Reading Leonard Cohen. From the interviews with him and with others who know him, he is painstaking, choosing words slowly.
There is a quality to the poetry which has to do with the general, the topic that touches everyone. It is a relief to read poems like that.
How to do that.
Showing posts with label Rilke. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rilke. Show all posts
Wednesday, 8 October 2008
Monday, 30 June 2008
On the nature of obsession
Managing to work today and yesterday. Schedule mapped out for the rest of the day. I shall pay the bills at midday, not before.
Am reading more Paul Celan whom I find stunning, though as always, so sad.
A friend lent me poetry by Aba Kovner (Israeli poet) and Nelly Sachs (German), published together in an English translation by Penguin (1995), in the series Modern European Poets. Read most of it last night (slim).
I want to be impressed by poets and poetry, to have my consciousness raised by them about how to write well. This afternoon we'll be in town, shall return my overdue books to the library and look for Robert Hass's poetry and bio.
Discussing Rilke with G. About the language that I deem excessive, she said: - but he is in ecstasy.
Have been listening to Kate Bush and downloaded the words of her ballad on Pi, for our ballad exercise. The song is lovely, but the words and the meaning do not seem that special to me. Is my perception blunted ?
I was interested to find out what triggered her writing on this topic, but no luck. So many mathematicians have been involved with defining Pi.
"...with an obsessive nature..."
Any deliberate and continuous focus is always deemed 'obsessive' by those outside it - by that measure Cezanne was 'obsessive', so was Rilke, and in fact almost anyone who sets themselves a goal (Kate Bush? The monks in Into great silence?) must 'obsess' about it. (This is not an original thought.)
The DSM-IV or whatever number it is now would call obsessive what 'gets in the way of normal functioning', like repetitive handwashing or compulsive checking. Activities which do not create anything, which can prevent any creativity from occurring. Does that apply to finding out the value of Pi at x decimal points?
Never mind.
Am reading more Paul Celan whom I find stunning, though as always, so sad.
A friend lent me poetry by Aba Kovner (Israeli poet) and Nelly Sachs (German), published together in an English translation by Penguin (1995), in the series Modern European Poets. Read most of it last night (slim).
I want to be impressed by poets and poetry, to have my consciousness raised by them about how to write well. This afternoon we'll be in town, shall return my overdue books to the library and look for Robert Hass's poetry and bio.
Discussing Rilke with G. About the language that I deem excessive, she said: - but he is in ecstasy.
Have been listening to Kate Bush and downloaded the words of her ballad on Pi, for our ballad exercise. The song is lovely, but the words and the meaning do not seem that special to me. Is my perception blunted ?
I was interested to find out what triggered her writing on this topic, but no luck. So many mathematicians have been involved with defining Pi.
"...with an obsessive nature..."
Any deliberate and continuous focus is always deemed 'obsessive' by those outside it - by that measure Cezanne was 'obsessive', so was Rilke, and in fact almost anyone who sets themselves a goal (Kate Bush? The monks in Into great silence?) must 'obsess' about it. (This is not an original thought.)
The DSM-IV or whatever number it is now would call obsessive what 'gets in the way of normal functioning', like repetitive handwashing or compulsive checking. Activities which do not create anything, which can prevent any creativity from occurring. Does that apply to finding out the value of Pi at x decimal points?
Never mind.
Tuesday, 24 June 2008
In praise of Imagists
This may be the longest interval between postings so far, except when I was away. The e-course porfolio was posted yesterday, and am reasonably happy with it. It's tidy, an occasion to review/rediscover poems.
Rilke is giving me indigestion, like a rich meal, his elegies too romantic. Tried reading some of his letters. I think that what gets in the way is that nothing is ordinary for him. Here's an example from a letter (p. 9 of Letters on Cezanne, 1985, Fromm International Publishing Company, NY): it starts with :
Never have I been so touched and almost gripped by the sight of heather...
I want to cut out the Never, (just as I tend to recoil from the word always). His only excuse is that he is writing to his wife (about sprigs of heather she sent him). A few lines later: But how glorious it is, this fragrance. The tone remains at full pitch, blaring.
However: in the introduction (by H.W. Petzet), there is a story about Cezanne (p. xxiii)
"...the ancient enmity between life and the great work (as Rilke put it in his Requiem) endured by the artist with such exemplary devotion: [...] during the last thirty years of his life, he removed himself from everything that could 'hook him' (the expression is Cezanne's) and when, for all his tradition-bound and believing Catholicism, he stayed away from his mother's funeral in order not to lose a day's work. '
Rilke adds: "That pierced me like an arrow... (and he can't leave it at that) ...like a flaming arrow".
[...] Cezanne's example revealed to Rilke his own existential conflict. He began to realise that his life must utterly belong to his work, and that he must never again be "delighted and awed" - as it says in his 'Testament' - except by his work."
Scary focus.
I should not be so denigrating of Rilke. I still have to find out what he actually wants to say. It is my loss, for the mean time. Maybe I'll find some way of reading him; shall see if I can find a commentary that speaks to me. The introduction by Robert Hass (in the book of poems) made my eyes glaze over.
Maybe it's tiredness, because turning to the second book of Coetzee's essays, (Stranger Shores, Literary essays, 1986-1999, published by Viking in 2001) and reading one on Amos Oz and one on Harry Mulisch, both authors whom I know, it was also an effort. After midnight, maybe not a good time. He also wrote an essay on Borges, we were discussing him in class the other day.
Read more of Yehuda Amichai's 1967 poems. Since writing a review of his work for the course, I read them with ease and a new feeling, of being spoken to directly. Always this requirement to go deeper.
I should probably write a review of Rilke.
Started on Viv's Imagist portfolio: I had never heard of the Imagists before, it is a similar turning away from florid-ness that happened in the other arts and in other languages. Could it be thought of as 'modern'? Bauhaus versus Baroque, for instance. I remember my father: "If a feature has no function, it has no place in the building".
In poetry, if the word does no work, take it out.
Thanks Viv.
A villanelle is due for Thursday. A villainous villanelle. Already, a favourite among those Hine gave us to read is The Art of Losing, by Elizabeth Bishop . The language is simple - here is an excerpt:
The art of losing isn't hard to master
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
The end of the poem is poignant.
Maybe I'll find her in the library.
Rilke is giving me indigestion, like a rich meal, his elegies too romantic. Tried reading some of his letters. I think that what gets in the way is that nothing is ordinary for him. Here's an example from a letter (p. 9 of Letters on Cezanne, 1985, Fromm International Publishing Company, NY): it starts with :
Never have I been so touched and almost gripped by the sight of heather...
I want to cut out the Never, (just as I tend to recoil from the word always). His only excuse is that he is writing to his wife (about sprigs of heather she sent him). A few lines later: But how glorious it is, this fragrance. The tone remains at full pitch, blaring.
However: in the introduction (by H.W. Petzet), there is a story about Cezanne (p. xxiii)
"...the ancient enmity between life and the great work (as Rilke put it in his Requiem) endured by the artist with such exemplary devotion: [...] during the last thirty years of his life, he removed himself from everything that could 'hook him' (the expression is Cezanne's) and when, for all his tradition-bound and believing Catholicism, he stayed away from his mother's funeral in order not to lose a day's work. '
Rilke adds: "That pierced me like an arrow... (and he can't leave it at that) ...like a flaming arrow".
[...] Cezanne's example revealed to Rilke his own existential conflict. He began to realise that his life must utterly belong to his work, and that he must never again be "delighted and awed" - as it says in his 'Testament' - except by his work."
Scary focus.
I should not be so denigrating of Rilke. I still have to find out what he actually wants to say. It is my loss, for the mean time. Maybe I'll find some way of reading him; shall see if I can find a commentary that speaks to me. The introduction by Robert Hass (in the book of poems) made my eyes glaze over.
Maybe it's tiredness, because turning to the second book of Coetzee's essays, (Stranger Shores, Literary essays, 1986-1999, published by Viking in 2001) and reading one on Amos Oz and one on Harry Mulisch, both authors whom I know, it was also an effort. After midnight, maybe not a good time. He also wrote an essay on Borges, we were discussing him in class the other day.
Read more of Yehuda Amichai's 1967 poems. Since writing a review of his work for the course, I read them with ease and a new feeling, of being spoken to directly. Always this requirement to go deeper.
I should probably write a review of Rilke.
Started on Viv's Imagist portfolio: I had never heard of the Imagists before, it is a similar turning away from florid-ness that happened in the other arts and in other languages. Could it be thought of as 'modern'? Bauhaus versus Baroque, for instance. I remember my father: "If a feature has no function, it has no place in the building".
In poetry, if the word does no work, take it out.
Thanks Viv.
A villanelle is due for Thursday. A villainous villanelle. Already, a favourite among those Hine gave us to read is The Art of Losing, by Elizabeth Bishop . The language is simple - here is an excerpt:
The art of losing isn't hard to master
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
The end of the poem is poignant.
Maybe I'll find her in the library.
Wednesday, 18 June 2008
Focus?
Timer set again, very short time today, I have to prepare for Whitireia tomorrow, not prepared enough, not enough time allowed. Got caught up in preparing final portfolio for e-course. So only 4 min here today.
Read Rilke last night, the first elegy of the Duino Elegies. What I think of as the backbone of a poem - a thought, an insight, a metaphor - he has for every line. I went reading other bits, and came upon one where he says at the end, baldly: "I must change my life".
Read more Maxine Hong King, relief.
Life took over instead of writing: car to be fixed, shopping.
Buzzer went, not enough time. What I wanted to say was: I should have been writing or editing, instead of reading. Not enough writing these days, except for the free writing exercise, and that not every day. Maxine HK writes that she writes every day. Am sure she means writing proper.
Read Rilke last night, the first elegy of the Duino Elegies. What I think of as the backbone of a poem - a thought, an insight, a metaphor - he has for every line. I went reading other bits, and came upon one where he says at the end, baldly: "I must change my life".
Read more Maxine Hong King, relief.
Life took over instead of writing: car to be fixed, shopping.
Buzzer went, not enough time. What I wanted to say was: I should have been writing or editing, instead of reading. Not enough writing these days, except for the free writing exercise, and that not every day. Maxine HK writes that she writes every day. Am sure she means writing proper.
Monday, 16 June 2008
Timing
The timer is on. Definitely back on track with the structure of the day, getting more done, in all kinds of ways. Picked up my Rilke book, (The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke, S. Mitchell, ed. and translator, Vintage International, 1989) straight into a Fragment of an elegy, read it in one go, and plan to re-read it later. It is part of the Duino Elegies, which Lynn D. had recommended.
Otherwise the Fifth Book of Peace (Maxine Hong King) is proving a disappointment, though I am fighting my way through it. The Fire and Paper section were fine, really good, but am now reading the barely disguised tale of her flight to Hawai with her husband and child, find it cliche ridden, if not in terms of the language, in terms of the ideas and the Oh Gosh style.
The bell has rung.
Otherwise the Fifth Book of Peace (Maxine Hong King) is proving a disappointment, though I am fighting my way through it. The Fire and Paper section were fine, really good, but am now reading the barely disguised tale of her flight to Hawai with her husband and child, find it cliche ridden, if not in terms of the language, in terms of the ideas and the Oh Gosh style.
The bell has rung.
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