The Best American Poetry

Poetry in Times of Oppression/Virtual Poetry fest in honor of Ernesto Cardenal [by Mihaela Moscaliuc]

 

Poetry in Times of Oppression/Virtual Poetry fest in honor of Ernesto Cardenal

As I mentioned in yesterday’s posting, for the second year in a row, the International Poetry Festival of Granada, Nicaragua, now in its 16^th edition, will take place only in virtual format. As they announced the cancellation of the ‘physical’ event, the organizers explained that the current political situation in Nicaragua creates “no favorable environment for any festive activity.” According to the Human Rights Watch 2018 World Report, “Ortega’s government has aggressively dismantled all institutional checks on presidential power,” which has allowed his government “to commit egregious abuses against critics and opponents with complete impunity.” (https://www.hrw.org/world-report/2019/country-chapters/nicaragua). The same document reports that “a crackdown by national police and armed pro-government groups in 2018 left 300 dead, over 2,000 injured, and hundreds arbitrarily arrested and prosecuted.” The numbers quoted by other sources are even higher.

In the January 22/24 issue of Confidencial, writer and Festival board member Gioconda Belli declared that at this time the people of Nicaragua are in mourning for the deaths, dissapearances, and imprisonment of those voicing dissent. In this “jailhouse atmosphere” of repression and harassment, “the only poetry that fits,” Belli wrote, “is that of protest.” (https://confidencial.com.ni/the-daniel-ortegas-regime-ties-to-hijack-poetry-festival-in-nicaragua/). She also suggested that a celebration like that of previous years would be an affront to Nicaraguan people’s suffering. In past festivals, poetry events were interspersed with local music and dance, and integrated also into a day-long, spectacular carnival/traditional masquerade that celebrated life and death, and which always included a ritualized “burying” of a particular evil such “intolerance,” “hatred,” or “violence.” (Photos from the 9^th edition of festival & carnival: https://designyoutrust.com/2013/02/the-ix-international-festival-of-poetry-in-granada-city/

 

This year’s virtual festival will be honoring Ernesto Cardenal, one of Latin America’s most revered literary and revolutionary figures. Poets from around the world will be read a poem in his honor and the event will be streamed through Facebook from Feb 20-Feb 25. You may watch it at https://www.facebook.com/FIPGNicaragua

 

Cardenal was born in Granada in 1925. On January 20, he turned 95. Active in the Sandinista revolution that ousted Anastasio Somoza in July 1979, Cardenal served afterwards as the Minister of Culture, but gradually broke away from the Sandinista government, becoming an increasingly outspoken critic of the current Nicaraguan President Daniel Ortega and his authoritarian rule. A prolific writer who has authored over forty poetry collections and whose work has been translated into dozens of languages, Cardenal has occupied, over the years, ideological positions that have at times stirred controversy. He has been hailed or criticized for being an iconoclast, a visionary, a mystic, a Marxist, and a leader of the liberation theology movement. In his writings, whether addressing injustice, corruption, greed, the world’s transient beauty, or love, he documents and witnesses with eloquence and urgency, often by bringing religion, politics, and science in conversation with one another.

 

Priest, writer, translator, sculptor, diplomat/politician, social activist, Cardenal founded both a spiritual/religious commune (Solintiname, on Lake Nicaragua) and a cultural foundation (Casa de los Tres Mundos, in Granada, where I met him briefly in 2017). He was declared person non grata by Samoza for seeking justice, ‘suspended’ by Pope John Paul II for being political, and reviled by politicians for prizing integrity.

 

I don’t see Cardenal as a poet of contradictions (as I may seem to suggest above), but of human plenitude. I admire his reverence for, and commitment to, the earth and the cosmos—a commitment reflected also in what he has called his work’s “exteriorismo” (which translates, in simplified terms, into a preference for direct observation instead of metaphorical articulation). Robin Bower argues, in an appraisal of Cardenal’s work (“Remembering things past: Reading history, writing memory, and the poetics of agency in Ernesto Cardenal”), that critics have often rushed to assign his work to reductive categories, and suggests that we look instead at how in Cardenal’s body of work “the denunciatory, the religious, and the epic are all part of a self-reflexive poetics grounded in a conviction of the transformative power of poetry itself in its capacity to refashion memory, subject, and society.”

 

Poetry as diplomacy, communion, individual and communal transformation--

 

Cardenal writes about pre-Columbian history or the U.S. imperialist interventions in Central American history (see, for instance, “La Hora 0” / “Zero Hour,” with its “trucks and trucks loaded with crates of arms/all marked U.S.A., MADE in U.S.A.,/arms to catch more prisoners, to hunt down books,/to steal five pesos from Juan Potosme”—tr. Donald D. Walsh) with the same frankness with which he celebrates bodies and stars or, as in “Zoológico de Iquitos” / “The Zoological Garden of Iquitos,” a Peruvian zoo’s “Amazonian animals”—"the great leopard in repose/ (…) / the papagayo birds draped in flags of color/the sloth with terrifying yet weak claws / (…) / the ecstatic tortoises, each on its own rock/the elastic otter.”

 

This poem takes its time honoring each imprisoned creature, then shifts the tenderness toward the “nine-year-old Indian guide” who

 

picked up from the ground an immense

                                    red petal

that had fallen from a tree

            and said to me:

‘Touch it; it’s as smooth as the leopard’s coat,’

and, indeed, it was as smooth as

            the silky fur with quadrilateral spots

                        that we did not touch.       (tr. David Draper Clark and Cesar Ferreira)

 

Protest poetry or politically-engaged poetry can feel like the only poetry ‘fit’ for certain times, absolutely. The months before and for many months after the U.S. 2016 presidential election, I did not write at all because I felt I needed to --and wanted to, and couldn’t--write only about what was happening. (Since then, a number of poets have confessed to similar experiences.) However, re-reading Cardenal’s work I was reminded that poems do not have to engage with politics or current events in order to do significant work and to benefit us during historical and political crises. I thought also of Neruda’s view of poetry as “an act of peace,” and how the metaphor itself posited writing as an engagement with conflict, and how it also conferred poetry-making the status of a political act. While not writing, I translated. In 2016 I was translating from the Romanian a collection of poems by our contemporary Liliana Ursu—Clay and Star, published this past fall by Etruscan Press (https://etruscanpress.org/shop/clay-and-star/). These were not poems of protest. They were not, by most measurements, even slightly political. Further, Ursu, like Cardenal, is a religious person, which I am not, and her poetry is deeply spiritual, while my own is anything but. One thing that had attracted me to her poems, I realized then, was precisely that they provided me, in disconsolate times, with possibilities for accessing hope where I saw none, and beauty when my own work could no longer contain it. This was not escapist poetry, but poetry that insisted that I learn to renew hope in our common humanity, and that helped me recharge emotionally and spiritually. I had also grown up in a political system (Ceausescu’s dictatorial regime) in which religious practices were akin to acts of dissent, so Ursu’s monasteries, nuns, and monks stood, if not close to God, at least far away from daily corruption and repression.

 

Though ostensibly radically different, Ursu’s and Cardenal’s works converge to engage each other. To honor “El Padre” Ernesto Cardenal, I will end with a poem Ursu dedicated to Thomas Merton--the scholar, poet, and monk under whose tutelage Cardenal lived in the Trappist monastery at Gethsemani (Kentucky) between 1957-1965.

 

 

Liliana Ursu (tr. Mihaela Moscaliuc)

 

The one who leaves few footprints in the snow

                                                                         To Thomas Merton

 

He splits wood,

leaves few footprints in the snow—

their life shorter than that of the small

pine tree fire

above which he warms his hands

before dovetailing

the icon frames—

before taking back to his hut an ice cube,

water he’ll use at twilight

to make coffee,

its black eye—sole indulgence,

its fragrant eye—sole gratification.

 

He leaves few footprints in the snow

and they’re quickly erased by birds

for whom he sows wheat and crumbs

under the window where he reads the Psalms.

 

Kentucky, Abbey of Gethsemani, January 21, 2000

           

“The New Colossus” Translation Project [by Mihaela Moscaliuc]

“The New Colossus” Translation Project (spearheaded by Alicia Ostriker, Mihaela Moscaliuc, and Tess O’Dwyer and to be hosted by AJHS)

This past summer, faculty and students in the M.F.A Program at Drew University honored the formidable Alicia Ostriker for her work as poet, mentor, scholar, feminist, activist, Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets, and New York State Poet Laureate. As part of the celebration, we had translated and read some of her poems in our native, heritage, or acquired tongues. Something magical happened within the walls of the room as it gradually filled with Spanish, Arabic, Yiddish, Dutch, Portuguese, Italian, Sicilian, French, German, Russian, Romanian. Afterwards, Alicia and I decided that we needed to replicate and extend that experience. It didn’t take much to realize how that polyphony was about more than sound and multilingualism. As we left the celebration, we stepped back into a world steeped in inflammatory nationalist rhetoric, a world that had incorporated monolingualism into its mechanisms of oppression.

I proposed we choose a poem and reach out to poets willing to give it life in other languages. Brilliantly, Alicia suggested “The New Colossus,” which had been resonating, for more than a century, with millions of people. Written by Emma Lazarus in 1883, as part of an effort to raise funds for the Pedestal of the Statue of Liberty, it was etched on a plaque and attached to the pedestal in 1903, seven years after the statue was erected. Alicia’s personal involvement with "The New Colossus" was lifelong. She knew the poem as a child, because her mother would quote it to her, along with poems by Tennyson and Browning. Like so many immigrants, her mother believed in America as "the melting pot," and the Statue of Liberty poem and its symbolism fit into that understanding. Alicia’s mother, and in fact all her grandparents, arrived in the New World at the turn of the 20th century.

I arrived from Romania in 1996, just a few years after the fall of the Iron Curtain, and although my point of entry was not Ellis Island, but the Newark International Airport (NJ), I thought I had caught a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty before landing. I wanted to believe so anyway, as I had spent the last leg of the trip peering out of the small window, searching.

A month after Alicia and I first spoke of the “The New Colossus,” in an interview with NPR, Principal Deputy Director of U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services Ken Cuccinelli argued that the Lazarus poem should be amended to convey that immigrants are welcomed only if “they can stand on their own two feet, be self-sufficient, [and] pull themselves up by their bootstraps.” This, he argued, was in line with the “American tradition.” Such rhetoric rendered our project particularly timely. “The New Colossus” was written in a time of acute nativist and anti-immigrant sentiment. We are reliving that time. The targeted immigrant groups differ, but the fervor of the rhetoric is strikingly similar. Our project became inevitable. An idea that emerged on the playground of translation took root in socio-political terrain. We sent a call out to poet-translators and the overwhelmingly positive response was encouraging. At this time Tess O’Dwyer, whose mother is Korean and her father Irish-American, and who is a superb translator and editor whose non-profit management firm works with various cultural organizations, joined our project. We received translations of “The New Colossus” into Yiddish, Hebrew, Spanish, Spanglish, Persian, Sicilian, Italian, Dutch, Portuguese, Romanian, Ukrainian, French, Albanian, Chinese, Russian, Japanese, Basque, Serbo-Croatian, Polish, Slovak, German, Swedish, Irish, Arabic, Bulgarian, Turkish, Czech, Haitian Creole, Argentinian Spanish, Filipino, Korean, Tamil, Bengali, Urdu, Esperanto, Greek, Shona, Kumanji, Turkmen, and Isthmus Zapotec. The poems are accompanied by the translators’ brief comments on their or their ancestors’ immigration experiences.

Tess O’Dwyer was instrumental in helping us to secure a host. Here are her words on the process: As soon as I heard about The New Colossus Translation Project, I contacted the American Jewish Historical Society (AJHS), which hosts the Emma Lazarus Project. Amidst their Lazarusian archival exhibitions, curricula, and poetry contests, I saw a heart-snatching video of talented children writing poems to The Statue of Liberty today—and that cinched it. 

The New Colossus Translation Project has joined The Emma Lazarus Project at AJHS (https://ajhs.org/emma-lazarus-project) and will launch later this spring. It will be an integral part of public programming for the exhibition “From the Sitting Room to the Soap Box: Emma Lazarus, Union Square, and American Identity,” and part of their permanent archives.

The forty plus trove of translations (including an intersemiotic one into a musical composition) gifts the Mother of Exiles with the ability to welcome migrants, immigrants, and refugees in their own native or heritage tongues. Such a gesture of unconditional hospitality might remain, especially in the current political climate, utopian. The radical multilingualism of Mother of Exile is a metaphor. Metaphors, however, are not without agency.

As Alicia Ostriker points out, in a world of escalating tensions, of fear of (im)migrants, and of xenophobia, this poem remains radical. What’s significant too is that the poem doesn't attack the haters; instead, it offers an alternative ideal. Also, think of the thousands of heroic statues of Men on Horseback. "Mother of Exiles" may be a stereotype, but she's a new, exciting one: a female hero.

Years ago, when invited by the Library of Congress to record something for its “Poetry of America” project, Alicia chose this sonnet and talked about it as key to defining who we were. Then in 2018 she quoted it as part of a lecture on “Poetry and the City,” mentioning that it was a perfect refutation of Auden's famous pronouncement that "Poetry makes nothing happen": Auden is wrong! When France gave us the statue, its official name was "Liberty Enlightening the Nations," and it was all about how America and France were allies; we were both republics that had overthrown monarchies. It had nothing whatsoever to do with immigration.  But the poem changed all that. It transformed the meaning of the statue, the meaning of the Port of New York, and ultimately the meaning of America. It directly opposed the pervasive sentiment that saw immigrants as dirty and diseased criminals.  It insisted on re-defining us as a nation of immigrants.

We hope the project grows (through further ‘installments’) and that, in time, the Mother of Exiles acquires enough languages to speak to all minority groups in the U.S. and beyond. Tess, who is herself a consummate translator (see her translations of Alberto Blest Gana’s Martin Rivas and Giannina Braschi’s Empire of Dreams and Yo-Yo Boing!) remarks upon the already impressive range of our collection: As an indication of linguistic range, the project features Emma Lazarus’ biographer Esther Schor translating “The New Colossus” into Esperanto, Israeli-based poet Karen Alkalay-Gut rendering it into Hebrew, Rose Waldman into Yiddish, Ming Di into Chinese, Dunya Mikhail into Arabic, and Emma Asonye into Igbo. The range of artistry is inspiring. With Spanish, for example, we have Argentine poet Lorraine Healy translating crisp to the literal edge of each line, while Puerto Rican poet Giannina Braschi riffs metaphorically on “The New Colossus” as though it were an arrangement of a song to American immigration in the Obama and Trump era, rather than a sonnet addressing immigration in the Cleveland and Roosevelt era. 

We have been asked, at various points, to comment on the translations themselves. That is beyond the purpose of our project, although we hope for opportunities (perhaps through the AJHS platform and/or other online venues or discussion panels) to engage our contributors in discussions about the process. Each poet-translator approached the highly formal qualities of the poem (a Petrarchan sonnet whose diction may feel highly elevated and antiquated) on their own terms. I assume choices were informed by multiple factors, including the nature of the synergy between the host and guest language, the translatability of form and music, personal aesthetics, and/or politics. Some initial contributors withdrew when they realized how impossible a task preserving the sonnet’s formal qualities might be, while others declared themselves surprised by how amenable their mother tongues had turned out to be to those same qualities. Others sensed right away that they needed to do away with the sonnet form and compensate in other ways. We imposed no restrictions and provided no particular guidelines, choosing to trust instead the craftmanship of the contributors from whom we solicited work.

Alicia mentioned in a conversation that for her this project was not about “making artistic judgements,” but “about getting at a significant human experience.” I agree, and also embrace Tess’s view of the project as having the potential to provide a deeper understanding of translation as an art form. Tess writes: Literary translation is a living artform.  I have always shied away from the concept of definitive translation. Translations are originals in the same way that arrangements of songs or symphonies are originals. You can recognize the origins of a composition, thought, concept, while simultaneously recognizing what is original in the tempo, tone, feeling, imaging, etc. That space between history and creation is where translation thrives. Let there be many more translations of this poem into other Asian, African, Scandinavian, and indigenous languages. Let readers appreciate that the new does not void out the prior. Let there be a wider understanding that literary translations contribute not only to the evolution of poetry, but to language itself.

Stay tuned for news about the launch of The New Colossus Translation Project on the AJHS site and for a call for further contributions.

Two articles of interest accessible online:

• David Lehman’s “Colossal Ode,” Smithsonian Magazine, April 2004

https://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/colossal-ode-103151288/

• Walt Hunter’s “The Story Behind the Poem on the Statue of Liberty,” January 16, 2018 https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2018/01/the-story-behind-the-poem-on-the-statue-of-liberty/550553/ 

A Hurricane of Persecuted Stars: Clemente Soto Vélez [translated and introduced by Martín Espada]

One hundred and fifteen years ago this month, Clemente Soto Vélez (1905-1993) was born in Lares, Puerto Rico, the site of an 1868 revolt against Spain. The orphan son of landless peasants, Soto Vélez was a visionary poet, a surrealist, a socialist, an organizer and agitator for the independence of his island.

He was also a political prisoner. In 1936, the colonial government of General Blanton Winship incarcerated the leaders of the militant Nationalist Party and charged them with seditious conspiracy. Soto Vélez was the editor of the party newspaper. The statement on the masthead read: “Puerto Rican, the independence of Puerto Rico depends on the number of bullets in your belt.” This metaphor, in particular, was enough to earn him a six-year sentence, served in the federal penitentiaries at Atlanta and Lewisburg.

In the following poem, Soto Vélez confronts a political and emotional paradox: the fact that he lost his freedom for the love of freedom, cut off from his island for the sake of his island. The poet speaks of himself in the third person, and visualizes himself as a letter of the alphabet, sitting in isolation. This is poem #3 from Caballo de palo, or The Wooden Horse:

I met him
living like an h incarcerated in the honey of his bees,
but the bars of honey were bittersweet,
and because
he lost himself
in love with liberation,
and because he did not abandon
his love nor she her lover,
the earth for him is a hurricane of persecuted stars,
since liberation cannot
love anyone
except whoever loves
the earth, with its sun and sky.

--  Martín Espada

"Hotel" [by Guillaume Apollinaire; trans. David Lehman]

My room’s the shape of a cage

The sun crooks his arm through the bars

But I, who smoke to make a mirage,

Let the flame of day light my cigar

I don’t want to work I want to smoke

 

 

far left: Apollinaire; left: portrait of Apollinaire by Giorgio de Chirico (1917)

"The Clock," a prose poem by Charles Baudelaire [trans. David Lehman]

The Clock

– for a lady

How do the Chinese tell time? By looking at the eyes of their
cats. Here’s how.

A lost missionary, afoot in a sleepy suburb of Nankin, had
forgotten his watch and asked a little boy what time it was.

After a moment’s hesitation, this street urchin of the celestial
Empire said: ‘‘Wait, I will tell you.’’ A few seconds later, he
reappeared with a very fat cat in his arms, looked into the whites of her eyes, and said, ‘‘It is almost but not quite noon.’’ Which was the case.

As for me, if I favor my beautiful Feline, so felicitously named –
the honor of her sex, the pride of my heart, and the perfume of my spirit, day and night, rain or shine – in the depths of her adorable eyes I can always tell what time it is, and it is always the same time, an hour vast, solemn, limitless as space undivided into minutes and seconds – a lingering hour no clock observes, soft as a sigh, swift as a glance.

And if an intruder came to disturb my study of this enchanting dial, if some malevolent genie, some demon of ill fortune, were to address me as a vain and idle mortal and say: ‘‘What are you staring at? What are you looking for in the eyes of that creature? Is time told there, and can you tell it?’’ I would reply without hesitation. ‘‘I know what time it is; it is Eternity.’’

Madame, is not this a most meritorious bagatelle, and as full of vain self-regard as your high and mighty self? Frankly, my dear, it has given me so much pleasure embroidering this pretentious piece of puffery that I ask nothing of you in return.

-- "L'Horloge" by Charles Baudelaire [trans. David Lehman]

from the Summer 2019 issue of The Yale Review, in which four other prose poems by Charles Baudelaire appear. 

https://yalereview.yale.edu/sites/default/files/baudelairecharles.poems_.yr107.3july_2019.final_.web_.pdf

Catullus #154 [trans Molly Arden]

Ode to His Love

Where are you my Lady I am waiting for you
I used to think that you would come but you
Proved to me that male and female are true
Distinctions "different but equal" do you rue
The three years you spent at law school
When I think of them I feel like such a fool

The man who bones his woman is a useful tool
Each time we fuck is greater than the golden rule
I wrote these lines in an effort to be cool
But it didn't work I felt like a ghost or a ghoul
You sat on me as if I were a stool
With you I'd swim in the deep end of the pool

O where are you my dove my sweet
Love is loveliest in the throes of heat

trans. Molly Arden

Molly Arden Bounces Back!

From time to time we will be posting commentary from Molly Arden, a onetime BAP-blog regular, who has translated Catullus and written a memorable essay, "Horace and Catullus," which won the coveted Richard Hertz Award from "Contemporary Literature in Translation."

To welcome her back, we thought we'd reprint an earlier post as well as a photographic image selected by the camera-shy Ms. Arden. 

Catullus #25
translated by Molly Arden

Thallus, you letch: softer than rabbit fur
is your phallus and sack of nuts
that dangle from your old man crotch, 
festooned with cobwebs, and still
you’re as greedy as a gonif

[line missing here]

Give back the things you stole from her --
her cape, handkerchief from Spain,
etchings from Carthage, bracelet of Salome --
things you claim you inherited from your folks.

Spare me your obnoxious jokes.
Get your sticky hands off her stuff, and send it
to her, or I swear I’ll kick your ass
and make you twist like a toy battleship
in the bathtub when a hurricane hits the sea.

"Loss of Halo" [by Charles Baudelaire, trans. D. Lehman]

Loss of Halo (Perte d’Aureole) by Charles Baudelaire

“What! You here, too, old pal? You, in this den of iniquity! You, quaffer of quintessences! You, who sup on ambrosia! This is a real surprise.”

“My dear chap, you know my fear of horses and carriages. Just now, as I raced across the street, stomping in the mud to get through that chaos in motion where death gallops at you from all sides at once, my halo slipped off my head and onto the filthy ground. I’m afraid I didn’t have the sang-froid to pick it up –let’s just say I deemed it less disagreeable to lose my insignia than to have my bones broken. And then I said to myself, look for the silver lining. I can now walk around incognito, doing whatever nasty things I like, indulging my vices just as lesser mortals do. And here I am, just like you, as you see!”

“You should at least report the loss of your halo or post a reward for its recovery.”

“Not on your life. I am quite happy here. You alone have recognized me. Besides, dignity bores me. And it pleases me to think that some bad poet will pick it up and put it on his impudent head. How sweet to make someone happy! Especially someone I can laugh at! Think of X or Z. You have to admit that’s funny.”

-- translated by David Lehman

[from The American Scholar, Spring 2014]

"Get Drunk" [Baudelaire, "Enivrez-vous," trans. D. Lehman]

You must get drunk. That’s it: your sole imperative. To immunize yourself from the backbreaking, body-bending burdens of time, you must get drunk and stay that way.

But on what? On wine, on poetry, or on virtue, your choice. But get drunk.

And if sometimes, while on the steps of a palace, on the green grass beside a marsh, in the morning solitude of your room, you snap out of it, your drunkenness has worn off , has worn off entirely, then ask the wind, ask an ocean wave, a star, a bird, a clock, every evanescent thing, everything that flies, that groans, that rolls, that sings, that speaks, ask them what time it is; and the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, will tell you: “It’s time to get drunk! To avoid being the martyred slaves of time, get drunk, get drunk and stay that way. On wine, on poetry, or on virtue, your choice.”

-- trans. David Lehman

"Enivrez-vous" is one of the fifty prose poems that constitute "Petits Poemes en prose," also known as "Spleen de Paris," the book by Baudelaire [pictured above] that launched the prose poem as a genre (or a form.)  This translation appeared in Alan Ziegler's excellent volume "Shorts" (Persea Books). I am working on a complete translation of "Paris Spleen," which is how I'd render the title. The poems have not been sdatisfactorily translated since Arthur Symons did it in the first decade of the twentieth century in Edwardian England. -- DL

Half-Life (after Friedrich Hölderlin) [by David Lehman]

After Hölderlin

Yellow pears
wild roses
the lake
your swans
and kisses
your head
in water.

But where,
when winter,
is sunshine
and shadow?
The walls,
silent and
cold, clatter.

[from The Atlantic, October 2018]

"Bread and Wine" by Friedrich Hölderlin [trans. David Lehman]

"I don't believe you have any notion of the pleasure that the arrival of the fourth volume of Hölderlin's collected works provided me. I had been waiting for it so long and so eagerly (you see, I had ordered the collected works in August(!) at a bookstore). Because of my excitement, I was almost incapable of doing anything else the entire day. I am now eagerly awaiting the sixth volume. After reading the Reich fragments, I must presume the sixth volume is also inordinately valuable. Another factor is that, at the moment, I need the broadest base imaginable for coming to terms with Hölderlin."

---Walter Benjamin, Letter to Gershom Scholem, December 23, 1917.

See Scott Thompson's chronology of Hölderlin's life. The picture of Hölderlin above is from 1792.

Here is part 7 of Holderlin's major poem "Bread and Wine":

But my friend, we have come too late. True, the gods are still alive
But somewhere high above us, in another world.
There they repeat themselves eternally, and don’t give a damn
If we live or die, so little do they care about us.
For a weak vessel cannot contain them. Only from time to time
Can humans bear the fullness of the gods. And therefore,
The life we know is a dream about them. But confusion
And sleep assist us, sorrow and night make us strong,
And soon heroes enough will emerge from the warlord’s cradle,
With hearts rivaling a god’s in courage.
In the meantime, I believe it is better to sleep than to live 
Without friends, waiting without hope, not knowing the right
Thing to say or do -- and what, after all, is the use
And purpose of poets in an age of darkness?
Yet you say they are like the priests of the wine god,
Moving from place to place in the sacred night.

–- translated by David Lehman

Mayakovsky's "Cloud in Trousers" (excerpts) [translated by David Lehman]

Posted by LIT, excerpts from Mayakovsky's "Cloud in Trousers": as translated by David Lehman. From part one, for example:

Hey!
Gentlemen!
You who,
next to me,
are rank amateurs
in the realms
of sacrilege,
mischief,
and mayhem —
have you laid eyes on
the most terrifying thing
in the world –
my face
when I am totally calm,
cool and collected?

I fear
my ego
isn’t big enough
for the rest of me
which
is struggling
to emerge
as a full-born youth
from a Madonna’s womb.

For more click here.  

On Mayakovsky's birthday, July 19, watch this space for more Mayakovsky. 

About ten or eleven years ago, the San Diego Reader reprinted a poem of mine that had appeared in The Kenyon Review. The poem was entitled "Poem in the Manner of Vladimir Mayakovsky." Next to the poem,  there was a photo of me that Bill Hayward had taken back in 1996. Beneath the photo: the name Vladimir Mayakovsky. -- DL

The Weirdness of Bilingualism [by Andrei Codrescu]

PART ONE (to be continued)

Timp de trei decenii limba română a ițit în convorbiri (de obicei exasperante) cu mama.

I wrote the sentence above in Romanian, and the idea of it intrigued me so much I kept on writing. I was exploring this idea as fast as I could type. It was a complex thought cascading into words. I called a temporary stop when the idea seemed (temporarily) exhausted. I read what I wrote and saw the weirdest thing: the first sentence was in Romanian, but the rest was in English. I had intended to write the whole thing in Romanian. I hadn’t even noticed when it slipped into English. What makes this interesting to me and, possibly, to neurologists, is that the idea in question was part of an introduction to a chapter of my collected poetry written directly in Romanian. I have two bodies of work in Romanian, 1962-1973, and 1992-2019. From 1973 to 1992 I wrote exclusively in English. I recovered my native language beginning in December 1989, when I "covered" the collapse of the Ceausescu dictatorship for NPR and ABC News. I started writing Romanian "coherently" in 1992. The parentheses around "covered" and "coherently" are intentional (another story). In any case, I am bilingual in an odd way, with a nearly four-decade gap between my native and my adopted languages.

1962 marked my first appearance in print when M.R. Paraschivescu, a Romanian poet and critic, cited two of my verses in his column "Posta Redacției" (The Editorial Post) in the weekly literary magazine "Luceafărul" (The Evening Star). All the Romanian literary journals of that time had a charming column responding to submissions from poets around the country. This one, written by the eminent Paraschivescu, was particularly desirable to young poets because "Luceafărul" was one of the rare publications testing the waters of censorship in the post-stalinist era. I was in High School in Sibiu, a provincial town with an illustrious but dead past, and I wasn't doing well in school. I seemed to have a knack for poetry. It turned out to be my way out of school, provincialism, and a future of guaranteed boredom. In his response, M.R. Paraschivescu said:

Luceafărul, Anul V, Nr. 7 (90), 1 Aprilie 1962, p. 8.

Poşta redacţiei

 Andrei Permuter: Se simte o încordare plină de promisiuni , dar deocamdată multe versuri sînt încă legate de expresii tip; prea mult abuz de „flăcări”, „lumini” etc. Chiar în cele mai reuşite poezii îşi fac loc aceste expresii deficitare, de care ar trebui să te ţii cît mai departe, deoarece întunecă unele imagini virtual interesante. Astfel, în „Şantier” este un decalaj vădit între început şi final:

„Păduri de vuiete şi foc
ridică pulberea din loc
Şi la căldura razelor de soare
Îi dă putere, formă şi culoare."

Luceafărul, Year V, Nr. 7 (90), April 1 1962, p.8

Andrei Permuter: "A tension filled with promise is felt, but the poetry still abuses phrases like "flames," "lights," etc. These defficient tropes find their way even in the most accomplished poems, and you must stay away from them, because they obscure some virtually interesting images. In the Poem "Santier" (Construction Site) there is an obvious gap between the beginning and the end:

 "Roaring and fiery woods
Raise up dust from their floors
That heated by the sun
Gains force, form, and color."

Paraschivescu's was an intoxicating response in 1962. The misspelling of my name was a consistent prediction of all my future names. "Permuter" was a phonetic and nativized transcription of my original name, "Perlmutter." Whether Romanized for an antisemitic public, simplified for print, or just a typo, the act of misspelling followed me in the future like that "obvious gap" between the beginning and the end of my poem. One can barely imagine today M.R. Paraschivescu's daring poetic agenda in this answer: in condemning socialist-realist cliches like "fiery," "sun," "force," the columnist was condemning an entire corpus of Communist Party-mandated writing. In calling for enforced optimism, Stalin had introduced a body of false metaphors into the poetry of all Soviet fiefdoms. This doctrine was particularly egregious to Romanians, whose poetry had risen to lyric intensity in the pre-war era because of its profound insight into the futility of human existence. Our greatest pre-communist poets had pulverized ideology by either the worship of nature or the howl of protest. Romanian poetry had been raped by an alien lyric body. A badly educated high-school student like myself, who had read mainly the journals of the time, and a few (very few) poets of the interwar era, would take the communist imagery for granted. 1962 was not yet the anno mirabilis 1965, which represented for poets a genuine liberation from socialist-realism, and a return to its true poetry, but the "tension" which Paraschivescu granted my poems was the first tremor what would become the earthquake of 1965.

(to be continued)

Poet Spotlight: Elizabeth Powell [by Kristina Marie Darling]

Elizabeth Powell is the author of The Republic of Self, a New Issue First Book Prize winner, selected by C.K. Williams. Her second book of poems, Willy Loman’s Reckless Daughter: Living Truthfully Under Imaginary Circumstances was a 2016 New Yorker Books We Love, a Small Press Best Seller, and won the 2015 Anhinga Robert Dana Prize, selected by Maureen Seaton. Her novel Concerning the Holy Ghost’s Interpretation of JCrew Catalogues, will be released in Spring 2019. Her work has appeared in the Pushcart Prize Anthology 2013, Ecotone, The Colorado Review, The Cortland Review, Harvard Review, Indiana Review, Missouri Review, Mississippi Review, Sugarhouse Review, Ploughshares, and elsewhere. She is Editor of Green Mountains Review, and Associate Professor of Creative Writing at Johnson State College. She also serves on the faculty of the low-residency MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Nebraska-Omaha.

A Process Note

All poetry is physics, is a theology of being and thingyness, is transformative narrative. I am attracted to hybrid form as a way to push the imagination into new ways of thinking and seeing. The imagination is what helps to express what is difficult or unseen and begin to understand how its creative stance can revolt against status quo of American consumerism. There is a strong link between social justice and experimental prose and the hybrid lyric essay/poem because the power of the imaginative/spiritual/dream propulsion of writing is beginning to move us away from the old ways of seeing that no longer serve. The creative force is that which has the power to free. My lyric hybrid novel, “Concerning the Holy Ghost’s Interpretation of JCrew Catalogues” explores how that redemptive idea interfaces with and investigates the consumerism and desire so rampant in American culture. I employ a pastiche of forms from disparate places such as a JCrew catalogue to the Book of Common Prayer. The book looks, in part, at the intersections of conservative evangelical misogyny, the new cult of domesticity (that is fashioned, in part, out of the idea of retro), and the social drive of the American advertisement and consumer system of belief.  My book thinks about creative force as prophecy, as the muse of history, as spiritual guide, as metaphor, as structural device, and, ultimately, as resistance.
__________________________________________________

A Folio of New Writing by Elizabeth Powell 

AUTOCORRECTING THE LYRIC I

 

I keep autocorrecting myself. I don’t want to autocorrect myself. I autocorrect when I don’t want to autocorrect. It disturbs the fusion of my interior monologue. I cannot keep up with how fast things are changing. If I use autocorrect I am more suitable for you to see. I am dressed. I am not as naked as my fast typing might insist.

Autocorrection is a kind of conspiracy theory of reality based on the probability of words and un-nimble fingers. Thought is more easily rendered when you autocorrect, so it is said. But I know I am made from a God that makes homemade bread in the desert, even if He doesn’t have yeast. I am not made of touchscreen typing, though it is didactic consideration. My fusion is a kind of Cupertino, inserted into the narrative even though it was never meant to be there. Yet, autocorrection is supposed reduce the probability I am wrong to you in the way Cary Grant never seems wrong to anyone.

When I autocorrect myself, it is better than back when I merely erased myself. There are many ways of erasure: deletion, drunk and disorderly, disintegration. Acting is a favored mode, and that’s why I like theater, drama, monologue. I’ve had practice passing as a Jew and passing as a WASP because my math teacher explained that I am what used to be called in New York, a Mic-Moc, though I am not Irish. I have become kind of good at doing this passing, though the one identity is always trying to autocorrect the other. Can you guess which parent of mine is a Jew? A Gentile?

Let’s say I’m fusion of cold borscht and finger sandwiches on white. I’m matzo ball Jew Bagel and thrifty Campbell’s soup with dried parsley don’t worry about me luncheon. I’m noodle kugel and I’m turkey divan casserole. I’m Bubbeleh and I’m Dearie. I’m Ma and I’m Mummy. I’m the Episcojew, and I am strong and not strong! I have a family tartan and a silence in the Vilnius ghetto. I cannot be buried in the holy land, but I cannot be cremated. I am passing and have passed, heard the murmurs   of lovely   & also…Dirty Jews, Fucking Gentiles. I have paid close attention to speech and learned how to autocorrect instantly. As quickly as fire, which used to follow me around like a strange cat. Fire on the Amtrak from DC to NYC, fire in the living room burning the shag rug, Fire on the Mountain at the Dead Shows.

Now, I just keep turning my words into something else beside fire like someone with a personality disorder trying to make everything look good! It is humbling and uncool, but I keep trying to fill in the blank of myself with words that keep changing. It is better, the Boston Brahmins say, to have a history not a past, so when I speak in the “I’ it must be my Jewish side, when I say that I am a vaudeville act in a quiet New England house. I’m the Daughter of the American Revolution in third class steerage.

I’m the debutante in the Pogrom. I’m a morpher like autocorrection. I have tried to make myself acceptable to both sides. Literally.

I am an Elizabeth…I autocorrect into an   electric   elsewhere

I am also Ann                And   Another

Powell to     Power   to Pose  

In Hebrew my name would be Bathsheba Bat Label

Bathsheba    becomes      Banshee, Battery

Also, I am delighted: Cary Grant was Jewish & Cary Grant was Church of England. He was perhaps the

"Memories of the Past at Red Cliff" ["Nian Nu Jiao" by Su Shi]

East flows the mighty river,
Sweeping away the heroes of time past;
This ancient rampart on its western shore
Is Zhou Yu's Red Cliff of three Kingdoms' fame;
Here jagged boulders pound the clouds,
Huge waves tear banks apart,
And foam piles up a thousand drifts of snow;
A scene fair as a painting,
Countless the brave men here in time gone by!
I dream of Marshal Zhou Yu in his day
With his new bride, the Lord Qiao's younger daughter,
Dashing and debonair,
Silk-capped, with feather fan,
He laughed and jested
While the dread enemy fleet was burned to ashes!
In fancy through those scenes of old I range.
My heart overflowing, surely a figure of fun.
A man gray before his time.
Ah, this life is a dream,
Let me drink to the moon on the river!

-- Nian Nu Jiao           

Translated by Yang Xianyi and Gladys Taylor

With thanks to Chang Yao, who informs us that this is her favorite of the various translations of the poem she has read. "Yang Xianyi was a Chinese translator who translated many ancient and a few modern Chinese classics into English, including Dream of the Red Chamber (my favorite novel of all time), and he was also the first one to translate The Odyssey into Chinese from the ancient Greek original. Glady Taylor was a British translator, and wife of Yang Xianyi (the couple met at Oxford, where they studied together)."

There is No Final Word [by Vincent Katz]

For my final Guest Author post (already!) I am going to do a survey of things I see around my desk that are inspiring me as I look out the windows at water dripping off pendulous icicles and streaks of shadows and dying sun on the softening snow.

First off, there is Anne Carson’s If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho (2002), in which Carson makes a representation of the classical text in its original language. She makes the fragmentary textual condition palpable. Many ancient poems come to us from papyruses that have been irreparably torn, resulting in the loss of words, lines, stanzas. Other fragments come to us in citations from later authors. Unlike most previous translators, who chose to translate only poems of Sappho’s that approach or can be made to emulate a complete state, Carson translated all the fragments we have. In her introduction, Carson writes:

In translating I tried to put down all that can be read of each poem in the plainest language I could find, using where possible the same order of words and thoughts as Sappho did. I like to think that, the more I stand out of the way, the more Sappho shows through. This is an amiable fantasy (transparency of self) within which most translators labor.

Carson is funny when discussing the uses to which poetry may be put by grammarians and pedants. We possess one of Sappho’s lines because someone named Apollonios Dyskolos in the second century CE cited it in his treatise On Conjunctions. The line is, “Do I still long for my virginity?” What a fantastic line! And how tantalizing not to have the rest of the poem.

She even goes on to that most remote category all classicists are familiar with, alternately delighting and despairing: when a song of Sappho’s is referred to but not quoted. In this category is a famous line from Solon recounted by Stobaios:

Solon of Athens heard his nephew sing a song of Sappho’s over the wine and since he liked the song so much he asked the boy to teach it to him. When someone asked why, he said, So that I may learn it and then die.

Carson writes, “As acts of deterrence these stories carry their own kind of thrill—at the inside edge where her words go missing, a sort of antipoem that condenses everything you ever wanted her to write…”

The Solon story reminds us that Sappho, as most ancient Greek and Roman poets, was a musician as well as a lyricist. In addition to her poems, she is credited with inventing the plectrum and the Mixolydian mode.

Carson’s translation of fragment 118 reads in its entirety:

yes! radiant lyre speak to me

become a voice

Jane Harrison’s Prolegomena to the study of Greek Religion, first published in 1903, helped to introduce a much more various method of understanding the ancient Greek world. She was one of the first to examine pre-Olympian cults and rituals, extending the study of mythology farther into the past and comparing it to similar patterns in diverse cultures.

Harrison’s words and her demonstrations of a shift from female- to male-centered religion resonate today:

To the primitive matriarchal Greek Pandora was then a real goddess, in form and name, of the Earth, and men did sacrifice to her. By the time of Aristophanes she had become a misty figure, her ritual archaic… Pandora is in ritual and matriarchal theology the earth as Kore, but in the patriarchal mythology of Hesiod her great figure is strangely changed and minished. She is no longer Earth-born, but the creature, the handiwork of Olympian Zeus… Hesiod loves the story of the Making of Pandora: he has shaped it to his own bourgeois, pessimistic ends… To Zeus, the archpatriarchal bourgeois, the birth of the first woman is but a huge Olympian jest… Such myths are a necessary outcome of the shift from matriarchy to patriarchy…

Denys Page’s 1959 book, History and the Homeric Iliad, like similar books in this University of California Press series by E.R. Dodds and Hugh Lloyd-Jones, derives from the Sather Lectures he gave at UC Berkeley in 1957. Attempting to analyze the historical basis of the epics, he writes the following about the so-called dark ages in Greece after the end of the Mycenean era:

Towards the end of this period of eclipse a single voice was uplifted loud and passionate enough to ring through the ages. On the summit of a stony, rugged hill near Mount Helicon, among the untrodden ways, stood the joyless hamlet of Ascra—a bad place in winter, and disagreeable in summer, according to old farmer Hesiod. The earliest Greek personality known to us since the Mycenaean era, he tells us what he and others thought of the times in which they lived—not only the immediate present, but all the years since the age of heroes ended. And the emphasis falls not so much on the material as on the spiritual degeneration of Greece.

In order to best comprehend poems from Classical antiquity, it is necessary to consult the comprehensive commentaries that are periodically published to accompany specific authors. In the case of Hesiod, two massive publications by Martin Litchfield West (1937-2015) are essential reading. They are Theogony Edited with Prolegomena and Commentary (1966) and Works & Days Edited with Prolegomena and Commentary (1978). West brings a seemingly inexhaustible knowledge of manuscripts, Greek and Latin literature of all periods, usages in all of Homer and all other Greek poets. In addition, he was one of the first Western scholars to study systematically parallels and predecessors in Babylonian, Hittite, Jewish, and Egyptian traditions, not to mention relevant later parallels.

We’ll leave this week’s final words to him. Here is West on Theogony:

When I say that Hesiod’s narrative is more condensed than Homer’s, I do not mean that he never says a word more than he need. His brevity is a brevity of thought, not of language… The most important and not the least remarkable fact about the dialect of Hesiod’s poems is that it is essentially the same as that of Homer…

Written language was a recent importation to Greek culture when Homer’s and Hesiod’s poems achieved the forms in which we have them now. In his intro to his Works and Days commentary, West writes this on Hesiod’s compositional process:

It is not to be supposed that having written a poem down Hesiod ceased to recite it, or that he abstained from reciting it in the middle of writing it down. With the work growing by stages, each activity may at times have run ahead of the other. After composing a passage in his mind he might either recite it to people before he wrote it or write it before he recited it. There is no reason why it should make a visible difference to our text. What he recited, however, would probably be closer to the written version when he had already written it than before, because the act of writing or slowly dictating a particular version must inevitably have tended to impress it on his memory. In the end, then, he was probably reciting a multipartite poem much like what he left in writing.

Except no! Keeping to our theme of song as poetry, we’ll end with Eric von Schmidt (1931-2007), a singer-songwriter who inspired Dylan in the early days (and whose album The Folk Blues of Eric von Schmidt appears on the cover of Dylan’s seminal Bringing It All Back Home, among other culturally significant detritus). Von Schmidt has a heart-breaking intensity to some of his vocal performances. It is so on his haunting version of “Fair and Tender Ladies,” written by Maybelle Carter of the Carter sisters. But in true folk tradition, von Schmidt invents lyrics to add to Carter’s. And in that, he is right in the tradition of the rhapsodes of Homer and Hesiod’s time. See you at the intersection of Song and Word!

Satire in the Offing? [by Vincent Katz]

I am thinking about satire. The literary genre, not the political kind, though that can be useful as well. In these times, comedy can be the thing that really helps us survive. And most of the best comedians these days that deal with political topics are having a field day with satire. But that’s not poetry.

The OED informs us that satire’s etymology is uncertain. One idea was to connect, via the root that gives us “saturate,” to the Latin expression lanx satura, or “full dish,” i.e. a miscellany of prose and verse. Another theory is that the word is of Etruscan origin, with obscure significance. Satire was also at one time associated with satyrs, and thus with the genre of satyr plays.

Satire as a literary genre began in Rome, and the first practitioner of it whose work has survived was Horace, in his poems known in Latin as Sermones, which could perhaps be translated nowadays as Riffs. Roman satire is appealing to me because of its form.

There is something about the form that seems quite modern to me. Like Propertius in his use of elegiac couplets, Horace, in his first book of Satires, published in 35 BCE, when he was 30, takes advantage of a conversational tone to give the poems an expansive, improvisational quality. Satire 1.9 is almost a Frank O’Harian “I do this I do that” poem. As the poem tells it, Horace is walking along the street in Rome when he is accosted by a drag of a person, who pesters Horace to introduce him to his patron, Maecenas. Horace is only saved at the last minute by a plaintiff in a court case against this person who drags him off to court.

Between Horace and Juvenal, there was another Roman satirist, Persius. Kenneth J. Reckford’s 2009 book, Recognizing Persius (Princeton) is an excellent introduction to this poet, who died at 27 and left six satires that we still have today. Reckford writes:

Persius gives us traces of an Aristophanic contest, or agon, between the Old Literature and the New: between the rugged old Classical authors like Pacuvius and Accius, nostalgically misremembered and praised by grumbling elders, and the smooth, effeminate, precious, hyper-Alexandrian verse beloved by modern youth, all about orgiastic Maenads and self-castrating Attises. It is all special effects nowadays, all style and no substance. Modern poetry has no balls. And not just poetry: for rhetorical pleading in the lawcourts, once the vital center of Roman political life, has also become theatricalized; defendants give artificial performances for show, just as their prosecutors do, and both sides hope mainly for applause. Underlying the parody is a dangerous thought. As Tacitus was later to demonstrate in his Dialogus, oratory atrophied under the empire because the lawcourts’ decision-making power had been taken over the emperor; what was left was flattery and self-display.

Horatian satire is generally considered to be lighter than that practiced by Juvenal some hundred years later. That has something to do with the times each poet lived in. Horace was writing at the height of the Augustan age, and what’s more, he was part of that emperor’s inner circle. Juvenal wrote during the period from Nero to Hadrian. Although he started publishing later in life, the fact that he survived the reigns of 10 emperors is in itself a testament to his shrewdness.

Rolfe Humphries’ translations of Juvenal, published in 1958, still have valor and bite to them. In his introduction, Humphries writes:

To Quintilian, and to Roman scholars and critics less well-known, the word satirehad a meaning, and connotations, less narrow than it has for us. Into these, and into the history of the art form, we need not go, for satire, as Juvenal writes it, cries with the saeva indignatio, the slashing sense of outrage, that we associate with the term. He is Swift’s cousin; we can feel at home. Not comfortably so, of course not, for this man is too good a hater.

            What he hated were the ways of the world that Ovid, roughly a century before, had loved so dearly. Beau monde, haut ton—these did not amuse Juvenal. As for meretricious Rome, he shared the sentiments of (this too would have revolted him) an African king, Jugurtha the briber, dead before Ovid was born, who had called the city “venal and doomed if it only could find a purchaser.” It had found, Juvenal thought, more purchasers than one, and more than one debaucher. He did not like it at all, and he said so.

And finally, not a satirist, but a poet with a brilliantly satirical mind, as, in essence, many Roman poets were. The epigrammist Martial lived from 40 to 104 CE, meaning that he overlapped extensively with Juvenal. In poet Art Beck’s new translation, Martial: Mea Roma (Shearsman Books), we are given a sense of what makes this poet so eternally enticing. He’s famous for his lustful blasts, but he can be subtly philosophical as well. Here’s one in the latter vein that in a few syllables gets behind a famous myth in a way I would never have thought possible:

The Lyre

It returned Eurydice to the great poet: but then he lost her.

   Because he loved with neither trust nor patience.

What's So Interesting About Works and Days? [by Vincent Katz]

I am on a train on my way up to Yaddo, where I'll be for the next three weeks. Last time I was up there, it was also February. I like it in winter, when the isolation is increased. A certain kind of person is attracted to that extreme. That other time, I wrote a poem for the people I met there, who impressed me with their dedication to their art. It’s called “The February People.” I’m curious who will be there this time.

While I look at the snow on the tracks and the ice in the river, I am listening to The Beatles’ Anthology 1collection. I’ve also been reading about why Pete Best was fired. Apparently, it was a combination of his playing ability, his lack of a sense of humor, and his refusal to comb his hair forward. It is interesting to think about the Beatles' Hamburg period. They did three stints there over a two-year period, and it was there, over many hours of club playing, that they honed their arrangements and their commitment to the lifestyle.

There has always been a connection between poetry and music. To paraphrase Mr. Pound, if you can’t dance to it, it can’t be very good.

I’ll be working on a few things up at Yaddo. One is a translation of Hesiod’s poem Works and Days. I’ve now finished his Theogonyand hope to get close to finishing Works and Days during these weeks away. Works and Days is 828 lines long. I’ve got about 600 to go.

When I finished my translations of Sextus Propertius, I decided I wanted to go back to Greek poetry, as it forms such an undeniable basis for the Roman poets. Almost all they wrote — in terms of the genres, the ideas, the mythology — comes from Greek poetry. Of course, the great Roman poets altered and innovated, and in at least one case — satire — they invented. But to understand Roman poetry, you have to know Greek poetry, and poetry only truly lives in its original language. The translation of a poem into poetry in another language is the creation of a new poem based on the original.

So, I pondered for a long time. Archilochos, Kallimachos, Sappho, Alkaios — they all hold enticements — but I finally decided on Hesiod. I was most fascinated by the Theogony, as I wanted to delve more deeply into Greek mythology. I’ve always had a hard time keeping it straight — who has had sex with whom, which gods or demigods are the offspring of which parents, and in which versions, as Greek and Roman writers famously invented or sought out variants to suit their purposes.

There was another reason for choosing Hesiod. He is so highly regarded among ancient poets, and yet the existing translations into English make him sound terribly dull. I was certain Propertius, among many others, wouldn’t have had time for a dull poet, not matter how edifying. I had a hunch there was more to Hesiod than met the eye. Certainly, it wasn’t only for genealogies and information on early Greek agricultural practices that he was praised so highly.

And so it proved to be. I found, translating the Theogony, a spicy wit and a collage-like element. The latter may be partially because Hesiod is so early (he is considered a contemporary of Homer’s by contemporary scholars), and there may have been interpolations by early readers and editors. But I think some of the shifts of subject and narrative are native to the poet. His poems are in the epic form; they are in dactylic hexameter and rely on the Ionic dialect associated with epic. But they can be considered non-heroic in aspect. Hesiod is the first Western poet to mention himself by name and to discuss his family background and current situation, giving him a good claim to being the first personal poet.

On coming to the end of my translation of the Theogony, I decided to take the plunge and translate the same poet’s Works and Days, as I would thereby have in my hand a translation of Hesiod’s entire extant work. I embarked with less enthusiasm than I had on the previous poem, but something strange happened. My hunch came into play again. I am finding this poem thoroughly enjoyable as a work of writing.

The poet’s attitude towards women is of course a problem, but we shouldn’t fail to investigate an artist because of their personal failings, no matter how egregious or disturbing. Within his own limitations, as well as those of his time and place, he is a remarkable artist, and I am grateful for this opportunity to examine his poetics in detail — his word choices, his use of adverbial phrases, his development of the longer poem. It is inspiring me to write something longer, and that is that best thing that can result from translating, or from reading — the desire to go to the keyboard or notebook and embark on a new attempt at writing poetry.

Ron Padgett on Apollinaire (an excerpt)

 Here is an excerpt from Ron Padgett's essay, "A Few Things about Apollinaire and Me." The occasion for this essay was the publication, by New York Review Books, of Ron's long-awaited translation of Guillaume Apollinaire's Selected Poems. It is a coincidence only in the sense Gertrude Stein gave that word, that I, too, was influenced deeply by Apollinaire in my time in Paris, a few years after Padgett's year there. Unlike Ron's, my attempts to translate Apollinaire are limited to two of his poems, "Zone" and "Hotel," and that makes me appreciate all the more the accuracy and the intelligence that Ron brings to the translator's task. He has done a noble service to literature. -- DL

<<<

I wish I could recall the first time I learned of [Apollinaire, pictured left]. I do remember hearing, in the very early 1960s, Kenneth Koch talking enthusiastically and often about his poetry. I also recall being attracted to the sound of his name, which of course was not his real one. Would I have felt as much allure in a poet named Wilhelm de Kostrowitzsky (his real name)? Probably not: less euphony and no suggestion of Apollo.

The first two poems of his that I tried translating, “The Pont Mirabeau” and “The White Snow,” have moments of complex word play, but, being enthusiastic and naïve, I didn’t let that deter me. Over the years I got deeper into his work by translating more of his poems, as well as his novella The Poet Assassinated, which I tackled as a student in Paris in 1965. Well, I wasn’t really a student, I was a Fulbright fellow who attended no classes; instead I kept on being the poet that I had become, but now one who was falling deeper and deeper into what I imagined to have been Paris before World War One, a Paris whose writers and artists I had been drawn to since my teen years. Living below the poverty level—my wife and I subsisted on a Fulbright stipend allocated for one person—gave me the impression that I had even more in common with the threadbare poets I was captivated by, such as Reverdy, Cendrars, and Jacob, and among them Gui stood at the center of things, representing the exciting and innovative cultural world of pre-war Paris. My just being there, walking his neighborhoods—there were back streets whose buildings still had turn-of-the-century signs painted on them, cafes and restaurants that had hardly changed in 70 years—visiting his grave and sensing him there in the ground, standing mesmerized in front of the Bateau Lavoir, feeling the late-night danger and poverty of the Montmartre of 1907, and, perhaps above all, holding in my hands, just as he had, his manuscripts, corrected proofs, and letters—I was hooked for life. More than that, I assumed that as a young (avant-garde!) poet I had every right to be hooked, for we had something in common. However, fueled by youthful energy and adoration, I never stopped to ask myself exactly what it might be.

Although the poems I wrote that year in Paris reflect my being there, only a few of them show an obvious influence of Apollinaire, despite the fact that the book I cherished most was the Pléiade edition of his Oeuvres poétiques (the same copy I use today). I was already well acquainted with the two major collections he published in his lifetime, Alcools and Calligrammes, but the Pléiade edition included many poems I had never seen, and among them I found some gems, some of which didn’t sound like “Apollinaire.” All the better! For I was bent on not sounding like myself all the time, either, and I didn’t mind sounding like him sometimes. Take a look at his little poem, “Hotel”:

My room looks like a cage
The sun sticks its arm through the window
But I who want to smoke and make mirages
I light my cigarette with daylight
I don’t want to work I want to smoke

“I light my cigarette with daylight” is fanciful (and delightful), but it’s the final line that determines the feeling of the whole poem. The poet is feeling dreamy and lazy. Plunk. That’s it. The epigraph of a poem of mine I wrote in Paris that year, “Tone Arm,” runs in a similar vein:

The clouds go rolling over
The rooftops of the 17th-
18th- or 19th-century buildings—
They are really rolling
You people of the future
How I hate you
You are alive and I’m not
I don’t care whether you read my poetry or not

Fifty years apart, two poets sit in their hotel rooms in Paris and thumb their noses at the conventional bourgeois world, he charmingly, I arrogantly.

Apollinaire’s influence on me consisted of more than a superficial and temporary adoption of a self-indulgent attitude. What affected me more deeply was the elasticity of his work, which ranged from traditional, euphonious forms to avant-garde calligrammatic verbal collages. He certainly wasn’t the only experimenter of his day, but I can’t name another poet of his time who showed such aesthetic range, aside from Mallarmé, and even then the latter’s Coup de dés is an aberration for him. As for myself, coming from a country whose emblematic monument was the Statue of Liberty, and from a state (Oklahoma) with a freewheeling history, and from a father who liberated himself from social conventions (and laws) when it suited him, I was primed to become an adept of a poet of freedom and adventure such as Apollinaire, who, in one of his last poems, says, “We want to give you vast and strange territories / Where flowering mystery offers itself to anyone who wishes to gather it.” While cherishing the formal music and sweet diction of the Elizabethan and Metaphysical poets, the way Apollinaire revered Villon and Racine, I saw myself as a fellow explorer of those vast and strange territories, though I would never have articulated such a thought. It was yet another unspoken assumption that carried me forward.

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Catullus #25 (trans. Molly Arden)

Thallus, you letch: softer than rabbit fur
is your phallus and sack of nuts
that dangle from your old man crotch, 
festooned with cobwebs, and still
you’re as greedy as a gonif

[line missing here]

Give back the things you stole from her --
her cape, handkerchief from Spain,
etchings from Carthage, bracelet of Salome --
things you claim you inherited from your folks.

Spare me your obnoxious jokes.
Get your sticky hands off her stuff, and send it
to her, or I swear I’ll kick your ass
and make you twist like a toy battleship
in the bathtub when a hurricane hits the sea.