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  • An article on The Galway Arts Festival 2010 by Mamam Poulet

    July 20th, 2010

    The Antiroom blog of women writers and commentators always has good things to read, there’s a link on site to the blog , along with an announcement of their recent restart. The Maman Poulet article is linked in full at the base of this post.

    This post is essentially a link to the article regarding the lack of parity of esteem given to women writers and creators in this year’s 2010 Galway Arts festival. I had let the issue go somewhat, having enjoyed a nice weekend away but to my utter despair saw the below pasted letter published in today’s Irish Times !!!

    It indicates for me that precise nasty response that genuine queries regarding the Arts get in this state, in how silly parallels are drawn against the right to question and also How a National Newspaper sees fit to ramp up that aggression by publishing a ludicrous letter which refuse to see the problems and attack the questioners.

    I really think that people who enjoy women’s art, poetry and writing should read the attached response to the NUIG letter from women academics, it indicates a lot of the barely concealed aggressiveness that dominates a refusal to acknowledge the feminist discourse in Ireland. So, of course I am publishing it in toto here with specific emphasis on the last paragraph.

    Feminism and feminist discourse has barely reached its infancy in Ireland where it is underfunded , ignored or treated with brutality by such a letter writer and hacked up onto the pages of a national broadsheet by a woman editor who evidently is little concerned with the issues raised.

    Madam, – In response to the “Galway (Men’s) Arts Festival” letter (July 15th). It is not that Galway Arts festival shouldn’t be taken to task for many of its failings – most notably the undermining and low level of support of local artists for many years (which led to “Project 06” – a fringe festival created in order to draw attention to this). I would, however, like to highlight the many minefields created when someone (or even a large portion of a university department) starts to question the gender equality of any organisation.

    In the organisational team of the Galway Arts Festival, as listed on its programme, there are 14 women listed as opposed to 11 men’s names. It doesn’t really seem to fit the profile of a chauvinist think-tank. Maybe there were fewer performance groups figure-headed by women putting themselves forward for consideration this year. Maybe the female-dominated organisational committee prefers male performers. Or maybe, just maybe, the acts were chosen purely on merit and not on gender grounds at all.

    Finally, I must inquire why there isn’t a men’s studies course on offer in NUI Galway to contrast the women’s studies course there? *Maybe it’s time to change its name to NUI(W)G – National University of Ireland’s Women, Galway? Just a thought.** – Yours, etc,


    Maman Poulet’s original Antiroom article.

  • “A Song for Soweto” by June Jordan

    July 20th, 2010

    Jordania from Amazon

    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 name

    Where 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 erase

    Where 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 Soweto

    stay
    with the song of Soweto . 

    I am adding in here some recordings of Jordan :

    Kelly Writers House Fellows recordings of June Jordan

  • ‘ Rare and Interesting Books’ in Westport , Co Mayo.

    July 19th, 2010
    John Hurst s Interesting books (with suit of armour).

    EDIT : 13/12/2010 : John Hurst died last night . Rest in Peace.

    As always a visit to John Hurst’s Interesting books shop is a delight, a real treasure-trove, indeed, I have spoken of the shop before now. I thought to add a picture of the frontage (with the suit of armour) and though it cannot be seen in the pic, a foot acts as a door-stop!

    John has a good range of rare and interesting books that is not tailored to the tourist but to the local population, the writer and miscellaneous visitors, which is refreshing. Lots of contemporary bookshops require desperate rooting time to uncover a jewel but that’s not necessary here. Theres a well-stocked poetics and drama section and the rest of the shop is worth a mooch too.

    The children’s area is guarded by a carved boar of indeterminate age, complete with bristles and moveable jaw. Books for children are wide in range but always of literary interest, a nice copy of Old Possums Book of Practical Cats was obtained along with a Three shillings and sixpence copy of Irish Classical Poetry (!!!) (which only publishes excerpts but provides food for thought and research).

    On returning home from a very brief visit to Mayo , there was a book-offer on my email.  I await the fruit of that one with some delight, as it involves the exchange of my address for a new imprint of Daragh Breen’s Latest book. His last book; Across the Sound is searchable on Poethead , along with a lovely Paul Henry painting to illustrate.

    Whilst visiting the house and library of my old friend, I enjoyed some Francis Bacon essays and the music of Alphonse the Wise. It would be great to have a more extended visit sometime quite soon.

    I am adding in the link to Daragh Breen’s book Review here :

    ‘Writing the Loved Word’.
     Daragh Breen’s ‘Whale’ , with thanks to Daragh

  • The Philosopher and the Birds. By Richard Murphy. (via poethead)

    July 15th, 2010

    This re-blog is because I have just recommended the writings of Poet Richard Murphy to a friend in the U.S. Those who like Murphy will also enjoy his bio “The Kick” and his poems set around Mayo.

    The other aspect of this poem is that the brief conversation was in relation not alone to Mayo but to the places In Ireland that attracted Ludwig Wittgenstein who Murphy eulogises here. There are Wittgenstein traces in certain parts of Ireland, his seat at the door of the Orchid House in the National Botanic Gardens, Rosroe which is beauteous, lonely and arid as well as areas of Wicklow (which I have not happened upon yet).

    The link is attached at the base of this piece. Those readers interested in Plath and Hughes’ stay in Ireland might also like Murphy who was a close friend of Hughes and writes about them in ‘The Kick’

    In Memory of Wittgenstein at Rosroe.

    A solitary invalid in a fuchsia garden
    Where time’s rain eroded the root since Eden,
    He became for a tenebrous epoch the stone.

    Here wisdom surrendered the don’s gown
    Choosing for Cambridge, two deck chairs,
    A kitchen table, undiluted sun.

    He clipped with February shears the dead
    Metaphysical foliage. Old, in fieldfares
    fantasies rebelled though annihilated.

    He was haunted by gulls beyond omega shade,
    His nerve tormented by terrified knots
    In Pin -feathered flesh. But all folly repeats

    Is worth one snared robin his fingers untied.
    he broke prisons, beginning with words,
    And at last tamed, by talking, wild birds.

    Through accident of place, now by belief
    I follow his love which bird-handled thoughts
    to grasp growth’s terror or death’s leaf.

    He last on this savage promontory shored
    His logical weapon. Genius stirred
    A soaring intolerance to teach a blackbird.

    So before alpha you may still hear sing
    In the leaf-dark dusk some descended young
    Who exalt the evening to a wordless song.

    His wisdom widens: he becomes worlds
    Where thoughts are wings. But at Rosroe hordes
    of village cats have massacred his birds.

    by Richard Murphy

    The Philosopher and the Birds. By Richard Murphy. In Memory of Wittgenstein at Rosroe. A solitary invalid in a fuschia garden Where time’s rain eroded the root since Eden, He became for a tenebrous epoch the stone. Here wisdom surrendered the don’s gown Choosing for Cambridge, two deck chairs, A kitchen table, undiluted sun. He clipped with Feburary shears the dead Metaphysical foliage. Old , in fiel … Read More

    via poethead

  • How Pure a Thing is Joy , by Marianne Moore.

    July 15th, 2010

    It has been an absurdly busy week, culminating in going to an arranged appointment very early today to find it is scheduled for tomorrow (very early) when I shall be on a train !

    Despite this, reading and writing has continued , with books carted to and fro, and snatches of poetry read in a variety of places, including the hospital whilst awaiting some crucial blood tests. It is a good exercise to attempt to read and focus one’s attention wholly on a good book in the midst of a busy hospital where there is much to interest the casual observer. There is much vulnerability in hospitals, there’s a sense of handing over control of one’s precarious notions of robust health to people who can test the tiniest of minutiae in the blood which is fascinating but a bit frightening.

    Snatches of poesy and a bitty week make it difficult to write a post on both the attention and concentration needed to engage with poetics. A dropped instrument or the trundle of a trolley-bed carrying a lit, happy (drugged) supine individual tend to throw the thoughts to the four winds. I had thought to enter a brief review of a wonderful memoir from the Paris Review called ‘Pike’  or indeed a poem by Marianne Moore today but have not the required energy to seek out where I stored the notes I made to the works , so I am instead recommending them :

    Marianne Moore , Complete Poems . Faber and Faber . 1968.

    The Paris Review Spring 2010 Ed. ” The Pike, A Memoir’, Nicolai Lilin, Trans; Johnathan Hunt.

    A series of reviews of Moore’s Collected fell from the book this morning whilst reading this excerpt ,

    ” So he who strongly feels,
    behaves. The very bird,
    grown taller as he sings, steels
    his form straight up. Though he is captive,
    his mighty singing
    says, satisfaction is a lowly
    thing, how pure a thing is joy.
    This is mortality,
    this is eternity.”

    from: What are years? by Marianne Moore. Complete Poems, 1968,
    Faber and Faber.

  • ‘Address to a Cricket’ by Sarah Leech

    July 11th, 2010

    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.

    • Bio of Sarah Leech Via the Ulster-Scots Language Society.
  • ‘Translation at the Mountain of Death’, Pierre Joris writes on Celan and Heidegger.

    July 8th, 2010

    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.

      • Translation at the Mountain of Death.
      •  Notes Towards a Nomadics Manifesto (Part One)
      •  The Homad Site
  • ‘In the Storm of Roses’ by Ingeborg Bachmann.

    July 8th, 2010

    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’ , Anne Stevenson.

    July 5th, 2010

    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
  • ‘Forever Eve’ by Eithne Strong.

    July 2nd, 2010

    Forever Eve

    Oddly I
    got an urge to write in praise of compromise
    odd in me who have been too keen
    for proofs to ratify my excellence:
    cleverer me, prettier me who ever must
    unequivocally be above the common.

    Scrutinised
    this urge is no escape from pride:
    its unclear need contains equation
    of my finer metal with the general clay
    but more than that , parade – my still
    superior vision of humility.

     by Eithne Strong.

    This poem comes from the book Sarah, in Passing. The Dolmen Press, Poetry ,1974. Drawings by John Hodge.


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