer
Semi-active, and semi-giving prompts. Basically it's active in my mind and then two months later I realise I never did anything. But you're the second person to prod me, so I'll try get a new prompt up soon!
Reply
:iconselimeia:
~Selimeia Dec 9, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
Yay :woohoo:

*joining right away*
Reply
:iconstarlace:
~Starlace Dec 1, 2012   Traditional Artist
Might there be a new prompt soon? :) I haven't submitted in awhile, but with Christmas break coming up, I'm looking forward to having time for writing...
Reply
:iconzebrazebrazebra:
`zebrazebrazebra Dec 1, 2012  Professional Writer
There definitely should be, and I'm working on making that so. There are so many excuses for there not having been one sooner that I can't even list them, but I'll do my best to get things going yet again!
Reply
:iconstarlace:
~Starlace Dec 1, 2012   Traditional Artist
Well, I look forward to it! But I know you're busy (probably much busier than I am!), so no pressure :)
Reply
Hidden by Owner
:icondacoda-buchan:
~DaCoda-Buchan Jul 29, 2012
When will the next prompt be released? I'm back and ready to get writing again.
Reply
:iconzebrazebrazebra:
`zebrazebrazebra Jul 31, 2012  Professional Writer
I'm aiming to get it up in the next few days, hur hur. Took a hiatus during FFM because FFM sucks up people's brains like a zombie vacuum cleaner.
Reply
Add a Comment:
 
Preview   Add Comment