Reflections from an Escort
by E. Merrill Brouder, translated from Jean Le Roy
On the asphalt of my street, the rain makes a black reflection
that gathers a collection
of the evening, of the lights.
Reflections of one hundred streetlights
craning their necks, coming obliquely
towards me,
skeletons weakly moan
straining their bones
while I walk.
The beams of gloam
sweep the mirror streets,
the beams of gloam
that stretch as I move away
from the stark homes.
I am surrounded by a luminous procession
of luminous followers
(beside, behind and before)
who walk according to my pace
and rhyme themselves with my rhythm,
pompous guard,
in this way, as soon as they can see me
they take me under their care
passing from one to the other
the duty of looking over me;
like how, now and again,
the faithful eyes of dead women
in old pastel portraits
follow those who pass.
O my shining escort!
Note: This translation was made possible thanks to the generous support and permissions of the Société des Amis de Louis Le Guennec.
ABOUT THE CREATORs
Photo credit: the municipal archives of Quimper, France
E. Merrill Brouder is a PhD student at Johns Hopkins, where he studies modernist poetry and early-to-mid-20th-century history. Merrill’s poetry, inflected his native Maine, and his translations have appeared in print in the US and Canada. He is also currently working with Političtí vězni, a historical memory nonprofit, and on translating the complete works of the soldier-poet Jean Le Roy, drawing on his Franco-American and Breton background to bring this important writer into English for the first time since WWI.
Jean Le Roy's poetry inspired artists including Jean Cocteau, Walter Pach, and others who considered him the great French talent of the 20th century. His prewar poems explored optics, and his war poetry brought that refined eye to the battlefield. There, he nurtured a "religion d'art" that was impervious to violence while also extolling battle with the enthusiasm of a committed avant-gardiste. In 1918, Le Roy was killed while single-handedly rescuing his men from no-man's-land; he was twenty-three.
Greetings! I am so pleased to present our milestone 50th issue of carte blanche magazine. This online literary journal of ours has been chugging along for a remarkable twenty years since 2004.
by Andrew Field
Andrew Field is a librarian and cartoonist who writes and draws mostly about mental health. He recently had a cartoon published by Bluestem Magazine, and reviews books for Graphic Medicine.
by Eamann Breen
When we were young, we loved the Mulligan sisters. There were two of them and two of us. If we could have been a pop band we would have been the Supremes, except there were four of us and we were white and two of us were boys. The Mulligan Sisters wanted to marry us and were the same age. A joint wedding was secretly planned.
by Kai Cheng Thom
He gave her a library so she’d know he was the sensitive kind of Beast – not one of those monsters who’d kidnap a girl, blackmail her into staying, brutally ravish her then eat her for dinner without a second thought. This, clearly, was the romantic kind of hostage situation, the type of abduction that was a prelude to romance.
by Leah Hilson
Freddie was hiding in the shower when I got home. Steam curled to the door, greeting me, damp and warm like a dog panting on my face. The train ride was long. Ice and snow smothered the tracks, strangling wheels intent on trudging through. And at every station, a strange parade of orange vests would receive us, lugging industrial sized shovels, fixed on digging us out.
by Tara McGowan-Ross
I’m not saying Sarah wasn’t my friend, but she pissed me off. Always going on about things. Her parents. A man. There was always a man.
by Mary Thaler
Leah sat behind the counter of the café looking at her phone while Melike rummaged through their work cubbies.
“Do you want all these flyers?” Melike called, all earnestness, as if Leah somehow didn’t know the tidying was a pretext and that Melike was hoping to find another of her sketchbooks.
by Mia Huang
This series of memories was mostly taken on an expired Fuji ETERNA 250D in Wuhan (2020), where and when the first case of Covid-19 took place.
by Hannah Polinski
A few Augusts ago, I became obsessed with a story I heard of a couple whose baby was attacked by a bat after the mother left her bedroom window open for the sea breeze. She kissed her baby goodnight, and returned to find them covered in bite marks.
by Meghan Harrison
“Perfect Combustion”
says the back of the van
waiting to turn left in front of
the deconsecrated church.
by Stefanie Kirby
The body of a moth is velvet. The body of a moth
is light. The body of a woman fills with moths and light
by Cassandra Whitaker
They are the space between each beard stroke / these two—them in their love—how their bodies grow
by AJ Bermudez, translated from Naima Lahbil Tagemouat
A long day ahead. A beautiful day!
Tonight they’d all see. They’d gouge their eyes out tonight.
by E. Merrill Brouder, translated from Jean Le Roy
On the asphalt of my street, the rain makes a black reflection that gathers a collection
of the evening, of the lights.
Roslyn and Max Margles Contest - First Place, Grades 5/6
When I dreamt about getting rich and famous, I never expected for it to happen like this… Truthfully, nothing about what happened went according to plan.
Roslyn and Max Margles Contest - Second Place, Grades 5/6
Once upon a time, there was a woman named Betty Rubin. Her story? You are going to have to read to find out.
Roslyn and Max Margles Contest - Honourable Mention, Grades 5/6
As a child
You were always told:
”My, you are so weird and bold!”
Roslyn and Max Margles Contest - Honourable Mention, Grades 5/6
My pink basketball pounding on the ground
When I'm running all around.
Roslyn and Max Margles Contest - First Place, Grades 3/4
There was once a kind unicorn named Bluebell. She was as soft and white as a cloud with a blue and pink mane which glowed and looked like cotton candy.
Roslyn and Max Margles Contest - Second Place, Grades 3/4
Par un beau jour ensoleillé, l’équipage du Navigator, le bateau sur lequel nos marins vont chasser la baleine, charge le matériel à bord. Ces marins sont robustes et surs d’eux.
Roslyn and Max Margles Contest - Honourable Mention, Grades 3/4
My alarm clock rang. I threw on the clothes that I had laid out the night before, then I rushed downstairs and ate breakfast, barely stopping to take a breath.
Roslyn and Max Margles Contest - Honourable Mention, Grades 3/4
Hi, my name is George. I’m the narrator of this story.
I am also the one who found Stuart’s diary so I can tell it to you. For anybody that will read this I shall warn you, you will laugh, and you will definitely, definitely, 100% pee a little in your pants.
by Rachel M. Hanson
The word Nankoweap is Paiute and the phrase carries differing meanings, such as “place where people were killed” and “place that echoes.”