April 2010

Poem-a-Day, April 10: so close to what I mean

Bilingual Sestina

Some things I have to say aren’t getting said
in this snowy, blond, blue-eyed, gum-chewing English:
dawn’s early light sifting through persianas closed
the night before by dark-skinned girls whose words
evoke cama, aposento, sueños in nombres
from that first world I can’t translate from Spanish.

Gladys, Rosario, Altagracia — the sounds of Spanish
wash over me like warm island waters as I say
your soothing names: a child again learning the nombres
of things you point to in the world before English
turned sol, tierra, cielo, luna to vocabulary words —
sun, earth, sky, moon. Language closed

like the touch-sensitive moriviví whose leaves closed
when we kids poked them, astonished. Even Spanish
failed us back then when we saw how frail a word is
when faced with the thing it names. How saying
its name won’t always summon up in Spanish or English
the full blown genie from the bottled nombre.

Gladys, I summon you back by saying your nombre.
Open up again the house of slatted windows closed
since childhood, where palabras left behind for English
stand dusty and awkward in neglected Spanish.
Rosario, muse of el patio, sing in me and through me say
that world again, begin first with those first words

you put in my mouth as you pointed to the world —
not Adam, not God, but a country girl numbering
the stars, the blades of grass, warming the sun by saying,
¡Qué calor! as you opened up the morning closed
inside the night until you sang in Spanish,
Estas son las mañanitas, and listening in bed, no English

yet in my head to confuse me with translations, no English
doubling the world with synonyms, no dizzying array of words
— the world was simple and intact in Spanish —
luna, sol, casa, luz, flor, as if the nombres
were the outer skin of things, as if words were so close
one left a mist of breath on things by saying

their names, an intimacy I now yearn for in English —
words so close to what I mean that I almost hear my Spanish
heart beating, beating inside what I say en inglés.

Hi Friends,

Did you notice the words “English”, “Spanish”, “words”, “nombres“, “say”, and “close” repeating in this poem? Did you notice that they repeat as the last word of each line?

In any language, the sestina is a challenging poetic form in which the same six words repeat at the end of each six-line stanza — with the word at the end of the last line of the previous stanza becoming the word at the end of the first line of the next stanza — and culminating in all six words incorporated into a tercet. The repetition also allows the end words to take more than one meaning, more than one part of speech — “close” so close to “closed;” in a less strict interpretation, a “nombre” might even become a “numbering,” a “word” become a “world.”

Yet the best sestinas tend to have the ability to flow on the surface like blank verse or even plain speech — such that, if one didn’t know what a “sestina” was from the title, one could read the whole poem without picking up on the underlying complexity of the form — perhaps much like words from two languages can intertwine to flow in a continuous thought, obscuring the underlying complexity of a bilingual processing of signifiers and signified.

So does what is signified beat inside of a signifier? Does a meaning, or meanings, beat inside the sounds or the physical characters of a word? Or does a signified contain all of the words of all the languages that try to mean it beating inside, trying to signify, but frail in comparison to the signified? Does the meaning, or meanings, of a poem beat inside its form? Or if the complexity of a poem’s structure is sometimes subtler than its substance, does a poem’s form beat inside of its meaning?

Julia Alvarez grew up in the Dominican Republic and the United States. “Bilingual Sestina” appears in her 1995 collection The Other Side / El Otro Lado.

In celebration of National Poetry Month, I am sending out one poem per day for the duration of the month. To learn more about National Poetry Month, visit www.poets.org, the website of the Academy of American Poets.

Best,
Ellen

Poet Julia Alvarez was also featured for Poem-a-Day April 24, 2009.

Poem-a-Day, April 9, 2010: fast transparency that explodes

Poem to Fire

Fast transparency that explodes the fuel and air
in the cylinder and shuts the intake valves and thrusts
down on the piston so the crankshaft spins and spins

you cut through all material that blocks your way
so fast that driving now past rushes and billboards
this pull to her could be your own impersonal presence

cloaked in the day to day of the malls and condos
all those wired sensors keeping guard for you
except you flicker even inside the wet wall

where papillary muscle makes that sweet pulsation
in whatever room she’s moving through this moment
under the cotton and the cool smoothness tinted blue

— Peter Campion, Other People (2005)

Poem-a-Day, April 8: Iron. Lust.

Hi Friends,

When I get asked to pick a single favorite poem in the whole wide world, I often answer with Emily Moore’s “Ghazal” from the January 2002 Yale Review.

Emily Moore will be the first to tell you why teachers are not “those who can’t” — she teaches high school English in New York City and has never published a poetry collection.

To learn more about the ancient Persian poetic form of the ghazal and its various rules and restraints, click here — and, if you really want to get into it, also here.

April is National Poetry Month, and I am celebrating by emailing out my own selection of one poem per day for the duration of the month. If you wish to be unsubscribed from this poem-a-day email list at any time, please reply to this email with a friendly unsubscribe request (preferably in heroic couplet form). Remember that receiving your notes and comments on various poems is one of my favorite parts of Poetry Month, so feel free to write back!

Love,
Ellen

Ghazal

Beneath her slip,
the slip of her.

Iron. Lust.
The flint of her.

In dorms and parks, motels
and tents: the din of her.

What I would not have done
for another sip of her.

She swore she’d never love another.
The fib of her.

She kicked off the sheets; I held on,
breathless, through the fit of her.

Good or evil, she was first.
The rib of her.

That she could leave me after all
that I had been to her.

Hands pressed deep
into my mouth. The bit of her.

A lengthy, doe-eyed nuzzle
at the salt lick of her.

Cock sure,
the spit of her.

A week spent curled up on the floor,
gutted, sick for her.

Nights she ground my bones
to dust. The grit of her.

Teeth, nails, my name
whispered low. The grip of her.

Many thanks to Rick Barot for introducing me to this poem (among others).

“Ghazal” by Emily Moore was also featured for Poem-a-Day April 15, 2007.

Poem-a-Day, April 7: Was that–? Did she just–?

Private Theatricals
By Louise Guiney (USA and England, 1861-1920)

You were a haughty beauty, Polly
       (That was in the play),
I was the lover melancholy
       (That was in the play);
And when your fan and you receded,
And all my passion lay unheeded,
If still with tenderer words I pleaded,
       They were in the play.

I met my rival in the gateway
       (That was in the play),
And so we fought a duel straightaway
       (That was in the play);
But when Jack hurt my arm unduly,
And you rushed over, softened newly,
And kissed me, Polly! truly, truly,
       Was that in the play?

Dear Friends,

To see what other sapphic flirtings poetesses of the 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries actually got away with — or at least had preserved and published after their deaths — check out the collection Poems Between Women: Four Centuries of Love, Romantic Friendship, and Desire by Emma Donoghue.

As a reminder, April is National Poetry Month, and I am celebrating by sending out one poem per day for the duration of the month. You can learn more about National Poetry Month at www.poets.org, the website of the Academy of American Poets.

Best,
Ellen

Poem-a-Day, April 6: When whatever you want to do cannot be done

Dear Friends,

First off, I have a correction to the April 5 poem-a-day: It turns out that the current year is 2010, not 2261, and therefore Kozan Ichikyo’s 1360 verse has not been remembered “over 900 years later” — at least not yet. My apologies for the error; I switched monks on you at the last minute and failed to update that figure!

Now, today’s poem: comes to us from Faiz Ahmed Faiz, a prominent figure in Punjabi literature and politics and a best-selling modern Urdu poet in both India and Pakistan. This translation is by Naomi Lazard, who collaborated with Faiz to refine her translations of his selected works until his death in 1984.

Be Near Me

Be near me now,
My tormenter, my love, be near me—
At this hour when night comes down,
When, having drunk from the gash of sunset, darkness comes
With the balm of musk in its hands, its diamond lancets,
When it comes with cries of lamentation,
                        with laughter with songs;
Its blue-gray anklets of pain clinking with every step.
At this hour when hearts, deep in their hiding places,
Have begun to hope once more, when they start their vigil
For hands still enfolded in sleeves;
When wine being poured makes the sound
                        of inconsolable children
            who, though you try with all your heart,
                        cannot be soothed.
When whatever you want to do cannot be done,
When nothing is of any use;
—At this hour when night comes down,
When night comes, dragging its long face,
                        dressed in mourning,
Be with me,
My tormenter, my love, be near me.

Okay, now I’m going to do two things to you:

1) I’m going to switch translators on you. I tend to prefer Naomi Lazard’s translations of Faiz’s works. However, partly as an excerise in experiencing just how much of a different feel two translators can give you for a poem, I’m also including a more recent translation by the Kashmiri-American poet Agha Shahid Ali below.

2) I’m going to tell you something about the address “my love.” Addressing a poem to “my love” or “the Belovéd” (depending on your translation) is a staple of Urdu poetic tradition, and often carries meanings of lover or dear friend and of God. In addition to those meanings, Agha Shahid Ali makes a compelling argument that Faiz also intends to invoke a political meaning of “the Movement” or Marxist revolution for “the Belovéd.” Ali writes, “The reader begins to infer, through a highly sensuous language, that waiting for the revolution can be as agonizing and intoxicating as waiting for one’s lover.”

So here we go with translation number two:

Be Near Me

You who demolish me, you whom I love,
be near me. Remain near me when evening,
drunk on the blood of the skies,
becomes night, in its one hand
a perfumed balm, in the other
a sword sheathed in the diamond of stars.

Be near me when night laments or sings,
or when it begins to dance,
its steel-blue anklets ringing with grief.

Be here when longings, long submerged
in the heart’s waters, resurface
and everyone begins to look:
Where is the assassin? In whose sleeve
is hidden the redeeming knife?

And when wine, as it is poured, is the sobbing
of children whom nothing will console—
when nothing holds,
when nothing is:
at that dark hour when night mourns,
be near me, my destroyer, my lover,
be near me.

So which translation do you prefer? Do you think which version you read first impacts that feeling? Can anyone speak to how each translation compares to the original (below)?

Does the poem read differently to you once the thought is planted that “the Belovéd” could mean “the movement” or “the revolution”? Did you infer, or do you think you could have inferred, that meaning in the translation or in the original without it having been suggested?

If you’re not quite quenched, see Faiz’s “Before You Came” for one more glass of wine and “When Autumn Came” to let one bird sing.

Best,
Ellen

Poem-a-Day, April 5: entangled

Empty-handed I entered the world
Barefoot I leave it.
My coming, my going —
Two simple happenings
That got entangled.

Hi Friends,

There are many accounts of Zen Buddhist monks who predicted the timing of their own deaths and then faced their passing with absolute calm. In 1360, at the age of seventy-seven, Kozan Ichikyo is said to have written this poem on the morning of his death, laid down his brush, and died sitting upright. Just a few days before, he had called his pupils together, ordered them to bury him without ceremony, and forbade them to hold services in his memory. The pupils obeyed — in part; Ichikyo’s verse remembers him centuries later.

This translation comes from the anthology Japanese Death Poems: Written by Zen Monks and Haiku Poets on the Verge of Death compiled by Yoel Hoffmann, a professor of Eastern Philosophy and Literature at Tel-Aviv University and Kyoto University.

Best,
Ellen

Correction Note from the next day’s poem-a-day: Dear Friends, First off, I have a correction to the April 5 poem-a-day: It turns out that the current year is 2010, not 2261, and therefore Kozan Ichikyo’s 1360 verse has not been remembered “over 900 years later” — at least not yet. My apologies for the error; I switched monks on you at the last minute and failed to update that figure!

Poem-a-Day, April 4: we are here

Dover Beach

The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

Hi Friends,

For a contemporary algorhythmic take on Matthew Arnold‘s classic “Dover Beach,” see poemflow.com.

Best,
Ellen

Poem-a-Day, April 3: blooded, lobster, roses

Hi Friends,

For Christmas this past year, my brother gave me a book called My Brother Is Getting Arrested Again — a poetry collection by Daisy Fried. I love my brother; he cracks me up.

This is the first poem in that book. Don’t be afraid to read it through twice, and/or out loud to your valentine.

Cheers,
Ellen

Better Read, A Valentine

Scare, tides & herring. Shift. Sky
at night. Eye flight, the plane half empty.
Light district, letter days, in tooth

and claw. Hot Chili Peppers, blooded,
lobster, roses, River Valley,
remember? Flag flying here

(though cowards flinch
and traitors sneer). Rover.
Rover, come over.

Poem-a-Day, April 2: On Cooking a Symbol at 400 Degrees

Dear Friends,

Due to travel delays and internet connection challenges beyond the anticipated scope, your Good Friday poem-a-day is arriving 24 hours late. My apologies. Cathy and I were supposed to be in San Antonio this weekend to watch the Stanford women’s basketball team compete in the Final Four. Unfortunately, Cathy’s uncle passed away, and we are now in Honolulu instead to spend time with family and attend his funeral.

Whether your plans for this weekend include a religious service, Final Four fever, bunnies and dyed eggs, drag queen nuns competing for best bonnet, or whether you’re simply trying to ignore all of the above, it’s certainly an apt occasion to reflect on the capacity of human languages, cultures, and religions to layer so many meanings on a single signifier — like an egg, an X, or a baby sheep.

Bon Appétit.
— Ellen

On Cooking a Symbol at 400 Degrees

I butterflied Australian rack of lamb
with shallots, garlic, parsley, butter, wine
(some in the pan, some for the palate).
Although the livestock loved in nursery rhyme
avoided clumps of mint, it served my family
nonetheless. I am no PETA zealot
(leather jacket, handbag, wallet, shoes)
but wonder if the deeds we do pursue
us in the afterlife. Does the fleecy
creature have a tenderable claim?
My lambent mind considers our short lease
on life, the oven hot. Am I to blame?
Who gave thee such a tender voice? asked Blake.
Myself am Hell. I watch the mutton bake.

By Patty Seyburn, as printed in the February 2010 issue of Poetry magazine.

For the Blake reference, see “The Lamb” (and “The Tyger”) by the illuminated 18th-century British poet William Blake. Seyburn’s train of thought then transitions to Satan’s famous line from John Milton’s Paradise Lost — a work that greatly influenced Blake.

Poem-a-Day Series | April 2010

Dear Friends,

It’s that time of year again! April is National Poetry Month. For the past several years, I’ve enjoyed sending out one poem per day for the duration of the month and reading your responses to the different poems.

If you would like to have poems emailed to you, I would love for you to join my poem-a-day list here: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/poemaday_tgifreytag/
Each poem-a-day will also be posted right here at meetmein811.blogspot.com.

No prior poetry experience required! Enthusiasm, ability to read, and access to email are the only main prerequisites. Do you have friends or family who would like to be added to a poem-a-day email list? They can sign up here, too.

Once in a decade, April 1 is not only the start of National Poetry Month but also National Census Day. So, today, a poem for the counted, and a reminder that a census may be defined as much by the questions it doesn’t ask as by the ones it does.

Love,
Ellen

The Unknown Citizen

(To JS/07 M 378
This Marble Monument
Is Erected by the State)

He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be
One against whom there was no official complaint,
And all the reports on his conduct agree
That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a saint,
For in everything he did he served the Greater Community.
Except for the War till the day he retired
He worked in a factory and never got fired,
But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc.
Yet he wasn’t a scab or odd in his views,
For his Union reports that he paid his dues,
(Our report on his Union shows it was sound)
And our Social Psychology workers found
That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink.
The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day
And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way.
Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured,
And his Health-card shows he was once in hospital but left it cured.
Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare
He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Installment Plan
And had everything necessary to the Modern Man,
A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire.
Our researchers into Public Opinion are content
That he held the proper opinions for the time of year;
When there was peace, he was for peace: when there was war, he went.
He was married and added five children to the population,
Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his generation.
And our teachers report that he never interfered with their education.
Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd:
Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.

“The Unknown Citizen” appears in W.H. Auden‘s collection Another Time, published in 1940 — a year after Auden moved from Britain to the United States and became an American citizen. This poem is also included in his Collected Poems (2007).

To learn more about National Poetry Month, visit www.poets.org, the website of the Academy of American Poets.

“The Unknown Citizen” by W.H. Auden was also featured for Poem-a-Day April 15, 2009.