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Category Archives: Poets Corner
New Poetry Section
Each week I usually feature a particular poet and an attendant book by that poet on offer in the bookstore. Some weeks I might wax on beyond those fixed parameters, in accordance with my whims. This week I’d planned to follow up last week’s post with another one on translation, as it related to the book/poet I’d had in mind.
In the eleventh hour, I’m changing course, in order to announce (drumroll please) the unveiling of Our Town Books’ very own Poets Corner. The actual one (to accompany this virtual one) in the bookstore proper. Thanks to Sally’s inspired vision, and Jim seeing it to fruition, I am left with the fun part, that of filling it with books of, or about poetry and those who write it.
We, at OTB, believe that poetry ought not be relegated to some obscure, hard to reach area of the store. While The Canterbury Tales may not equal James Patterson in sales, I’d like to think that, over time, Chaucer will prove to be nearly as important a literary figure as Patterson (if, for no other reason, by virtue of the former having written all of his tales by himself, a boast the latter cannot make).
One of the many nice things about Our Town Books (such as free coffee and warm, hearth-side hospitality) is that we try to offer books of all shapes, sizes, prices, and ages (from brand-spanking-new to antiquated to fifty-centers), on a wide variety of subjects, for a wide variety of readers of all shapes, sizes, and ages. Every customer is priceless.
So, if you’re looking for James Patterson, you’ll find him — everywhere(!) throughout the store. But if Williams’ Paterson is the book for you, you’ll find it too. Though, in just one place: the northwest corner, on your left as you enter the store, next to the free coffee. The all-new poetry section. Hurry in (or saunter if you please) and peruse to your heart’s content.
–Andy Continue reading
Poetic Obsession
Poetry in translation. An oxymoron? Perhaps. At least to a certain extent. Without exception, something is lost along the way. And, this something, regardless of its significance, is irretrievable. For the way is dark, the prospect daunting.
Take Dante, for instance. Would you want to descend those swirling terza rima depths without your own personal Beatrice in hand? Such an enterprise takes uncommon dedication to get it somewhere in the vicinity of right. One cannot ever get it quite right.
In the case of Robert Pinsky, it took more hubris than anything. I remember him boasting to a packed auditorium of how he confided to his wife (his Beatrice) in bed one night that he could do it — Dante’s Inferno, that is. That he was ready for the challenge of rendering at least one-third of The Divine Comedy into rhyme-challenged English. And so he did, admirably enough, with brio and all that. But you see, that is how a poet hands another poet’s lines over to his own time, in his own language. A scholar, more academic than poet, might, on the other hand, leave a poem more faithfully realized, line by line, in another tongue.
But that leaves us with an argument over fidelity. Is meticulous, word-for-word accuracy necessarily the best tack? Or, is it better to err on the side of spiritual truth — getting the overall essence of the thing across the language barrier? Who can say? Perhaps the happiest translator is the one who cuts his or her losses and runs to the next project.
For David R. Slavitt, his new translation of Petrarch’s Canzoniere follows closely on the heels of his interpretation of Dante’s La Vita Nuova, which, he, befittingly, gave new life. In La Vita Nuova, the young Dante pines for his beloved on the streets of Florence well before she leads him through the underworld. Alas, his longings are not reciprocated by Signorina Beatrice. Just as the truly epic love of lesser known Francesco Petrarca was never requited.
Petrarch (as he is known in English), first saw Laura de Noves on Good Friday, April the 6th, 1327. From that day until his death he wrote sonnet after sonnet in her honor. Much as Cezanne painted his favorite model, Mont Sainte-Victoire, over and over en plein air, Petrarch penned his anguished amore (for Laura was already betrothed to another) in countless fourteen-liners, laying his heart bare for posterity, which, in turn, has laid the laurel of esteem on his legacy. In so doing, he secured for his beloved a place on the mantel of great muses.
But if my rhymes have purpose, it is to make
your name live on among the wise and clever
eternally. My tributes are for this.
Thus concludes Sonnet 327 (out of a total of 365 — one for each day of the year), turned deftly in Slavitt’s contemporary English. Written in the wake of her death (which occurred twenty-one years to the day after his first encounter with her), this poem attests to Petrarch’s ever waxing devotion to Laura in death. Here are the last two stanzas of Sonnet 352:
You left that splendid body here in the earth
that cloaked it like a veil when you returned
to your Maker’s realm as your destiny.Your departure occasioned a drastic dearth
of Love and Courtesy. The light that burned
in the sky dimmed to a dismal vacancy.
But let us return to the beginning of this seven hundred year old love story. In his early sonnets, Petrarch set the tenor for a lifetime of poetic obsession. I will leave you with the first stanza of his third sonnet.
It was on that day when the sun’s bright rays fade
in pity for its maker’s passion that I
was taken unprepared at the instant when my
eyes met yours and I was at once betrayed.
–Andy Continue reading
A Lament
Recently, someone asked if I would post some of my own poetry on this blog. I offer the following poem to that someone, as well as “To you strangers…” as Dylan Thomas addressed his readers in his Author’s Prologue. Though, above all, I offer these meager words to Didi, whose absence is marked each month, thereby, keeping her present throughout the year.
Amethyst
In this short month
of your birthwe recount your life,
which, to you, seemed longerthan it was.
Just as February, with its full moonand empty woods,
to us, seems longer than it is.Contrary to March, April, and May
that hop, skip, and jumplike children in its wake,
its only bloom is the gemstill on the bone of your finger.
–Andy
The Wanderer
Long before Robbie Burns was “sing(ing) the juice Scotch,” the ancients were raising a glass and — again Burns’ words — “a fracas/Bout vines and wines, and drunken Bacchus.” Homer declared that no poem was ever writ by a drinker of mere water. The implication being that a poet takes inspiration from Dionysus as well as from Apollo. While for Burns, a barley field held the key to inspiration, for others it could be found in a vineyard.
For Li Po, it was found (over and over again) in a rice field. Praising mountain, moon and river with equal fervor, Li seems to have been more taken with his beloved wine than with anything else. In his case, drink was not just a way of channeling the muse. Drink was the muse. And for Li Po the drink was wine. As one scholar put it, others may have drunk more of it, but no one wrote more about it.
For satisfaction in this life
taste pleasure to the limit,
And never let a goblet of gold
face the bright moon empty.
In this short passage, excerpted from one of his longer poems, Bring in the Wine, we find two of Li’s pet motifs: wine (naturally) and the moon. Many of his shorter poems strike a harmonious balance somewhere between haiku and sonnet. Combining the abstract precision of the former and the meatier complexity of the latter, Li Po wields his gift with aplomb.
Ballad of Youth
A young man of Five Barrows suburb
east of the Golden Market,
Silver saddle and white horse
cross through wind of spring.
When fallen flowers are trampled all under,
where is it he will Roam?
With a laugh he enters the tavern
of a lovely Turkish wench.
His longer poems are given to wandering meditation, as was the poet himself, who took to the road often and for extended periods. Gaining a reputation as a wandering poet, he seems to have cleared a path for future wanderers in the trade, most notably, the Japanese haiku master, Basho, whose seminal opus, The Narrow Road of the Interior, is essentially a Zen-like travelogue, part poetry, part prose. More recently, and closer to home, such wanderer poets as Vachel Lindsay and Jack Kerouac seem to have taken up the torch passed on all those years ago from the other side of the world.
Born in a western province of China at the beginning of the eighth century, during the height of the T’ang Dynasty, Li Po grew up in humble circumstances. Though soon his prodigious talent landed him among the powers that be. As court poet for the emperor, he enjoyed flavor-of-the-day status until, losing favor with others, jealous of his stature (and irked by his prodigious drinking), he was banished, yet again, to the open road from whence he’d come. And while he seemed content enough in the company of nobility, likewise, he was at ease with the poor. Generous to a fault, he tended to bestow his new-found wealth upon those in need. Still, he managed always to keep enough cash for his dearest friend of all, wine.
No matter where his wanderings took him, his faithful companion was ever at his side, and, invariably, in his belly. And whether or not the wine is to blame, legend has it that one evening, while out on the Yangtze, Li Po drowned, attempting to embrace the moon’s reflection in the water.
–Andy Continue reading
Poet of the People
Rather like Pablo Neruda spoke for the Chilean people for much of the last century, to this day Robert Burns sings for his countrymen. While the rest of the English-speaking world might think of Shakespeare when mention is made of “The Bard,” for Scots, this moniker belongs to their favorite son, born to a cotter (farmer) over two hundred and fifty years ago this week. But, more than a mere nickname, Bard, with a capital “B”, is a title held in reverence by a proud nation.
Just as Neruda’s eloquence resonated throughout all of Latin America, Burns’ words carry far beyond Caledonia. And just as the former wrote of social justice in one poem and lust in the next, the latter could lampoon the powers that be, while praising his “luve” with equal zeal.
Countries that have suffered oppression, be it at the hands of empire or not, seem to venerate writers to a much greater degree than do wealthy political powers. Take Vaclav Havel of the Czech Republic. He was elected the first president of that newly established post-Cold War state. And you can hardly walk the streets of Dublin without running into a statue of some laureate. While in these United States we have elected a former movie star to the highest office in the land, can you imagine a poet in the Oval Office? Alas, I’m afraid Shelley was but wishfully thinking when he insisted that poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world. The Third World perhaps.
But, Scotland is a far cry from the Third World. As is Ireland, once dubbed the land of saints and scholars. Although Scotland, too, has had its fair share of scholars and those with a propensity for piety, its favorite prodigal is a most lovable sinner. Of course I’m referring to that naughty bonny boy with a “guid” heart (figuratively speaking), who stole more than a few from the lasses along the way. I make a point of my speaking figuratively, for, in a literal sense, Burns had a bad heart, which accounts for his early death.
If you’re interested in learning more about the Ploughman Poet and hearing his words spoken (brogue and all) and sung, come to Our Town Books at 7:00 this Thursday for A Night Out With Robert Burns. Oh, and there’ll be haggis (care of Dr. Ugs cafe) and scotch (care of Jim) to boot. And go easy on the scotch. For one thing it ain’t cheap — no jokes regarding Scottish frugality please. For another, the whole clan will be trekking over to the Pine Tree Studio for the entertainment portion of the evening. And we wouldn’t want anyone losing his or her footing along the way.
P.S.
We’ll have copies of a book, sharing the event’s title, for sale.
Slainte Mhath!
Andy Continue reading
Posted in Books, Events, Poets Corner
Tagged A Night Out with Robert Burns: The Greatest Poems, Robert Burns
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