(Re)birthday
by Julia Lovett
The levees broke 72 hours before
I blew out 17 candles stuck in a
structurally sound carrot cake.
A chorus sings around my dining room table,
I drown in cheer while the water flows
into living rooms,
over balconies,
submerging rooftops.
Scrapbooks mildew as Mom snaps
shots for our own family albums.
Unwrapping presents,
the National Guard raps down doors
looters ransack memories.
I open a package; a newsreel streams:
Kayaks paddling on Lake Pontchartrain
(in the French Quarter)
Families cramming on top of home plate
in the Astrodome.
Corpses floating down abandoned city blocks.
A second line march without saxophones or beads—
thousands washed up on Houston’s dry shores.
Refuge. Relocation. But, return…?
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
Remembering: 10 years after Columbine
Bracing/embracing arms
by Julia Lovett
Algebra, Shakespeare, fruit flies in bio,
US Civ (Bill of Rights):
safety in schoolbooks,
pedagogical protection.
Educating the innocent,
but two bloodied the books—
a bibliographic battlefield,
students sought shelter in the stacks.
1 + 1 = evil arithmetic
2 calculate murder
violent geography mapping
a massacre.
Punnett squares can’t predict
unnatural selection.
Is homicide a recessive trait?
Packing backpacks with the
second amendment right to
bear arms—open crossfire
in classrooms.
With no use for their library
cards, they checked themselves out
indefinite due date in a celestial catalog.
“So wise so young, they say
do never live long.”*
* Shakespeare, Richard III (III, i, 79).
Monday, March 30, 2009
The Poem that Can’t Be Written
The Poem that Can't be Written
by Lawrence Raab
is different from the poem
that is not written, or the many
that are never finished—those boats
lost in the fog, adrift
in the windless latitudes,
the charts useless, the water gone.
In the poem that cannot
be written there is no danger,
no ponderous cargo of meaning,
no meaning at all. And this
is its splendor, this is how
it becomes an emblem,
not of failure or loss,
but of the impossible.
So the wind rises. The tattered sails
billow, and the air grows sweeter.
A green island appears.
Everyone is saved.
The New Yorker, 4/6
by Lawrence Raab
is different from the poem
that is not written, or the many
that are never finished—those boats
lost in the fog, adrift
in the windless latitudes,
the charts useless, the water gone.
In the poem that cannot
be written there is no danger,
no ponderous cargo of meaning,
no meaning at all. And this
is its splendor, this is how
it becomes an emblem,
not of failure or loss,
but of the impossible.
So the wind rises. The tattered sails
billow, and the air grows sweeter.
A green island appears.
Everyone is saved.
The New Yorker, 4/6
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Myles’ and Hopkinson’s Stylistic Surprises
Monday I ran into Carlos. We exchanged confusion about the next evening’s event—a science fiction writer? My confusion grew as attendees entered into our seminar room Tuesday afternoon. I feel this event drew the greatest cross-section of the Georgetown community and beyond: a large group of high school students from Kansas, a handful of professors that do not always come to Lannan events, a quorum of graduate students more interested in gender and queer theory than poetry. And then there were the six of us Lannan fellows that had very little idea what to expect. I entered with no knowledge or attachment to either author’s work, but left with a great appreciation for their creative contributions to queer literature.
I was most interested in the personal genealogy Myles presented as to how her writing style evolved in the shadow of the precedent set by other queer writers. She acknowledged the spaces of absence that fill Sapho’s poetry and her challenge to mix the public and private sphere, paid homage to the writing style of a Swiss novelist, Robert Walzer, who constructed novels out of bits and pieces (a technique that aided her transition from poetry to fiction), and referenced John Wieners’ serialization of things in his poetry as an influence in her own voice. Myles approaches art as a grand lust and sees time as the place where the queer past and queer futures meet—she uses this time as a thrift store scouring the racks of history (and futures) for meaningful material and inspiration.
Nalo Hopkinson provided a similar defense of her genre, which was particularly useful for me as a non-science fiction reader. She described science fiction as an exploration of the effects of changing communities and an attempt to use dislocation, alternative realities, reality itself to evaluate social circumstances. She identified time and space as the primary dislocations that create spaces for change. For a style of writing that I am neither familiar with nor a self-identified fan of, I really enjoyed her reading and the objective of her work. Her first short story, “Flying Lessons” was rich with modernity and the nostalgia of childhood. She was a wonderful storyteller, her characters came alive with distinct voices and her prose flew between lyrical descriptions and efficient plot details. I do not know that I will race to read a book of hers, but I loved her performance and the meaning I attribute to her text because of it.
I am however anxious to read Myles’ forthcoming Inferno. It takes gumption to title a novel Inferno, but after the selection I heard I feel it fits. Myles lucidly chronicles the confusion of her protagonist’s inner dialogue and personal experiences. She offers a genuine glimpse into sexual self-identification and creates a language to aptly express those frustrations. During the question and answer session, someone asked about her pauses, a habit I too was curious about. She had a habit in her poetry and prose to read briskly and conversationally and then breathe at the page breaks. These breaths (pauses) gave her reader a moment to process, but then she picked right back up again emphasizing the necessity to continue, to move on, to explore the queer futures she had previously referenced and encouraged we invest in.
I was most interested in the personal genealogy Myles presented as to how her writing style evolved in the shadow of the precedent set by other queer writers. She acknowledged the spaces of absence that fill Sapho’s poetry and her challenge to mix the public and private sphere, paid homage to the writing style of a Swiss novelist, Robert Walzer, who constructed novels out of bits and pieces (a technique that aided her transition from poetry to fiction), and referenced John Wieners’ serialization of things in his poetry as an influence in her own voice. Myles approaches art as a grand lust and sees time as the place where the queer past and queer futures meet—she uses this time as a thrift store scouring the racks of history (and futures) for meaningful material and inspiration.
Nalo Hopkinson provided a similar defense of her genre, which was particularly useful for me as a non-science fiction reader. She described science fiction as an exploration of the effects of changing communities and an attempt to use dislocation, alternative realities, reality itself to evaluate social circumstances. She identified time and space as the primary dislocations that create spaces for change. For a style of writing that I am neither familiar with nor a self-identified fan of, I really enjoyed her reading and the objective of her work. Her first short story, “Flying Lessons” was rich with modernity and the nostalgia of childhood. She was a wonderful storyteller, her characters came alive with distinct voices and her prose flew between lyrical descriptions and efficient plot details. I do not know that I will race to read a book of hers, but I loved her performance and the meaning I attribute to her text because of it.
I am however anxious to read Myles’ forthcoming Inferno. It takes gumption to title a novel Inferno, but after the selection I heard I feel it fits. Myles lucidly chronicles the confusion of her protagonist’s inner dialogue and personal experiences. She offers a genuine glimpse into sexual self-identification and creates a language to aptly express those frustrations. During the question and answer session, someone asked about her pauses, a habit I too was curious about. She had a habit in her poetry and prose to read briskly and conversationally and then breathe at the page breaks. These breaths (pauses) gave her reader a moment to process, but then she picked right back up again emphasizing the necessity to continue, to move on, to explore the queer futures she had previously referenced and encouraged we invest in.
Carson's Coded Poetry: A Review of Ciarán Carson's Recent Visit to Georgetown
Ciarán Carson was a firecracker! My impression of his work after reading First Language was positive, but hearing him speak about his method and science of writing left me wildly enthusiastic about him and his work. In my original reading of his work I voiced the following review: “His poems are playful; he uses words in new contexts, unexpected placements that add depth and reflection to his poems”. After hearing him speak about his work, I found confirmation in my casual observation. Carson raved about his affinity for dictionaries and thesauruses—resources very obviously used to code his poetry in a language of specificity and originality.
This tactic seems one of many that make his poetry an adventure. He aims for both the author and the reader to constantly interrogate the meaning of each word and how they operate together. His caricature of casting rhyming pairs left his audience in stitches, but also demonstrated the care he pours into each selection. Rhyming “spoon” with “moon” would be too easy and expected; but rhyme pairs like “Velcro” and “dayglo” take creativity. He concedes language is much larger than any individual and admits rhyme is an arbitrary device, but embraces it as a tool to constantly explore our own ignorance.
Free verse lyric poems overwhelm contemporary poetry, so I am encouraged by how he embraces form. I have recently enjoyed using poetic forms as skeletal rules to push my poems in innovative new directions and felt he really echoed the utility of form poems to push language to its limits. In my own work I have played primarily with established forms like pantoums and sestinas, but he encouraged me to rely less on established rules and make my own. In For All We Know he decided every line would be fourteen syllables and contain a certain number of lines, rules all his own, but useful insofar as they forced him to carefully choose his means of expression.
When I went to visit with Ciarán Carson in his office hours about my own work, his advice that came up again and again was to bury and understate my language. He dissuaded me from the obvious syntax and turns of phrase, encouraging instead syntactical choices a reader would stumble over. He also insisted upon cryptic, unexpected word choice. He encouraged a style that forces the reader to not just read but process every part of each poem. He seems less concerned with his reader’s ability to access a poem than the poem’s ability to operate independently as a self-contained commentary on verbal possibility. His love poem in Irish that he has never translated is an example of a coded poem that derives its meaning from sound rather than specifically defined interpretation. As a charge for my own writing, I have a lot to learning and experimenting left to do: there is a delicate balance between making your reader work for it and alienating him or her.
Carson has mastered this balance in a way that remarkably enhances the meaning of his poems. Lines like “she put her mouth to mine and sucked the broken English from a Gaelic tongue” surprise the reader. Hearing “she put her mouth to mine” endings of romance come to mind, but he makes it about nationalism and language of belonging. Carson’s reading has been my favorite of this semester because of his engagement with his work and his audience. The greatest lesson I take away from my interactions with Carson and the examples in his work is the warning to never idly trust your language because it has the ability to constantly surprise and evolve.
This tactic seems one of many that make his poetry an adventure. He aims for both the author and the reader to constantly interrogate the meaning of each word and how they operate together. His caricature of casting rhyming pairs left his audience in stitches, but also demonstrated the care he pours into each selection. Rhyming “spoon” with “moon” would be too easy and expected; but rhyme pairs like “Velcro” and “dayglo” take creativity. He concedes language is much larger than any individual and admits rhyme is an arbitrary device, but embraces it as a tool to constantly explore our own ignorance.
Free verse lyric poems overwhelm contemporary poetry, so I am encouraged by how he embraces form. I have recently enjoyed using poetic forms as skeletal rules to push my poems in innovative new directions and felt he really echoed the utility of form poems to push language to its limits. In my own work I have played primarily with established forms like pantoums and sestinas, but he encouraged me to rely less on established rules and make my own. In For All We Know he decided every line would be fourteen syllables and contain a certain number of lines, rules all his own, but useful insofar as they forced him to carefully choose his means of expression.
When I went to visit with Ciarán Carson in his office hours about my own work, his advice that came up again and again was to bury and understate my language. He dissuaded me from the obvious syntax and turns of phrase, encouraging instead syntactical choices a reader would stumble over. He also insisted upon cryptic, unexpected word choice. He encouraged a style that forces the reader to not just read but process every part of each poem. He seems less concerned with his reader’s ability to access a poem than the poem’s ability to operate independently as a self-contained commentary on verbal possibility. His love poem in Irish that he has never translated is an example of a coded poem that derives its meaning from sound rather than specifically defined interpretation. As a charge for my own writing, I have a lot to learning and experimenting left to do: there is a delicate balance between making your reader work for it and alienating him or her.
Carson has mastered this balance in a way that remarkably enhances the meaning of his poems. Lines like “she put her mouth to mine and sucked the broken English from a Gaelic tongue” surprise the reader. Hearing “she put her mouth to mine” endings of romance come to mind, but he makes it about nationalism and language of belonging. Carson’s reading has been my favorite of this semester because of his engagement with his work and his audience. The greatest lesson I take away from my interactions with Carson and the examples in his work is the warning to never idly trust your language because it has the ability to constantly surprise and evolve.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Old Marx (2)
Old Marx (2)
by Adam Zagajewski
I try to envision his last winter.
London, cold and damp, the snow's curt kisses
on empty streets, the Thame's black water,
chilled prostitutes lit bonfires in the park.
Vast locomotives sobbed somewhere in the night.
The workers spoke so quickly in the pub
that he couldn't catch a single word.
Perhaps Europe was richer and at peace,
but the Belgians still tormented the Congo.
And Russia? Its tyranny? Siberia?
He spent evenings staring at the shutters.
He couldn't concentrate, rewrote old work,
reread young Marx for days on end,
and secretly admired that ambitious author.
He still had faith in his fantastic vision,
but in moments of doubt
he worried that he'd given the world
just a new version of despair;
then he'd close his eyes and see nothing
but the scarlet darkness of his lids.
From Eternal Enemies (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2008).
by Adam Zagajewski
I try to envision his last winter.
London, cold and damp, the snow's curt kisses
on empty streets, the Thame's black water,
chilled prostitutes lit bonfires in the park.
Vast locomotives sobbed somewhere in the night.
The workers spoke so quickly in the pub
that he couldn't catch a single word.
Perhaps Europe was richer and at peace,
but the Belgians still tormented the Congo.
And Russia? Its tyranny? Siberia?
He spent evenings staring at the shutters.
He couldn't concentrate, rewrote old work,
reread young Marx for days on end,
and secretly admired that ambitious author.
He still had faith in his fantastic vision,
but in moments of doubt
he worried that he'd given the world
just a new version of despair;
then he'd close his eyes and see nothing
but the scarlet darkness of his lids.
From Eternal Enemies (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2008).
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Singsong
Singsong
by Rita Dove
When I was young, the moon spoke in riddles
and the stars rhymed. I was a new toy
waiting for my owner to pick me up.
When I was young, I ran the day to its knees.
There were trees to swing on, crickets for capture.
I was narrowly sweet, infinitely cruel,
tongued in honey and coddled in milk,
sunburned and silvery and scabbed like a colt.
And the world was already old.
And I was older than I am today.
by Rita Dove
When I was young, the moon spoke in riddles
and the stars rhymed. I was a new toy
waiting for my owner to pick me up.
When I was young, I ran the day to its knees.
There were trees to swing on, crickets for capture.
I was narrowly sweet, infinitely cruel,
tongued in honey and coddled in milk,
sunburned and silvery and scabbed like a colt.
And the world was already old.
And I was older than I am today.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Yogic Poems as Poses for Inspiration: a review of Li-Young Lee's visit to Georgetown
Listening to Li-Young Lee read, I felt privy to secrets: he revealed that he wanted to sing, but doesn’t know any songs, that people have been trying to kill him since he was born, that he and his sister died in childhood. Sound ricocheted back and forth between poems. The staccato repetition of “playing” in “After the Pier” and the complementary pairing of “principle” and “potential” in “A Voice’s Gaze” echo familiar “p” sounds, which are reinforced by the repetition of the word “presence” in his poems and the condition of being “present” he insist upon in his work.
I entered our seminar with Li-Young Lee unfamiliar with his work beyond the selected poems we had been given and an abridged understanding of his biography. His words on the page did not move me, and it took some time listening to him speak about his life and work before I grew enchanted under his spell. My captivation connected with him once he began talking about speech as an act that was both life sustaining and life sapping. He proposed, as one speaks, one contributes meaning to life; but as one speaks he or she has less breath and thus less life. He defined a poem as “a musical score for our dying breath”, which I internalized as the most complete poem of brevity I had ever heard.
This turn in our seminar’s focus drew me into Li-Young Lee’s spiritual and philosophical approach to language. He seemed to feel language in a way I crave and emphasized the importance of connection (spiritual, emotional, psychological) only achieved through language. A poem provides an access point to resurrect the aroma of a flower that has lost its scent. He spoke of his reliance on the practice of yoga, and the desire to write yogic poems that feel connected to the present.
I was originally uncertain as to how the words of Li-Young Lee could be yogic for me. It seemed hokey to compare and conflate the poses and positions of yoga with the performance of a poem, but once I heard him read, the connection was instantaneous. I heard his words, and connected with them deeply. I identified the good in falling asleep in a favorite chair with a book I enjoy, but also know spooning is even better. While I lingered on every word, his words inspired creativity in me I had not felt in months. Every verse he completed, I wanted to write. My journal is filled with dozens of first lines inspired not necessarily by the content of Li-Young Lee’s poems, but rather by the dedication and presence with which he shared them.
To extend Lee’s own metaphor of yoga, it was though every poem he read challenged me to reach inside myself to master a new pose. Sometimes having a master set the example provides a reference and a motivation to excel in your own pose. The beauty of yoga is you are only working for yourself, but you benefit from the energy of the bodies striving to achieve presence around you. The sounds of Lee’s poems, inspired me to look inside myself, and the concentration of everyone in the room on the lingual offerings created a buzz of excitement and creativity that suggested to me perhaps Lee’s analysis of breath and speech as strictly life sustaining/life sapping is overly simplistic. It seems his poetry and breath have a property of transferal to inspire the affirmation of life in others.
I entered our seminar with Li-Young Lee unfamiliar with his work beyond the selected poems we had been given and an abridged understanding of his biography. His words on the page did not move me, and it took some time listening to him speak about his life and work before I grew enchanted under his spell. My captivation connected with him once he began talking about speech as an act that was both life sustaining and life sapping. He proposed, as one speaks, one contributes meaning to life; but as one speaks he or she has less breath and thus less life. He defined a poem as “a musical score for our dying breath”, which I internalized as the most complete poem of brevity I had ever heard.
This turn in our seminar’s focus drew me into Li-Young Lee’s spiritual and philosophical approach to language. He seemed to feel language in a way I crave and emphasized the importance of connection (spiritual, emotional, psychological) only achieved through language. A poem provides an access point to resurrect the aroma of a flower that has lost its scent. He spoke of his reliance on the practice of yoga, and the desire to write yogic poems that feel connected to the present.
I was originally uncertain as to how the words of Li-Young Lee could be yogic for me. It seemed hokey to compare and conflate the poses and positions of yoga with the performance of a poem, but once I heard him read, the connection was instantaneous. I heard his words, and connected with them deeply. I identified the good in falling asleep in a favorite chair with a book I enjoy, but also know spooning is even better. While I lingered on every word, his words inspired creativity in me I had not felt in months. Every verse he completed, I wanted to write. My journal is filled with dozens of first lines inspired not necessarily by the content of Li-Young Lee’s poems, but rather by the dedication and presence with which he shared them.
To extend Lee’s own metaphor of yoga, it was though every poem he read challenged me to reach inside myself to master a new pose. Sometimes having a master set the example provides a reference and a motivation to excel in your own pose. The beauty of yoga is you are only working for yourself, but you benefit from the energy of the bodies striving to achieve presence around you. The sounds of Lee’s poems, inspired me to look inside myself, and the concentration of everyone in the room on the lingual offerings created a buzz of excitement and creativity that suggested to me perhaps Lee’s analysis of breath and speech as strictly life sustaining/life sapping is overly simplistic. It seems his poetry and breath have a property of transferal to inspire the affirmation of life in others.
Explosive Imagination
Explosive Imaginationby Julia Lovett
Home life changed after the explosion.
Mommy got sick from the nuclear fallout.
Chizuko and I were jumping rope when the explosion
billowed into a mushroom cloud of nuclear explosion.
It looked beautiful – a mosaic celestial imagination,
but sirens soon screamed after the explosion.
Recess ended abruptly in wake of the explosion.
Daddy never came to pick me up. I waited alone.
All our lives shattered with that bomb alone.
Abstract justifications for the explosion
mean nothing to an island of orphans.
Our shelters explode with an abundance of orphans.
My family agreed to house some orphans –
our cousins’ parents died in the explosion.
In spite of their misfortune, they are lucky orphans
to have a warm home and family unlike most orphans.
Life appeared almost normal until the fallout
heightened and the hospitals filled until the orphans
became corpses and parents left more orphans.
Funerals grew perfunctory. I started to imagine
lilies dancing to the hymns sung at my own imaginary
funeral. I saw my anticipated future children as orphans
huddled together in the front row alone.
My hollow feelings resonate now that I’m alone.
Chizuko left school, so I jumped rope alone.
She wasn’t the first; kids trickled away. Orphans
retired to crammed orphanages studying alone.
Sharing bedrooms and bathrooms, never alone,
but always lonely, absent their family lost in the explosion.
One afternoon I fell down on the walk home alone.
I spent long, dizzy nights cooped up in my room alone.
Too scared to share, my sickness was my secret. Fallout
killed people quickly; too much time passed for fallout
to punish me with the A-bomb disease. I waited alone
expecting the worst while perpetually imagining
a world with a cure. Reality burst my imagination.
Japanese legend coupled with a vivid imagination
convinced me folding a thousand paper cranes alone
would appease the Gods enough for me to imagine
a cure to my condition. Despite my affected imagination
Mom knew I was sick. The doctor for orphans
at the Red Cross’ center tried to stifle my imagination
using big words and grave terms. Imagining
her daughter’s imminent death Mom cried explosively.
Fleeting moments until I joined the other explosion
victims buried in the ground – a mother’s worst imagination.
Body bags stayed full for years from the fallout.
Empty homes of fractured families all fall out.
I died after months of misery and the fallout
of my death captured the immensity of my imagination.
Sitting in funerals I always imagined a fallout
of lilies lacing my casket. The fallout
was folded like a lily’s soft petals, but origami alone
remembered my death. A thousand small cranes fell out
from their cage hoping to soar to a fallout
of peace. One of many deaths of an island of orphans,
nothing had to change – parents still died leaving orphans,
tragic memories still haunt an island, but the fallout
shifted from tragedy to inspiration: an explosion
optimistic for peace, a positive explosion.
An island of victims of a violent explosion
united to reappropriate tragedy toward peaceful fallout.
Fulfilling the Earthly dreams of my imagination
achieving more than I ever could alone –
an indestructible explosion of peace assembled by orphans.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Thursday, January 15, 2009
A Mother's Mission
I have been spending the last few weeks in Florida and met a Mother inspired to GET OUT THE VOTE for Barack Obama. She has donated her time generously while she waits for her son to return from Iraq. This is the first of series of her poems I will post of the next few days.
GET OUT AND VOTE TODAY
By Cathy Booth
You don’t need to be Republican or a Democrat
be an Independent that is where it’s at.
You don’t need a party to tell you how to vote
everyone has their own mind and this is what I quote:
“We all are Americans living in the U. S. A.
who we put in office will be there for four years of stay!”
They must help everyone with matters everyday
whether it’s taxes, healthcare, or keeping terrorists away.
Always keeping our country prosperous and our economy strong
out sourcing jobs they should know is wrong.
Helping those who struggle trying just to make ends meet
job security, retirement or loosing their homes
from beneath their feet.
Education for our future generations
as the young one day will become our old
striving for the same things as now has been told.
Yes we elect a president for four years of stay
to serve us in the White House making decisions everyday.
It doesn’t really matter if he’s black of if she’s white
if he’s a he or she is a she seems to me quite trite.
If they make a difference
in helping everyone to make ends meet
improving our economy
and making our everyday life complete.
After all we all are Americans living in the U. S. A.
the land of opportunity the land of the free;
the land of diversity and true unity.
Listen to the news
and to what the candidates have to say
then make your own decisions everyone should have a say.
So make your voice count and get out and vote today!
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
'Twas the Night Before Christmas
by Clement Clark Moore
Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tinny reindeer.
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!
"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.
His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Primo Levi Translations.
Continuing with the theme of translation, today I share the work of another friend, Jenna Weiner, and the translations she has worked on by Primo Levi. Her own words introduce her work better than I ever could and her prose following the poem offers sharp insight into the process and challenges of translation.
************************************************
As my final project, I chose to translate some poems by Primo Levi. Aside from being attracted to the original language of his poems (I am an Italian minor, after all), I was compelled by his experience in Auschwitz and the powerful role of bearing witness in his life and his works. While watching the documentary film about him, I was particularly struck by the urgency with which he wrote “Se Questo è un Uomo” (“If This is a Man”) upon returning from Auschwitz. A friend of his interviewed in the documentary said that Levi spoke for days and days after his return, explaining to his friends and family that he had been waiting for so long to tell everyone what he experienced. After he finished talking, he sat down to write “Se Questo è un Uomo.”Although I am not translating that book, I can see the same sentiment carry over into his other works. I found his poems to be simple yet powerful—the language of someone who wants you to sit down and hear his incredible story. Discussing love, life, suffering, his specific experiences and the concept of bearing witness, all of Levi’s poems are marked by a kind of questioning for meaning or answers, either directly or implicitly. Searching within himself, society, the external world and God, his poems are extremely powerful and perceptive.
Regarding the classic dilemma of translating — the question of whether to make the translated poem the priority or to make the faithful translation a priority — I chose the latter. I was struck by the simplicity and effectiveness of Levi’s words, and I believe that he made the choices he did for a reason, so I tried to honor his choices as much as possible.
I have accompanied my translations with the original poem and the translations by Ruth Feldman and Brian Swann, for comparison. I have also followed the first two poems with explanations of the decisions I made while translating, to give you a sense of my thought process. It is safe to say that I continued translating the rest of the poems in the same way.
Cantare
by Primo Levi
… Ma quando poi cominciammo a cantare
Le buone nostre canzoni insensate
Allora avvenne che tutte le cose
Furono ancora com’erano state.
Un giorno non fu che un giorno:
Sette fanno una settimana
Cosa cattiva ci parve uccidere;
Morire, una cosa lontana
E i mesi passano piuttosto rapidi,
Ma davanti ne abbiamo tanti!
Fummo di nuovo soltanto giovani:
Non martiri, non infami, non santi.
Questo ed altro ci veniva in mente
Mentre continuavamo a cantare;
Ma erano cose come le nuvole,
E difficili da spiegare.
3 gennaio 1946
Singing
translated by Jenna Weiner
... But then when we started to sing
Our beautiful senseless songs
It just so happened that everything
Was still like it always had been.
A day was nothing more than a day:
Seven make a week
Killing seemed evil to us;
Dying, something distant.
And the months pass rather quickly,
But there are still so many left!
We were again only young men:
Not martyrs, not infamous, not saints.
This and other things used to come to mind
While we kept singing;
But they were like the clouds,
And difficult to explain.
3 January 1946
Singing
translation by Feldman and Swann
… But then when we started singing
Those good foolish songs of ours,
Then everything was again
As it always had been.
A day was just a day,
And seven make a week.
Killing seemed an evil thing to us;
Dying – something remote.
The months pass rather quickly,
But there are still so many left!
Once more we were just young men:
Not martyrs, not infamous, not saints.
This and other things came into our minds
While we kept singing.
But they were cloudlike things,
Hard to explain.
3 January 1946
In the first line, I used “sing” instead of the “singing” that Feldman and Swann used (the infinitive can be translated either way), because I thought it sounded better with “songs” in the next line. In the second line, I used “senseless” instead of Feldman and Swann’s “foolish,” because that’s literally what insensate means, and I thought it had a nice alliteration with “songs.” “Buone” can mean either good or beautiful (which speaks to the Italian culture), and I thought “beautiful senseless” had a nicer sound than “good foolish.” “Then everything” loses the “avvenne” in the Italian, which means “to happen,” so I thought a nice balance was “It just so happened that everything.” (It literally translates to “it happened that everything,” but I wanted a longer sentence to balance the rhythm.) I do not agree with Feldman and Swann’s decision to change the line break from the original (which translates to “everything / was”); I think it stands just fine as is.
In the first line of the second stanza, I stayed true to the original poem, which translates to “a day was not but a day.” I think that structure is more powerful than Feldman and Swann’s “a day was just a day.” In the next line, I stayed true to the original and did not add “And” as F&S did. In the last line of the stanza, I translated “lontana” as “distant” rather than “remote” because it has alliteration with “dying.” I did not think the change from the comma to the dash (as seen in F&S) was necessary.
In the next stanza, I kept the “and” at the beginning of the line, because clearly Levi put it there for a reason. I used “again” instead of “once more,” because it has nice internal rhyme with “men.”
In the next stanza I used “used to come to mind” to convey the imperfect verb tense (which suggests a continued or often-repeated action) of “to come;” something that “came” does not reflect. I did not see the need to turn the simple analogy of “they were things like clouds” (which is the original translation) into “cloudlike things.” I stayed with the literal translation of “difficult,” because I thought it balanced out the line length better than “hard” did.
Unfortunately, I was not able to preserve the rhyme of the original poem, which was really beautiful in the Italian.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Love America
A friend of mine, Mikaela Dunitz, worked on new translations of thirteen poems from Pablo Neruda's General Song. I want to share them all, but will do so sporadically so as to prevent my readers from becoming too overwhelmed!
by Pablo Neruda
Antes de la peluca y la casaca
fueron los ríos, ríos arteriales,
fueron las cordilleras, en cuya onda raída
el cóndor o la nieve parecían inmóviles:
fue la humedad y la espesura, el trueno
sin nombre todavía, las pampas planetarias.
El hombre tierra fue, vasija, parpado
del barro trémulo, forma de la arcilla,
fue cántaro caribe, piedra chibcha,
copa imperial o sílice araucana.
Tierno y sangriento fue, pero en la empuñadura
de su arma de cristal humedecido,
las iniciales de la tierra estaban escritas.
Nadie pudo recordarlas después: el viento
las olvido, el idioma del agua
fue enterrado, las claves se perdieron
o se inundaron de silencio o sangre.
No se perdió la vida, hermanos pastorales.
Pero como una rosa salvaje
cayo una gota roja en la espesura
y se apago una lámpara de tierra.
Yo estoy aquí para contar la historia.
Desde la paz del bufalo
hasta las azotadas arenas
de la tierra final, en las espumas
acumuladas de la luz antártica,
y por las madrigueras despeñadas
de la sombría paz venezolana,
te busque, padre mío,
joven guerrero de tiniebla y cobre
o tu, planta nupcial, cabellera indomable,
madre caimán, metálica paloma.
Yo, incásico del légamo,
toque la piedra y dije:
Quien me espera? Y apreté la mano
sobre un puñado de cristal vacío.
Pero anduve entre flores zapotecas
y dulce era la luz como un venado,
y era la sombra como un parpado verde.
Tierra mía sin nombre, sin América,
estambre equinoccial, lanza de púrpura,
tu aroma me trepo por las raíces
hasta la copa que bebía, hasta la más delgada
palabra aun no nacida de mi boca.
Love America
by Mikaela Dunitz
Love America (1400) (164)
Before the wig and coat
were the rivers, the arterial rivers,
the mountain ranges, in whose weary wave
the condor or the snow appeared unstirring:
the thickness of the humidity, the unnamed
thunderclap, the planetary pampas.
Man was earth, a vessel, the eyelid
of the quivering clay, a form from the mud of the earth,
a Carib pitcher, a chibcha stone,
an imperial chalice or an Araucanian silica.
Tender and bleeding he was, but on the hilt
of his moist crystal weapon,
the initials of the earth were
inscribed.
No one
could remember them later: the wind
forgot them, the language of the water
interred, the keys were lost
or inundated by silence or blood.
Life was not lost, pastoral brothers.
But as a savage rose,
a red drop fell to the depths,
and the lamp of the land was extinguished.
I am here to tell history.
Since the peace of the buffalo
until the lashed sands
of final earth, in the accumulated surf
of antarctic light,
and for the burrows embedded off the cliffs
of somber Venezuelan peace,
I searched for you, my father,
young soldier of shadows and brass,
or you, nuptial plant, indomitable hair,
caiman mother, metallic dove.
I, Inca from mud,
touched the stone and said:
Who
waits for me? And I squeezed my hand
around a fistful of empty glass.
But I traveled among zapotec flowers
and the light was as gentle as a stag,
and the shade was like a green eyelid.
My earth without a name, without America,
equinoctial stamen, purple spear,
your aroma winds up my roots
into the chalice I nursed, into the finest
word still not yet born from my mouth.
Below is the poem in Neruda's Spanish followed by Mikaela's English translation.
Amor Américaby Pablo Neruda
Antes de la peluca y la casaca
fueron los ríos, ríos arteriales,
fueron las cordilleras, en cuya onda raída
el cóndor o la nieve parecían inmóviles:
fue la humedad y la espesura, el trueno
sin nombre todavía, las pampas planetarias.
El hombre tierra fue, vasija, parpado
del barro trémulo, forma de la arcilla,
fue cántaro caribe, piedra chibcha,
copa imperial o sílice araucana.
Tierno y sangriento fue, pero en la empuñadura
de su arma de cristal humedecido,
las iniciales de la tierra estaban escritas.
Nadie pudo recordarlas después: el viento
las olvido, el idioma del agua
fue enterrado, las claves se perdieron
o se inundaron de silencio o sangre.
No se perdió la vida, hermanos pastorales.
Pero como una rosa salvaje
cayo una gota roja en la espesura
y se apago una lámpara de tierra.
Yo estoy aquí para contar la historia.
Desde la paz del bufalo
hasta las azotadas arenas
de la tierra final, en las espumas
acumuladas de la luz antártica,
y por las madrigueras despeñadas
de la sombría paz venezolana,
te busque, padre mío,
joven guerrero de tiniebla y cobre
o tu, planta nupcial, cabellera indomable,
madre caimán, metálica paloma.
Yo, incásico del légamo,
toque la piedra y dije:
Quien me espera? Y apreté la mano
sobre un puñado de cristal vacío.
Pero anduve entre flores zapotecas
y dulce era la luz como un venado,
y era la sombra como un parpado verde.
Tierra mía sin nombre, sin América,
estambre equinoccial, lanza de púrpura,
tu aroma me trepo por las raíces
hasta la copa que bebía, hasta la más delgada
palabra aun no nacida de mi boca.
Love America
by Mikaela Dunitz
Love America (1400) (164)
Before the wig and coat
were the rivers, the arterial rivers,
the mountain ranges, in whose weary wave
the condor or the snow appeared unstirring:
the thickness of the humidity, the unnamed
thunderclap, the planetary pampas.
Man was earth, a vessel, the eyelid
of the quivering clay, a form from the mud of the earth,
a Carib pitcher, a chibcha stone,
an imperial chalice or an Araucanian silica.
Tender and bleeding he was, but on the hilt
of his moist crystal weapon,
the initials of the earth were
inscribed.
No one
could remember them later: the wind
forgot them, the language of the water
interred, the keys were lost
or inundated by silence or blood.
Life was not lost, pastoral brothers.
But as a savage rose,
a red drop fell to the depths,
and the lamp of the land was extinguished.
I am here to tell history.
Since the peace of the buffalo
until the lashed sands
of final earth, in the accumulated surf
of antarctic light,
and for the burrows embedded off the cliffs
of somber Venezuelan peace,
I searched for you, my father,
young soldier of shadows and brass,
or you, nuptial plant, indomitable hair,
caiman mother, metallic dove.
I, Inca from mud,
touched the stone and said:
Who
waits for me? And I squeezed my hand
around a fistful of empty glass.
But I traveled among zapotec flowers
and the light was as gentle as a stag,
and the shade was like a green eyelid.
My earth without a name, without America,
equinoctial stamen, purple spear,
your aroma winds up my roots
into the chalice I nursed, into the finest
word still not yet born from my mouth.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Terza Rima
Terza Rima
In this great form, as Dante proved in Hell,
There is no dreadful thing that can’t be said
In passing. Here, for instance, one could tell
How our jeep skidded sideways toward the dead
Enemy soldier with the staring eyes,
Bumping a little as it struck his head,
And then flew on, as if toward Paradise.
by Richard Wilbur
In this great form, as Dante proved in Hell,
There is no dreadful thing that can’t be said
In passing. Here, for instance, one could tell
How our jeep skidded sideways toward the dead
Enemy soldier with the staring eyes,
Bumping a little as it struck his head,
And then flew on, as if toward Paradise.
From The New Yorker.
A few years ago I had a lot of fun experimenting with various form poems -- pantoums and sestinas -- but, began to question the utility of form poetry compared to free verse. This poem restores some of my confidence in form poetry.
Terza rima is a three-line stanza using chain rhyme in the pattern a-b-a, b-c-b, c-d-c, etc. Poems written in terza rima end with either a single line or couplet repeating the rhyme of the middle line of the final tercet.
I like Wilbur's poem because:
a) It is self-referential and profoundly aware of its form -- in its title, opening line, and allusion to the work of Dante (famous for his use of terza rima in the Divine Comedy).
b) Its play with fact and fiction in the last tercet reminds me of Tim O'Brien's "How to Tell a True War Story". What is important is that the jeep could skid and run over a soldier, not whether it actually happened. As long as there is an audience that expects war stories, narratives of war must be created, told, and retold; and, reality will extend to the limits we are willing to accept as fiction.
Polar Bear Poetry
A group of Seattle poets and poetry enthusiasts read poetry on the shore of Green Lake before plunging in for a frigid swim. The event's organizer, "Mimi" Allin said, she wants to make poetry fun, get in the news, wake people and bring together rival camps of "page poets and stage poets." While mildly entertaining, and certainly a rush for all involved I'm skeptical of the effectiveness of such "guerilla" art.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Poetry Responds to Climate Change
350 is an environmental action organization dedicated to increasing awareness about global warming and climate change. 350 parts per million is the level of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere that must be reached to prevent huge and irreversible damage to the earth; 350's mission is to spur policy and grassroots action to reduce carbon dioxide levels. 350 calls the global community to action while promoting education and awareness about climate change.
Aunt Ice, Aunt Snow
in memory of two beauties in the Water family
350 has incorporated Yu Kwang-Chung's poetry into their awareness campaign. Below he reads his poem, "Aunt Ice, Aunt Snow".
in memory of two beauties in the Water family
by Yu Kwang-Chung
Aunt Ice, please cry no more
Or the seas will spill all over,
And homeless will be the polar bear,
And harbors will be flooded,
And islands will go under.
Cry no more please, Aunt Ice.
We blamed you for being so cold,
Fit to behold, but not to hold.
We called you the Icy Beauty,
Mad with self-love on keeping clean,
Too proud ever to become soft.
Yet, when you cry so hard, you melt.
Aunt Snow, please hide no more
Or you will truly disappear.
Almost a stranger year after year,
When you do come, you’re less familiar,
Thinner and gone again sooner.
Please hide no more, Aunt Snow.
You were beloved as the fairest:
With such grace you used to descend,
Even more lightly than Aunt Rain.
Such pure white ballerina shoes
Drift in a whirl out of heaven
Like a nursery song, a dream.
Cry no more please, Aunt Ice.
Lock up your rich treasury,
Shut tight your translucent tower,
And guard your palaces at the poles
To keep the world cool and fresh.
Cry no more please, Aunt Ice.
Hide no more please, Aunt Snow.
“Light Snow is followed by Heavy Snow.”
Descend in avalanche, Aunt Snow!
Your show the Lunar Pageant waits.
Come and kiss my upturned face.
Hide no more please, Aunt Snow.
Aunt Ice, please cry no more
Or the seas will spill all over,
And homeless will be the polar bear,
And harbors will be flooded,
And islands will go under.
Cry no more please, Aunt Ice.
We blamed you for being so cold,
Fit to behold, but not to hold.
We called you the Icy Beauty,
Mad with self-love on keeping clean,
Too proud ever to become soft.
Yet, when you cry so hard, you melt.
Aunt Snow, please hide no more
Or you will truly disappear.
Almost a stranger year after year,
When you do come, you’re less familiar,
Thinner and gone again sooner.
Please hide no more, Aunt Snow.
You were beloved as the fairest:
With such grace you used to descend,
Even more lightly than Aunt Rain.
Such pure white ballerina shoes
Drift in a whirl out of heaven
Like a nursery song, a dream.
Cry no more please, Aunt Ice.
Lock up your rich treasury,
Shut tight your translucent tower,
And guard your palaces at the poles
To keep the world cool and fresh.
Cry no more please, Aunt Ice.
Hide no more please, Aunt Snow.
“Light Snow is followed by Heavy Snow.”
Descend in avalanche, Aunt Snow!
Your show the Lunar Pageant waits.
Come and kiss my upturned face.
Hide no more please, Aunt Snow.
Yu Kwang-Chung reads "Aunt Ice, Aunt Snow"
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Alexander Orion
Not explicitly poetic, except perhaps in its ability to inspire an ekfrastic response, I wanted to share the work of Alexandre Orion. He is a Brazilian artist that challenges the relationship between painting and photography by exploring the way art is represented and perceived.
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