Not work

It is midday and I got up at 6:30 this morning. I have done yesterday's washing-up, watched the news (no newspaper on Sundays in this house) showered and cleaned the bathroom. Drank several cups of coffee. Talked to my husband who was also up early for once.

(Displacement, displacement.)

I know that writing this is an avoidance of the real work. I shall keep it short: I borrowed a book of poems from Wellington's Central Library, the only book which contained something by Cesar Vallejo (see my previous post with his poem).

The title of the book is Staying alive: Real poems for an unreal time (Bloodaxe Books, 2002) edited by Neil Astley. I discover that Neil Astley is the editor for me: I like the poems he has chosen very much. My heart quickens as I read them, all of them. He has gathered the poems up by topic; each section has its own title, a good title, a title about what matters. Each section is introduced by a short editorial which is in small print, as if he was apologising for taking a liberty.

That text takes my hand and walks me through the poems. I am usually too impatient to read much poetry. With Neil Astley's help, I can do it. I am still busy with it, one cannot read a book like this like a novel, though I almost finding myself doing so. Many hours have gone by and still I am busy with it.

(Displacement, displacement.)

Lucky that the Vallejo poem is a different one.

Two NZ poets have been included: Kapka Kassabova,  (four poems) and Fleur Adcock (five). There are also many Eastern European poets. Kapka K was born in Bulgaria.

From the Body and Soul section, here are the first two verses of Kapka Kassabova's The door: anticipation of wisdom:

One day you will see clearly:
you've been knocking on a door without a house.
You've been waiting, shivering, yelling
words of badly concealed and excessive hope.
Where you saw a house, there'll just be another side.

One day you will see clearly:
there is no one on the other side,
except - as ever - the jubilant ocean
which won't shatter
ceramically like a dream
when you and I shatter.

There are four more verses. Three of them start with the words 'But not yet.'

Now I really must go. It is after 3:00 pm.  I have had a short snooze somewhere in the middle of all this time, the better to leap forward now.

To be useful

from The Complete Poetry: A Bilingual Edition, by César Vallejo.

For several days, I have felt an exuberant, political need
to love, to kiss affection on its two cheeks,
and I have felt from afar a demonstrative
desire, another desire to love, willingly or by force,
whoever hates me, whoever rips up his paper, a little boy,
the woman who cries for the man who was crying,
the king of wine, the slave of water,
whoever hid in his wrath,
whoever sweats, whoever passes, whoever shakes his person in my soul.
And I want, therefore, to adjust
the braid of whoever talks to me; the hair of the soldier;
the light of the great one; the greatness of the little one.
I want to iron directly
a handkerchief for whoever is unable to cry
and, when I am sad or happiness hurts me,
to mend the children and the geniuses.
I want to help the good one become a little bit bad
and I badly need to be seated
on the right-hand of the left-handed, and to respond to the mute,
trying to be useful to him as
I can, and also I want very much
to wash the lame man’s foot,
and to help the nearby one-eyed man sleep.

Getting it wrong

Something to think about - my son just sent it to me. It is  read out by the author here.

Another sense of an ending,
(after Julian Barnes)

by Sam Gwynn
(born 1948)

It's pestered you for years and years,
Your private little worrywart
Like something buzzing in your ears,
Some static-tattered last report
From someone in the pockmarked fort
You'd never trusted all along--
The shitty, sentimental sort.
Suppose you got the whole thing wrong.

It's aggravating, like the lead
--Eberhard Faber, #2--
You'll carry (till you're done and dead!)
In your left palm. It's part of you.
It fits you like a worn-out shoe;
It's part of what you bring along:
Your baggage, and you think it's true.
Suppose you got the whole thing wrong.

Suppose the words were insincere.
Suppose you never got the joke.
Suppose you really were veneer
But sold yourself as vintage oak.
Suppose you suddenly awoke
To hear the real words of the song.
Suppose you spoke but never spoke.

Suppose you got the whole thing wrong.

In short, the short is what you are,
And short is always less than long,
And near is never more than far.
Suppose you got the whole thing wrong.

An island in infinity

Heart-touching poem:

THE MOON RISING                        LA LUNA ASOMA

When the moon rises,                          Cuando sale la luna
the bells hang silent                               se pierden las campanas
and impenetrable footpaths               y aparecen las sendas
appear.                                                        impenetrables.

When the moon rises,                          Cuando sale la luna,
the sea covers the land,                        el mar cubre la tierra
and the heart feels                                   y el corazon se siente
like an island in infinity.                         isla en el infinito.


Lorca, translated by Stephen Spender & JL Gili.

There are two more stanzas.

About ignorance and Anne Kennedy

I thought I'd get back to routine, but instead when I got here early this morning (still dark outside), I found an email from Finland which I allowed to distract me and send me happily off in all kinds of other directions.

Petri Liukkonen is the librarian in the small Finnish town of Kuusankoski. He/she writes the biographies on a website entitled Authors' Calendar (see http://www.kirjasto.sci.fi), which I'd quoted in the review of Szymborska's work. I'd emailed a few days ago to say thank you. I had also noticed the absence of two favourite authors from his Nordic Authors list - Bodil Malmsten and Per Pettersen. So I mentioned that too and he/she wrote to say thank you and let me know that they were candidates for the list.
In the email was this wonderful sentence:
"My expertise has always been my ignorance".Have sent an email round the Quotations website to see if anyone has a source.
Did some reading about Petri and the website and discovered that it is famous in Finland - received a prize from a PEN sounding organisation - and overseas - mainly the US - where many universities recommend it as a source for people studying English Lit. And yes, Janet Frame is on the list. Not Frank Sargeson. Or Lloyd Jones for that matter.

Meanwhile have mislaid Billy Collins somewhere, very frustrating, but am reading a Philip Larkins' bio, his poetry which I like more and more, and a book called Sing-Song by Anne Kennedy (Auckland University Press, 2003), which is about her daughters' exczema and the suffering that resulted from it. First time I've read a book of poems this compulsively. Anyone who has ever had a suffering child will respond to it, that I know.

Aurelio Zen

Browsing among the rows of books in our writing room at Whitireia, suddenly found an Aurelio Zen mystery by Michael Dibdin. Aurelio is an urbane and sophisticated detective who lives with his mother in Florence, and the atmosphere of Italy is well captured; nice to read for relaxation.

Am still reading Natalie G's Thunder and Lightening, as well as a book on writing by John Marsden. His stories are for young adults, well written - that sounds condescending, they are best-sellers - I found the first books in the series absolutely mesmerising, very realistic, terse and fast paced, a group of young people in Australia, going on a tramp for a week, and when they come out again, they find that the country has been taken over by an enemy (unspecified, but human). This book is about writing also aimed at young people, and not all that good all the time, but am looking for a solution to the structure of my book, and I feel I am feeding that part of my brain that is busy with it by reading books about writing. Plus keeping motivated for the free writing practice.

Had a look at the library at Whitireia, a good section on poetry, including a book of poems by Lily Brett, not Holocaust inspired for once, so more interesting. When I get my student card, shall be able to tap into that - next week in fact.

Also was lent a book by Israeli poet Yehudah Amichai. I didn't know he had died. Am wondering if I'll find something there which might fit in with my project, about inner peace and the connection with a place which is home. Am not quite sure that is an accurate description of my project, but that'll do for now. My reading has to go in that direction for the next year, that is my main reading. I'll read for inspiration and for soothing and for fun and for learning. Only some is obviously useful. Enough for now, off to bed soon. In the last week only three blogs, not good enough. Also four practices. It should be six of each. A goal to aim for.

If anyone reads this blog and has an idea about a poet I should read on this topic, do let me know please.