Exeat |
Category: How Words Play
-
-
A Song for Soweto.
At the throat of Soweto
a devil language falls
slashing
claw syllables to shred and leave
raw
the tongue of the young
girl
learning to sing
her own nameWhere she would say
water
They would teach her to cry
blood
Where she would save
grass
They would teach her to crave
crawling into the
grave
Where she would praise
father
They would teach her to pray
somebody please
do not take him
away
Where she would kiss with her mouth
my homeland
They would teach her to swallow
this dust
But words live in the spirit of her face and that
sound will no longer yield to imperial eraseWhere they would draw
blood
She will drink
water
Where they would deepen
the grave
She will conjure up
grass
Where they would take
father and family away
She will stand
under the sun/she will stay
Where they would teach her to swallow
this dust
She will kiss with her mouth
my homeland
and stay
with the song of Sowetostay
with the song of Soweto .I am adding in here some recordings of Jordan :
-
Address to a Cricket
At gloamin’ when the twilight fa’,
And songsters to their nests withdrawn,
A cricket, snugh behind the wa’,
Supplies their place,
And in corner sings fu’ braw,
Wi’ unco grace.
When younkers scamper, ane by aye,
And dowie I am left alane,
You cheer my heart wi’hamely strain,
Or shrill toned chirple,
As cozie roun’ the warm hearth-stane,
You nightly hirple.
May wae befa’them, that would gie
A fiddler penny or bawbee,
When they can have sic music free,
Withouten stent-
Much fitter they should keep the fee,
To help their rent.
What tho’ your note be aye the same,
In grateful strain I sing your name,
Weel might my muse blush deep wi’ shame,
Should she neglect,
To greet you in her humble hame,
Wi’ due respect.
And when the nipping frosty win’,
Blaws frae the North with whistling din,
Or wintry floods roar o’er the linn,
In foam and spray,
I shall wi’ crumbs, when night sets in,
Requite your lay.Sarah Leech
I was searching out more info on Sarah Leech’s poetry, given that there’s very little about her online: a brief introductory to one published book (of 25 poems), and a minor essay which includes the words ‘Our Peasantry‘.
I do love the writings of Historical Societies and Local History Groups, so much indeed, that I thought to add in here the essay at the end of this post. Whilst reading on Ms Leech, I also found (by coincidence) an excellent journal on translation which has therein an essay on Women’s speech in literary translation; the discussion there being in the difference between male and female writers, which I often think of as an ability to cultivate and exercise a ‘spider’s eye’ with regard to detailing. BUT that is subject of another post which is in progress and refers to the poetry of ‘things’ and is not a general approach to the workings of Women’s Poetics and Literature, just a personal observation.
Sarah Leech, it is remarked upon in the so-brief discussions on her art has a wonderful rhythm and should really be read aloud:
There is but one book of 25 poems by the author , which doesn’t really present a wide spectrum of her concerns. I should really add in here the link on Feminism and Translation but I won’t for the minute.
-
Todtnauberg
Arnica, eyebright, the
draught from the well with the
star dice above,in the
hut,in the book
(whose name is recorded
before mine?)
the written line
in the book
speaks of hope, today,
about a thinker
arriving
word
in the heart,forest grass, unlevelled,
orchid and orchid, separate,crude things, later, in passing,
clear,he who drives us, the man,
he who overhears,the half-
trodden beaten
paths in the high moor,moist,
much.Now that the prayer benches burn,
I eat the book
with all its
regalia.translation, Pierre Joris
In Heidegger’s Germany there’s no Place for Paul Celan
There is a lot to ponder upon in the essay Translation at the mountain of death, in terms of dramatis personae and created image, so I am linking it here as part of the PH Translation and Linguistics series. The link is from Nomadics Joris’ early online blog, which is also linked in Manifesto beneath the Todtnauberg essay.
Whilst searching out the Nomadics links (Pierre Joris is currently writing Homad) I found his link regarding the creation of the Nomadics Manifesto, which is also of interest in terms of Outsider Poetry. Those readers interested in the areas of Nomadics and Outsider Poetry should continue their reading at the P. Joris Homad site.
Excerpt from Joris’ essay here :
“Celan, like many other poets, is concerned with thought, with philosophy, and in his work we find, as Pöggeler puts it, Auseinander-setzungen with a variety of philosophers and thinkers: with Democritus in the poem “Engführung”; with Spinoza in the poems “Pau, nachts,” and “Pau, später” ; or with Adorno in his single prose work, Gespräch im Gebirg. It is therefore not surprising to find Celan concerned with the figure of Martin Heidegger. This concern is ambivalent, to say the least, involving both attraction and repulsion. Pöggeler reminds us that as far back as 1957, Celan had wanted to send his poem “Schliere” to Heidegger, but also, that, when somewhat later Heidegger had his famous meeting with Martin Buber in Münich, Celan felt very uneasy and was not ready to give Heidegger a “Persilschein”, a “Persil-passport” i.e. did not want to whitewash the politically compromised philosopher. Celan, at that time, was reading Heidegger’s Nietzsche as well as Nietzsche himself, and seems to have thought highly of Heidegger’s interpretations. Nietzsche’s thought is also, albeit liminally, present in Celan’s poetry, for example in “Engführung,” where the line “Ein Rad, langsam, rollt aus sich selbst”, is a formula used by Nietzsche in the chapter “Von den 3 Verwandlungen” in Zarathustra. Heidegger himself was intermittently interested in Celan’s work and came, whenever possible, to the rare public readings Celan gave in Germany.
-
In the Storm of Roses
Wherever we turn in the storm of roses,
the night is lit up by thorns, and the thunder
of leaves, once so quiet within the bushes,
rumbling at our heels.
Source: In the Storm of Roses (translator unknown) by Ingeborg Bachmann. -
The Three
by Anne Stevenson.
Clotho
In this picture I preside. I usher in
River and bathers, the green garden.
This tall white birch is my lively cocoon.
Out of it I spin chervils – marriages, babies.
All my blown hair is seed, is a tide in bloom,
Furious as history, indifferent as it is.Lachesis
In this picture I persuade. I lead men in,
Conduct them through the garden.
Composed, smooth-headed in my spidery greys,
I drop their lines precisely, deploy them
Precisely. These are the criers out in my displays.
Their outrage burns in words as I destroy them.Atropos
In this last picture I work alone.
I kill roots to plant stone.
I bring to hard soil no fruit, no hurt.
No cry issues from my burnt hillside.
Green burden and echo wait under my foot
For the igneous reaches, the granite tide.From : Anne Stevenson , Poems 1955-2005.
Bloodaxe Books 2004.
'Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos' by Santiago Caballero -
The earth is
round all
right, but hereearth ends, thick
tongues of mist
licking the ledge.A hiss- the
sea breathing?
That crying is not birds…..Thrown up screaming,
a chough, its claws
and beak blazing-it grabs at light,
then topples shrieking
down out of the world.Moher by Richard Ryan, from Ravenswood by Richard Ryan, Dolmen Press , 1973 Distributed outside of Ireland by OUP
-
From the Angel’s Window
Sweet hay, raw grass, the hot udder, wild strawberries
a green corridor, pine pitch, the cathedral.
From time to time an apple drops –
A baptism.Through the art gallery, the girl walks by in mauve.
You skate on a frozen tear.Da Capo.
This poem is from Selected Poems by Liliana Ursu The Sky Behind the Forest .Trans, Liliana Ursu, Adam J Sorkin and Tess Gallagher.
(Poetry Book Society Recommended Translation). Bloodaxe 1997.
-
Mention has been made before on the Poethead blog of The Poet’s Circuits, Collected Poems of Ireland
But I will mention them again anyway, for those readers who have an interest in Medieval Ireland, the Guild System, and in Colum’s editing of this beautiful book.
Here are the Poet’s Circuits :
- Circuit One: The House
- Circuit Two: Field and Road
- Circuit Three: Things More Ancient
- Circuit Four : The Glens
- Circuit Five: The Town
- Circuit Six : Women in the House
- Circuit Seven: People on the Road
- Circuit Eight: Monuments
I suppose it was incredibly disappointing to me and many others to realise, with all their high falutin’ that our government between 2001-2006, in their rush to manipulate the property bubble did not understand the cultural heritage of our natural and built environment. The Circuits indicate a closed Canton and Guild system that tied together a people with words and songs . Not the type of people who would drive a huge motorway through Tara for the fun of it.
This is Colum’s dedication to his wife and to the book. The other circuit (8) is searchable through the search engine at the top right of this blog page.
Mary Catherine Maguire Colum, by Padraic Colum
They come to it and take
Their cupfuls and palmfuls out of it ,
The well that’s marked for use and gossiping.
Who know
Whence come the waters? Through what passages
Beneath? From what high tors
Where forests are? Forests dripping rain,
Branches pouring to the ground, trunk, bark, roots
Letting their streamlets down? Through the earth’s dark
The water flows and finds a secret hollow.
Stones are around it and a thorn bush
And so the well is made familiar ,
Marked , used , resorted to day after day.No users, gossipers, the half-moon above !
Come to the well, my own, my bright-haired one,
And let me hear
The rapture of your voice with some great line
Of verse your memory holds, the while your look
Ecstatic is your spirit is your spirit in your face,
And maybe in a depth below the depth
Touched by a pail, something desired will stir .
by Padraig Colum
- The Poet’s Circuits , Collected Poems of Ireland. Centenary Edition
- Preface by Benedict Kiely. Pardaic Colum. Dolmen Press, 1981.
-
In attempting to find some important documents and thus turning a large room’s worth of paper and books inside and out, and consequently not finding the documents… I did, however, refresh some bookshelves !
Small volumes of Poetry by Liliana Ursu and Celia de Fréine are now moved forward in shelves where they are more accessible. I am very aware that I have written a lot on both women and Irish language poetry in recent weeks , so today, it’s a book recommendation for people who like poetry and things poetic, in Old English !
The Book Poems and Prose from the Old English , was gotten from my favourite Galway bookshop, the treasure-trove that is Charlie Byrne’s Bookshop (in 1998) .
I will look out an Amazon or essay link to add in here at the end of this post; but at this time I only have the actual book before me, which is marked within with an NGI (National Gallery of Ireland) Postcard of a painting by Sir William Orpen – ‘Harvest 1918’. The Poetry part is divided into four main sections :
1. Elegies
2. Heroic Poetry
3. Religious Poetry
4. Wisdom Poetry.
The Prose section, which I haven’t read yet , is similarly divided into sections but contains both a legal/testamentary section and a ‘Medical and Magical section’. I have used parts of the book on Poethead before in an elegy excerpt. The only one in the book being ascribed to a woman being a Lament . Though I highly recommend the riddles and elegies for readers who enjoy Old and Middle English.
Riddle 47
A worm ate words. I thought that wonderfully
Strange – a miracle – when they told me a crawling
Insect had swallowed noble songs,
A nighttime thief had stolen writing
So famous, so weighty. But the prowler was foolish
Still, though its belly was full of thought.Riddle 45
I’ve heard of a something that grows by itself,
Thicker and fatter till it lifts up the covers,
And the girl grabs that boneless what-is-it
In her high-minded hands and shoves that swelling
thing up her innocent dress.
(page 225 gives the proposed solutions to the riddles )Poems and Prose from the Old English, Trans Burton Raffel Yale University Press. 1998.
Chris Murray 