Poetry International
Last week, the Royal Festival Hall hosted Poetry International, a week-long series of readings, discussions, and interviews featuring writers of international distinction. In other words, it was a good old-fashioned round-up of the Big Guns in the poetry world. Seeing as there were two or three events each day for eight days, and seeing as I technically have class, I wasn't able to get to everything I wanted to -- for instance, a chat with Adam Feinstein, author of the excellent new biography of Pablo Neruda, A Passion for Life. However, I did manage to make it to four readings, four nights in a row, and don't you know I took notes. So here are the highlights:
Wednesday, October 27 -- A Tribute to Pablo Neruda
This reading attracted me because poetry "covers" are as hit-and miss as their musical counterparts -- but anybody who knows Neruda will probably agree that his work begs to be read aloud. Originally, poet Michael Donaghy had been slated to read Neruda's work, but he recently passed away, to the quite palpable grief of the British writing community. Ruth Padel agreed to replace Donaghy so the reading could go on, and by cover standards, she did right. Neruda's poetry could be described as robust, lush, certainly passionate, all of which might lead one to imagine a dramatic performance -- yet Padel read these poems with a quiet reverence, drawing attention to the language and the quiet joys of Neruda's surprising metaphors. Particularly striking was her reading of "I Explain a Few Things," Neruda's poem about the Spanish Civil War, where Neruda turns his talent on itself:
After Padel came a contemporary (i.e., living) Chilean poet, Raul Zurita. Here was my first glimpse of a strategy concerning language that continued through the week: the poet will read his/her poems in their original language, with translation projected on a large screen behind. I don't think I can emphasize how important it is to hear poetry in its original language -- even the best translation can never recreate the cadence, the rhythms of a poem in another language. With Zurita the effect was striking; his gravelly voice rose and fell with melancholy, as he created vivid landscapes of Chile as an ocean or a lost ship in the desert, with repetition of smaller images -- fish, stones, a woman -- grounding the imagery in detail. He touched on subjects as difficult as Chile's "disappeared" without ever becoming strident or melodramatic.
I cried. More than once. This man is an amazing poet, there are at least a couple English translations of his poetry available, so go out and buy one right this minute! Here's a link! You have no excuse!
Thursday, October 28 -- Griffin Poetry Prize Reading
Two words will explain why this reading was a must-see: Margaret Atwood. But she was in great company for this reading honoring the winners of Canada's Griffin Poetry Prize, honoring Canadian and international poets. First up, Anne Simpson, who won the prize this year for her second collection, Loop. She's good, as is August Kleinhzahler, the International winner this year, but the other three readers were unbelievable, so let's get right to them:
--Robert Bringhurst, whose translations of myths of the Haida, a Native American group from the Pacific Northwest, put him on the shortlist for this year's Griffin prize. He read from two poems by a Haida storyteller, beginning with a few verses in the original language so the audience got a feel for its cadence, then switching to English. This turned out to be crucial, because Bringhurst managed to retain much of the original rhythm of the poem -- an attestment to his masterful, respectful translation. Because the poems he read from are long narratives, I don't have any convenient "sound bytes," but for those interested in myth or oral literature, his work is vital.
--Anne Carson, a poet whose name I was familiar with (fans of The L Word know it, too -- check this out), but whose work I didn't know. Now I realize I'm on the road to Broken Recordville, but again, amazing. She read from an oratorio for four voices that she wrote for the PEN Society's tribute to Gertrude Stein last year, called "Lots of Guns." At the original reading, there were four different readers, one of whom sang snippets from Gertrude Stein's favorite song, "The Lonesome Pine," featured in the poem's chorus. At this reading, she read all four parts herself, and her wry, confident voice carried the audience through the poem, laden with references to Greek myth and poetry. After the reading I bought a book by Carson, The Beauty of the Husband, which she signed "Respectfully." What's up my new hero?
-- Margaret Atwood. First of all, this has nothing to do with her poetry, but the lady is glamorous. Okay? None of this all-black, kinda frumpy "I'm an artist" shit for Ms. Atwood. On this particular evening she wore a classy pantsuit with a rose-colored wide-collar blouse. I know it's not important, but it's nice to see a well-dressed writer once in awhile. Also, she is comfortable as hell onstage, and knows how to play with just enough self-deprecation to make the audience like her, and still understand she's the boss. "I also write novels," she began when she came onstage. "I write poetry and fiction so that when I'm doing a poetry reading I can say, 'I'm really a novelist.'" She then proceeded to read poems that were strange, unfolding, and often quite funny. In her poem "The Poets Hang On," she's not afraid to poke fun at herself and many of her fans -- "If you try for a simple answer, that's when they pretend to be crazy." One poem, "Ava Gardner Reincarnated as a Magnolia," was full of wry humor wrapped up in meticulous language: "the water-of-life cliche that keeps things going, tawdry and priceless." Funny poetry is possible! I forgot for a minute there.
Friday, October 29 -- Banipal Live
This reading featured Arab poets who have spent much of their careers living in exile, sponsored by Banipal, a magazine of modern Arabl literature. Here again I got to enjoy poetry in another language -- well, two languages, French and Arabic -- thanks to projected translations. These poets had a better sense of brevity than most, who, once they find themselves on stage, linger there as if it were their childhood home. Unfortunately, it means I left feeling I'd only had the briefest of introductions to their work (which is true, anyway, with all of these readings).
Four poets read on this evening. First, Abdellatif Laati, a Moroccan poet who was imprisoned for eight years for his political beliefs, whose poetry seeks connection, explanation:
Next, Mourid Barghouti, a writer from Palestine, whose work seeks to navigate the needs of desires of daily existence against constant unrest and fear, as in his poem "It's Also Fine," which speaks of people "paying no attention to history/... hoping that someday, someone else/ will change it."
Venus Khoury-Ghata read from her poetry, artfully translated from the French by Marilyn Hacker: "And the woman who doesn't trust her lantern/ has set the fireflies free." Following her, Saadi Yousef, a prolific writer who has published over 30 volumes of poetry. Thirty! And I couldn't find a single decent link for him on the Internet. Onstage he has the manner of an absent-minded professor: "It is very difficult to write poetry, very very very..." It's clear, though, that his mind is focused and precise when it comes to writing. Gorgeous lines drifted over the audience: "How can we say: The ripples on/the water are ours.... I will say: you are my first tree." He ended with poems about women, which he told us several times is his habit. This is from "That Rainy Day":
Saturday, October 30 Faber and Faber Reading (I swear to God, this is the last one)
The festival closed with a dynamite reading of poets who are all published in the U.K. by Faber and Faber, a publisher with excellent taste. Honestly, at this point in the week I was close to the point of emotional collapse -- it's quite overwhelming to absorb so much poetry, even when it's good poetry and I love every second of it -- so this reading blurs together a bit. Highlights: Adam Zagajewski, who read a few of his poems in Polish and the rest translated in English, a master poet of the family, the intimate moment; Charles Simic, who is exactly as I pictured him -- a big man, alert, on guard, but full of tenderness; and Alice Oswald, who is, as the chatty woman sitting next to me cooed, "a goddess," and completely at home in formal verse, as so many of the week's poets were. I was very lazy about scribbling quotes, so here's a whole poem read by Charles Simic that night to make up for it. For the others, I'll just say again what I've been saying -- they're good, go out and read them. Really. Poetry likes you and it wants to take you out dancing.
*
PS -- For Halloween, I saw Halloween on the big-screen. I drank ginger beer and ate popcorn. I walked home through a churchyard and got scared. Best holiday ever.
Wednesday, October 27 -- A Tribute to Pablo Neruda
This reading attracted me because poetry "covers" are as hit-and miss as their musical counterparts -- but anybody who knows Neruda will probably agree that his work begs to be read aloud. Originally, poet Michael Donaghy had been slated to read Neruda's work, but he recently passed away, to the quite palpable grief of the British writing community. Ruth Padel agreed to replace Donaghy so the reading could go on, and by cover standards, she did right. Neruda's poetry could be described as robust, lush, certainly passionate, all of which might lead one to imagine a dramatic performance -- yet Padel read these poems with a quiet reverence, drawing attention to the language and the quiet joys of Neruda's surprising metaphors. Particularly striking was her reading of "I Explain a Few Things," Neruda's poem about the Spanish Civil War, where Neruda turns his talent on itself:
You will ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak to us of dreams, of leaves
of the great volcanoes of his native land?
Come and see the blood in the streets,
come and see
the blood in the streets,
come and see the blood
in the streets!
After Padel came a contemporary (i.e., living) Chilean poet, Raul Zurita. Here was my first glimpse of a strategy concerning language that continued through the week: the poet will read his/her poems in their original language, with translation projected on a large screen behind. I don't think I can emphasize how important it is to hear poetry in its original language -- even the best translation can never recreate the cadence, the rhythms of a poem in another language. With Zurita the effect was striking; his gravelly voice rose and fell with melancholy, as he created vivid landscapes of Chile as an ocean or a lost ship in the desert, with repetition of smaller images -- fish, stones, a woman -- grounding the imagery in detail. He touched on subjects as difficult as Chile's "disappeared" without ever becoming strident or melodramatic.
The inverted ocean of the sky falls
on the stones and they cry out.
No one but the stones
can cry like that.
I cried. More than once. This man is an amazing poet, there are at least a couple English translations of his poetry available, so go out and buy one right this minute! Here's a link! You have no excuse!
Thursday, October 28 -- Griffin Poetry Prize Reading
Two words will explain why this reading was a must-see: Margaret Atwood. But she was in great company for this reading honoring the winners of Canada's Griffin Poetry Prize, honoring Canadian and international poets. First up, Anne Simpson, who won the prize this year for her second collection, Loop. She's good, as is August Kleinhzahler, the International winner this year, but the other three readers were unbelievable, so let's get right to them:
--Robert Bringhurst, whose translations of myths of the Haida, a Native American group from the Pacific Northwest, put him on the shortlist for this year's Griffin prize. He read from two poems by a Haida storyteller, beginning with a few verses in the original language so the audience got a feel for its cadence, then switching to English. This turned out to be crucial, because Bringhurst managed to retain much of the original rhythm of the poem -- an attestment to his masterful, respectful translation. Because the poems he read from are long narratives, I don't have any convenient "sound bytes," but for those interested in myth or oral literature, his work is vital.
--Anne Carson, a poet whose name I was familiar with (fans of The L Word know it, too -- check this out), but whose work I didn't know. Now I realize I'm on the road to Broken Recordville, but again, amazing. She read from an oratorio for four voices that she wrote for the PEN Society's tribute to Gertrude Stein last year, called "Lots of Guns." At the original reading, there were four different readers, one of whom sang snippets from Gertrude Stein's favorite song, "The Lonesome Pine," featured in the poem's chorus. At this reading, she read all four parts herself, and her wry, confident voice carried the audience through the poem, laden with references to Greek myth and poetry. After the reading I bought a book by Carson, The Beauty of the Husband, which she signed "Respectfully." What's up my new hero?
-- Margaret Atwood. First of all, this has nothing to do with her poetry, but the lady is glamorous. Okay? None of this all-black, kinda frumpy "I'm an artist" shit for Ms. Atwood. On this particular evening she wore a classy pantsuit with a rose-colored wide-collar blouse. I know it's not important, but it's nice to see a well-dressed writer once in awhile. Also, she is comfortable as hell onstage, and knows how to play with just enough self-deprecation to make the audience like her, and still understand she's the boss. "I also write novels," she began when she came onstage. "I write poetry and fiction so that when I'm doing a poetry reading I can say, 'I'm really a novelist.'" She then proceeded to read poems that were strange, unfolding, and often quite funny. In her poem "The Poets Hang On," she's not afraid to poke fun at herself and many of her fans -- "If you try for a simple answer, that's when they pretend to be crazy." One poem, "Ava Gardner Reincarnated as a Magnolia," was full of wry humor wrapped up in meticulous language: "the water-of-life cliche that keeps things going, tawdry and priceless." Funny poetry is possible! I forgot for a minute there.
Friday, October 29 -- Banipal Live
This reading featured Arab poets who have spent much of their careers living in exile, sponsored by Banipal, a magazine of modern Arabl literature. Here again I got to enjoy poetry in another language -- well, two languages, French and Arabic -- thanks to projected translations. These poets had a better sense of brevity than most, who, once they find themselves on stage, linger there as if it were their childhood home. Unfortunately, it means I left feeling I'd only had the briefest of introductions to their work (which is true, anyway, with all of these readings).
Four poets read on this evening. First, Abdellatif Laati, a Moroccan poet who was imprisoned for eight years for his political beliefs, whose poetry seeks connection, explanation:
From one crowd to the next
I seek the eyes
seeking mine
do passersby
still have eyes?
Next, Mourid Barghouti, a writer from Palestine, whose work seeks to navigate the needs of desires of daily existence against constant unrest and fear, as in his poem "It's Also Fine," which speaks of people "paying no attention to history/... hoping that someday, someone else/ will change it."
Venus Khoury-Ghata read from her poetry, artfully translated from the French by Marilyn Hacker: "And the woman who doesn't trust her lantern/ has set the fireflies free." Following her, Saadi Yousef, a prolific writer who has published over 30 volumes of poetry. Thirty! And I couldn't find a single decent link for him on the Internet. Onstage he has the manner of an absent-minded professor: "It is very difficult to write poetry, very very very..." It's clear, though, that his mind is focused and precise when it comes to writing. Gorgeous lines drifted over the audience: "How can we say: The ripples on/the water are ours.... I will say: you are my first tree." He ended with poems about women, which he told us several times is his habit. This is from "That Rainy Day":
My very pores open to the music.
Minutes
Minutes only, I shall
make
with your love a narrow bed.
Music.
Saturday, October 30 Faber and Faber Reading (I swear to God, this is the last one)
The festival closed with a dynamite reading of poets who are all published in the U.K. by Faber and Faber, a publisher with excellent taste. Honestly, at this point in the week I was close to the point of emotional collapse -- it's quite overwhelming to absorb so much poetry, even when it's good poetry and I love every second of it -- so this reading blurs together a bit. Highlights: Adam Zagajewski, who read a few of his poems in Polish and the rest translated in English, a master poet of the family, the intimate moment; Charles Simic, who is exactly as I pictured him -- a big man, alert, on guard, but full of tenderness; and Alice Oswald, who is, as the chatty woman sitting next to me cooed, "a goddess," and completely at home in formal verse, as so many of the week's poets were. I was very lazy about scribbling quotes, so here's a whole poem read by Charles Simic that night to make up for it. For the others, I'll just say again what I've been saying -- they're good, go out and read them. Really. Poetry likes you and it wants to take you out dancing.
Factory
The machines were gone, and so were those who worked them.
A single high-backed chair stood like a throne
In all that empty space.
I was on the floor making myself comfortable
For a long night of little sleep and much thinking.
An empty bird cage hung from a steam pipe.
In it I kept an apple and a small paring knife.
I placed newspapers all around me on the floor
So I could jump at the slightest rustle.
It was like the scratching of a pen,
The silence of the night writing in its diary.
Of rats who came to pay me a visit
I had the highest opinion.
They'd stand on two feet
As if about to make a polite request
On a matter of great importance.
Many other strange things came to pass.
Once a naked woman climbed on the chair
To reach the apple in the cage.
I was on the floor watching her go on tiptoe,
Her hand fluttering in the cage like a bird.
On other days, the sun peeked through dusty windowpanes.
To see what time it was. But there was no clock,
Only the knife in the cage, glinting like a mirror,
And the chair in the far corner
Where someone once sat facing the brick wall.
*
PS -- For Halloween, I saw Halloween on the big-screen. I drank ginger beer and ate popcorn. I walked home through a churchyard and got scared. Best holiday ever.
posted by HB @ 9:27 AM
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