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Bibliographic Record Display

• Title:[Poems. Selections. English]
  Where are the trees going? / Venus Khoury-Ghata ; translated from the French by Marilyn Hacker.
  
•    
• Author/Creator:Khoury-Ghata, Vénus, author.
  
• Other Contributors/Collections:Hacker, Marilyn, 1942- translator.
  Khoury-Ghata, Vénus. Où vont les arbres?. Selections. English.
  Khoury-Ghata, Vénus. Maison aux orties. Selections. English.
  
• Published/Created:Evanston, Illinois : Curbstone Books : Northwestern University Press, 2014.
  

• Holdings

  Holdings Record Display

  • Location:KOERNER LIBRARY stacks (Floor 1)Where is this?
    
  • Call Number: PQ2671.H6 A2 2014
    
  • Number of Items:1
    
  • Status:Available
    

   
• Library of Congress Subjects:French poetry.
  
• Genre/Form:Poetry.
  
• Description:xii, 109 pages ; 22 cm
  
• Notes:"Poems originally published in French under the title Ou vont les arbres, copyright (c) 2011 by Editions Mercure de France; with prose selections from La Maison aux orties, copyright (c) 2008 by Editions Actes Sud."
  
• ISBN:9780810130081 (pbk. : alk. paper)
  0810130084 (pbk. : alk. paper)
  
• Contents:Machine generated contents note: What can be said about the women ...
  Tireless mother, worthy descendant... (from The House of Nettles)
  Her eyes outlined with the stockpot's kohl
  Our scribbles gave the mother a visible body
  mother attached arms to us
  Sometimes we'd take turns standing ...
  pen's sputtering didn't wake her
  Books separated indoors from outdoors
  Our hands outstretched through the openings
  Darkness erased her pillow ...
  She went back to her roots ... (from The House of Nettles)
  As night became talkative
  Often, when the sun swept the house front ... (from The House of Nettles)
  To unmake the mother
  It was a November of bitter rain ...
  mother swallowed up the logs
  walls came between us in all of our squabbles
  mother paraded her ancestors in front of us ... (from The House of Nettles)
  Strangers passing through the town ...
  How to find the mother when her face disappeared ...
  Dead
  Hordes of trees with unpronounceable names ...
  We went through the whole forest...
  God, the mother claimed ...
  sky's perambulations made our houses ...
  When winter has wrung out its last cloud
  When did their language mingle with ours
  Her apron drawn on her skin
  source of the quarrel between ...
  linden tree is dead
  In the village of the mothers
  If one moth left the lamp ...
  You count your life out by the books you've read
  Our eyelashes and the passionflower's turned yellow
  What became of the poplar trees that only swore by us?
  children were old and the slope was steep
  She broke bread the way you'd open a book
  In the evening, when I came home from school ... (from The House of Nettles)
  bad omen three black umbrellas one after the other
  mountains slightest leaning
  dead poet's voice bloated the pages
  Those who have known you since winter ...
  mother's red hair stained our sheets
  House poised on the countryside in a groove of air
  House lower than a cemetery in November
  Our books were older than we were
  Sun hung from the ceiling with a braid of garlic
  You stop there where the sky shrinks down to a path
  Mother who only trusts the things that walk upright
  wind ran faster than you did
  Reading wastes words and makes concentration boil ...
  Pen suspended above the page ... (from The House of Nettles)
  As we hurried to get home before the rain
  How to get to the facts now that the war has shrunk ...
  stain on the black grass was God's face
  Porous, holding back our silences
  When summer was buried at the foot of the apple tree
  In those days
  All words were black at night
  It was November all swaying and wavering
  There were seven of us in times of insistence ...
  She closed her arms and her shutters
  She spoke like rain out of season ...
  cloud hanging over the valley ...
  They accused us of throwing stones ...
  It sometimes happened that we'd come across the devil ...
  children born on the border of the seasons
  We lived on a land another land had replaced
  gardens came into our house inadvertently
  We spoke to him through the interstices
  His skin as ample as a shepherd's greatcoat
  lack of a roof didn't disturb us
  Our arms outstretched we gathered all the sky's castoffs
  Married in a gown of diaphanous mud ...
  We would sometimes ask the mother the date of her death ...
  Born before the first egg
  children who wove their song ...
  Children hoisted onto the hilltops to hide ...
  How to explain the windows' weariness ...
  cloud-controller climbed up our waterspout ...
  Descendants of a noble line of junipers
  Twelve years old and the down still on our hearts
  We were sure that we would never die
  mother had more confidence in proverbs ... (from The House of Nettles)
  Was it the man or the tree who had the last word?
  "Break the branch that can't hold you"
  Male odor of nameless trees and sweat of their bark
  Inhabited uninhabited house subject to the air's structure
  earth in those days gathered up other earths
  She went toward embraces the way one goes to pasture
  stale bread on the windowsill fed the ants ...
  armies of dust raised by her broom ate the door ...
  mother's fingers drew us out of the hearth ...
  straight line the city seen by heart
  Bare-chested
  Ragged plane-tree harder to drive away ...
  Slept leaning on her own shoulder.