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REALLY READING POETRY

July 18, 2017

One of my favorite things is to gather with other poets to talk about poems, poets, and poetry. That’s why I love teaching, and that’s why I started a blog called The Poetry Conversation. But I’m also part of another, in-person poetry conversation that has been meeting once a month since last December. There are eight of us, and whoever hosts chooses the book. So far we’ve read Kevin Prufer’s Churches, Louise Gluck’s Faithful and Virtuous Night, Tim Seibles’ One Turn Around the Sun, Natasha Tretheway’s Thrall, Anne Carson’s Nox, and Marie Howe’s Magdalene–and we’re about to discuss Alice Oswald’s Falling Awake.  The group offers so many pleasures I hardly know where to start.  Given the overwhelming number of poetry books out there, it’s a luxury to have someone say, “Pay attention to this one.”  And believe me, everyone pays attention: we come with notes and stickies, and definitions, allusions, translations when necessary.  This is passionate, thoughtful engagement.  It is the way we all dream of being read and almost never are.  We talk about individual poems, patterns, the book as a whole.  We listen to interviews with the poets, and listen to them reading their work aloud if we can.  And we all bring different points of view to the mix.  The poems, and then the discussions, set my mind on fire.  Thinking about one book doesn’t stop when we move to the next–it all accumulates.  It is the richest, deepest, most faceted talk about reading poetry that I’ve ever been part of, and I hope it goes on forever.

Now go start a reading group of your own.

Mark Strand’s translations of Carlos Drummond de Andrade

August 17, 2016

As is always the case with poetry, one thing leads to another.  After I posted Marvin Bell’s poem, several people mentioned Mark Strand’s wonderful translations of Drummond’s poems.  (I’ve seen him referred to as Drummond, as Drummond de Andrade, and as de Andrade; I’m going with Drummond.)  This is my favorite short description of him:

“Mr. Drummond’s bald, equine, bespectacled visage appears on T-shirts and book bags in Brazil, and one of his poems, “Canção Amiga” (“Friendly Song”), was printed on the 50 cruzados bill.  (We American poets can only dream.) Since 2002 there has been a statue of him on the Copacabana in Rio de Janeiro, his adopted hometown. This statue faces away from, not toward, the ocean. This was a witty decision (he was an inward poet) that annoys the unintelligentsia, who want him spun around.”

Drummond was one of the greatest of Brazilian poets, and English translations by Elizabeth Bishop and Mark Strand brought him notice in America.  You can find wonderful photos and paintings of him online.  I’ll say more about Mark Strand’s own elegant, mysterious, funny poems in a future post, but for now I’ll just include his translation of Drummond’s poem “Don’t Kill Yourself.”

 

Carlos Drummond de Andrade

DON’T KILL YOURSELF

Carlos, calm down, love
is what you are seeing:
a kiss today, tomorrow no kiss,
the day after tomorrow is Sunday
and nobody knows what will happen
on Monday.

It’s useless to resist
or to commit suicide.
Don’t kill yourself. Don’t kill yourself.
Save all of yourself for the wedding
though nobody knows when or if
it will ever come.

Carlos, earthy Carlos, love
spent the night with you
and your deepest self
is raising a terrible racket,
prayers,
stereos,
saints in procession,
ads for the best soap,
a racket for which nobody knows
the why or wherefor.

Meanwhile, you walk
upright, unhappy.
You are the palm tree, you are the shout
that nobody heard in the theater
and all the lights went out.
Love in darkness, no, in daylight,
is always sad, Carlos, my boy,
don’t tell anyone,
nobody knows or will know.

trans. from the Portuguese by Mark Strand

from Looking for Poetry: Poems by Carlos Drummond de Andrade and Rafael Alberti, and Songs from the Quechua, trans. Mark Strand

 

I also want to add a link to an essay by Carol Muske-Dukes that she wrote not long after Mark Strand died, “A Piece of Paper,”  and published in a special issue on Strand of West Branch Wired, at Bucknell University.  It’s a beautiful and moving portrait, and mentions Strand’s translations and a series of very funny poems on the art of translating.

Poetry of Witness

July 4, 2016

786699._UY475_SS475_One of the graduating students in Lesley University’s low-residency MFA Program, Eileen Cleary, gave a moving talk on poems of witness last week.  Examples ranged from Bruce Weigl’s “The Last Lie” to Tadeusz Rozewicz’s “Pigtails” to Yusef Komunyaaka’s “After Ferguson.”  It has made me think about what a complicated topic this is, and I’m pondering two specific questions right now.  One is that we use the term to refer to tragedies, not to celebratory, joyful, or ordinary events–an untroubled birth, the first spring beauties coming up through remnants of snow.  The origins of the word witness seem to be legalistic from the beginning: testimony based on knowing, on having your wits about you.  So it’s witness to a crime, to bad behavior, to tragedy.  It laments injustice and gives voice to outrage and to those who can’t speak for themselves.

But the larger, more complicated question, has to do with point of view: where is the witness in relation to the events being described?  Is the testimony firsthand or secondhand, is it grounded in direct observation or in empathy, in the imagination?  In Bruce Weigl’s poem the speaker is an American soldier describing a fellow soldier’s casual violence–throwing a food canister hard at the forehead of one of the hungry children.  Komunyaaka’s speaker is an American black man raging against racial injustice–we assume he’s felt it himself though he didn’t witness the Ferguson shooting firsthand.  Rosewicz was a Polish poet whose mother had converted from Judaism to Catholicism.  He and his brother both fought the Nazis as part of the Polish underground, and his brother was captured and executed.  The anonymous speaker of his poem imagines the the lives of the girls and women who have left behind “clouds of dry hair.”

So the question I’m pondering is: what’s our relationship to events that move us from a distance: Hiroshima, the Holocaust, Ferguson and all its shameful company if we’re white, a drowned Syrian child on a Greek beach, gays and lesbians targeted at a Florida nightclub.  Not acts of god, but of human rage and savagery.  What ground do we have to stand on and speak from that will make us more than sensationalists, voyeurs, co-opters, poachers?  Shared humanity–and inhumanity?  What poems come to mind?  Have you written poems you consider poems of witness?