Obsession

I translated that from this:

Grands bois, vous m'effrayez comme des cathédrales;
Vous hurlez comme l'orgue; et dans nos coeurs maudits,
Chambres d'éternal deuil où vibrent de vieux râles,
Répondent les échoes de vos De profundis.

Je te hais, Océan! tes bonds et tes tumultes,
Mon esprit les retrouve en lui; ce rire amer
De l'homme vaincu, plein de sanglots et d'insultes,
Je l'entends dans le rire énorme de la mer.

Comme tu me plairais, ô nuit! sans ces étoiles
Dont la lumière parle un langag connu!
Car je cherce le vide, et le noir, el le nu!

Mais les ténèbres sont elles-mêmes des toiles
Où vivent, jaillissant de mon oeil par milliers,
Des êtres disparus aux regards familiers.

I know there are plenty of good translations of Baudelaire, so this isn’t really an attempt to add anything to the body of work. But I do like to attempt a translation on my own every once in a while, (1) to exercise a fast-fading ability to read and write in French, and (2) to re-emphasize the inherent weaknesses and powers in the art of translating poetry.

Les Fleurs du mal has staked an ardent claim on my poetic memory, and this particular poem seemed relevant–and far more expressive of my own point of view–in context of a private discussion I’ve been having with friend Chris via letters.

And with it being National Poetry Month, and not finding a lot of really exciting poems in BAP11 to share or comment on, I decided to commit to a handful of poetry-related activities that sample all aspects of poetry, from writing, to editing, to translating, to critiquing. So, in the next 3 weeks expect me to post:

1. A short essay on a favorite “new” poem (new to me, anyway)
2. A translation of a poem (most likely French to English)
3. A suggested edit/review of a poem written by a friend (Chris, I think you’re going to have to pony up)
4. A new, original poem of my own construction (no guarantees)

I will still post a few selections from BAP11, but only those that were really striking, those that I won’t forget after a week.

I failed to take down the names of these individual pieces, but the artist is Regina Donovan Stenberg, and her email is reginastenberg at hotmail com

None of these originals were very expensive–less than $100 each, I think–and I would have picked one up for certain if I thought I had a place to hang it in my house. Maybe as a gift. Hmm…

At least, I tell myself, it’s better than nothing.

I just realized that in my first BAP11 post I mentioned that I recognized a poem from 2010, but didn’t say which poem it was. Here it is:

Toadstools

by Charles Wright

The toadstools are starting to come up,
                                                     circular and dry.
Nothing will touch them,
Gophers or chipmunks, wasps or swallows.
They glow in the twilight like rooted will-o’-the-wisps.
Nothing will touch them.
As though little roundabouts from the bunched unburiable,
Powers, dominions,
As though orphans rode herd in the short grass,
                                                   as though they had heard the call,
They will always be with us,
                                          transcenders of the world.
Someone will try to stick his beak into their otherworldly styrofoam.
Someone may try to taste a taste of forever.
For some it’s a refuge, for some a shady place to fall down.
Grief is a floating barge-boat,
                                            who knows where it’s going to moor?

I’m keeping this pretty informal, ’cause that’s all I have time for. Here’s some of what I like about this poem:

1. Clear imagery
2. Sound, e.g., consonance in “glow in the twilight like rooted will-o’-the-wisps” and “try to stick his beak”, “try to taste a taste”; phonetic stops in “As though little roundabouts from the bunched unburiable, / Powers, dominions,”
3. The dichotomies that may or may not include false dilemmas (“Nothing will touch them” and “Someone will try…”, life and decay, power and lowness, “refuge” and “grief”)
4. Quietness, irresolution

Chris and I have reviewed Best American Poetry anthologies for a few years now, typically as an end-of-year activity in December. We didn’t in 2011, so I was glad when Chris agreed to add that to his month’s activities.

In his BAP11/12 kick-off post, Chris mentioned how odd it is to read poetry from 2010 in a “Best of 2011″ anthology in the year 2012. It doesn’t really matter, I guess, since the date range itself is not typically meaningful or significant, but I actually recognized one of the poems in BAP11 this time around.

Before I get to the poem, I need to both lament and celebrate that statement, because it is unusual.

First, it means I don’t read a lot of poetry, period. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I read poetry when I can, when I get around to it, between fiction and non-fiction, which themselves are crammed between work, travel, and family. So, yeah.

Second, I don’t read a lot of contemporary poetry. Probably 3/4 of the poetry I read is over 5 years old, and at least half of it is over 40 years old.

It should be no surprise, then, that I can read through most of an anthology such as this and not recognize more than one poem. There is the possibility that I’ve read more than one of the poems in this year’s BAP, but, if so, they weren’t memorable enough to trigger a reaction.

And yet I don’t find this to be necessarily indicative of either the vulgarity of my lifestyle, or of the general quality of contemporary poetry. Rather, it reminds me of the wealth of writing that is available to me, if only I were to reach out and touch it. I can’t guess whether the US is producing more poetry than ever before, but I would guess it’s producing about as much per year as ever. And maybe the general reading public is ignoring poetry more and more, in favor of more accessible entertainment and sources of enlightenment.

So, as I begin NaPoMo12, and I dive into BAP11 (and, hopefully, some additional work in the craft) I’m not entirely sure of my surroundings, and, as Chris also expressed, nowadays I feel less certain of my own ability to read, understand, and appreciate poetry than perhaps ever before. But unlike Chris, who seems to have been reading more than ever, I’ve been reading less than ever, and I planned to blame my weaknesses on that. But diving back in I feel that this place in general feels right; it feels more open and richer in opportunities than the places for poetry that I’ve either dwelt or built in the past.

Still-life fruit using wax and oil pastels as resists:

Two quick paint exercises:

Exercise with masking fluid:

Attempting moving water:

Hoping April will hold more opportunities to work on this.

I was staggered by the show.

Know first that, generally speaking, I am not a fan of live concerts. I hate the vibe of the crowd. I’d rather be at home. But some bands are able to deafen the influence of the audience on my feeble mind and harpoon their music into my thick hide. Dirty Three has done that more than any other band I’ve seen, but The Wedding Present pulled that off too last night. The strength and brilliance of their stage presence left the audience a faint distraction to the conscious mind.

Second, the Wedding Present just rocks live. Don’t let Cinerama or some of their more quiet offerings make you forget that they are, heart and soul, indy rock. Their music may not seem deliberately so to the casual listener, but on stage David Gedge makes it clear that these songs are a part of him, and ever chord and chorus is like the public unthreading of a cherished valentine, woven of ectoplasm from long gone romance, and swallowed whole to hide the shame until it is extracted, by force on stage. That’s about the only way I can describe his performance on songs such as Lovenest, Suck, Dare, and Heather (yes, they played the classic Seamonsters in its entirety; thanks to this performance Seamonsters has become my favorite TWP album, even overcoming the post-Cinerama excellence of Take Fountain).

The best live performances inspire me, and more: they physically and psychologically drive me away from the concert itself, with new motivation to create, to do, to aim for more. The Wedding Present managed this, despite the state I am in: neck-deep in travel, a fully invested family man, committed to a book contract, mid-way through another grad degree. In short, busy, distracted, and confused. This is good and bad; on the one hand, it pushes me towards more creative engagement; on the other hand, it’s quite depressing to have creative urges and longings when one can’t yet act on them.

The dream of a creative life I’ve given up on, but it’s allure persists, and performances like this remind me that there’s a reason for that: to connect with others, to give them something powerful and beautiful, something exciting and motivating, something that they carry with them during the concert, into the night, and, with a little luck, through the days and nights beyond.

Some failures, and some successes, but I am beginning to see how long of a road this will be, and I’m alright traveling it.

I’m trying to do at least three exercises a week. A few may be worth posting, though nearly every one has been completed by abandonment, and resulted in a lengthy list of things I should do differently next time.