Tuesday 30 June 2009

Pollyanna

Pollyanna

To the birthday party I went
and Pollyanna was there
in her new yellow frock

Another turn of the page
in life's book

Another trick of the clock

The stare in her eyes
told the tale

That expressionless look
told me something was wrong

All the strange people

(perhaps someone looked vaguely familiar)


It's been a while since we spoke

She was bubbly and bright
like a starlet

(perhaps it's 2 years or a little bit longer)

We toasted her health
and we talked of old times

And someone quite gentle
will blow out the candles

--------
gw 2009

Thursday 25 June 2009

What's the future for Literature? wonders Vandana Datta

In the current issue of Research, the bi-annual journal of English studies from Patna Magadh University, the editor Dr. Vandana Datta concludes the editorial with the following words:
"Literature is above all isms, above all classifications and it is this that should be aimed at, irrespective of caste, class and gender. Things, however are not as simple as they may appear. Social issues are rarely just social issues. Politics has seeped into every aspect of our lives and made things far more complicated than they would have otherwise been. Let us try to keep literature away from the murkiness of politics. Let us keep it pure and clean, as clear as the fresh evening air, as clean as one comes out fresh from a bath."
When Dr. Datta writes these words what is being addressed are "categorizations based on caste and class" that "reflect the narrowness of the human mind".

In Northern Ireland recently some 200 Rumanians were forced to take refuge from the mob and hole up in a church. Were these unfortunate Rumanians also victims of "the narrowness of the human mind" wonders Poet-in-Residence. If so, the world's mentality is in a sorry state. One would have thought that in Ireland, at least in Ireland, a land famed for its warm hospitality, and which itself has a long sad and suffering history of persecution, reckless colonialism and brutal conflict; and wide-ranging and terrible it is too; from Viking invasions to Cromwell to the mass exodous to America, to the terrible famines, and more recently a history of senseless bombings and violence based at root on "caste and class" and decades of armed troops in armoured cars on the razor-wired streets, that something would have been learnt, at least there in the emerald isle, the poetic jewel in the Atlantic, the land that produced great writers such as Seamus Heaney and Patrick Kavanagh.

And in other countries too, not only India and Ireland, are we still facing tsunamis of turbulence based on "caste and class". Iran, Iraq, Sudan, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Spain, Rwanda, Congo, Nigeria, Israel, Russia, North Korea, China, Peru are just a few places that spring immediately to mind. A little pondering will quickly bring forth many more. In fact, the list is almost endless. Perhaps it is endless.

So what does the future hold for Literature and for Mankind? The poem that follows is about Hiroshima and Nagasaki. It is by Erich Fried. The translation is by Poet-in-Residence. It starts and finishes with a question. But not the same question.
A prologue to the poem tells the reader that in some parts of Hiroshima and Nagasaki the dust in the streets turned to glass.

Future?

The sun is the sun
The tree is a tree
The dust is dust
I am I you are you

The sun will be sun
The tree will be ash
The dust will be glass
I and you will be dust

The sun remains the sun
The tree needn't be ash
The dust shouldn't be glass
I will not be dust

You will not be dust
We will not be dust
They will not be dust
But what do we all do?

----
gw2009 trans. from Es ist was est ist
1983,1994 Wagenbach, Berlin

Monday 22 June 2009

Erich Fried's Evening

Here is the final poem, for now, in the Erich Fried mini-series. It's PiR-translated from Warngedichte (pub: 1964 Hanser, Munich). This stark cold scene of Evening is reminiscent of some of the Thomas Bernhard poems that were translated here a few months ago.

Evening

We bring the cold
and place it on the table
cut it without a knife
with naked hand
for you and for me a slice

Simple fare
food and drink together
thirst killed
hunger chased away
and now sleep comes

We dream of stars
and again of the warm moon
snow softens the wind
and nothing
is harder than ice

-----
trans:gw2009

Erich Fried, On the Search

The following short poem in the current Erich Fried series highlights important aspects of poetry: found (or not found) in both writing and reading. As usual the translation is by Poet-in-Residence. The source is Fried's volume Am Rand unserer Lebenzeit (Wagenbach, Berlin).

On the Search

Night after night
I search for comfort and encouragement
in the poems
of the living and the dead

Night after night
their poems surprise me
for in them I find so little
comfort and encouragement

Night after night
their poems help me
for they search for encouragement
and comfort as I do

------
trans:gw2009

Erich Fried, Not Thinking of El Salvador

The following poem in the current translation series needs no comment.

Not Thinking of El Salvador

Nothing's more moving
than our people
clinging to their small pleasures and hopes
the next holiday
the weekend trip the evening
at the theatre and in
the Chinese Restaurant

between worries
about the better school
for the youngest child
and between the visits to the sick
between the television programmes
and the casual affairs
between middle age
and the old-aged home

Nothing is so moving
and not anything over there
on the other side of the world
the people perishing
from the hunger murder and blindness
that our people made possible
so that they can cling to their small pleasures and hopes
so often like me

------
translated from Zur Zeit und zur Unzeit (Wagenbach)
gw 2009

Erich Fried's Bulldozer

The following is the second poem in the current series of translations from the work of Erich Fried (1921-1988). Fried, born in Vienna, fled Austria in 1938 and lived in England from 1938 onwards.
Following publication of his controversial and Vietnam and (1966) and his Love Poems (1979) he became the most widely read German language poet since Bertolt Brecht.

Bulldozer

The Bulldozers in Israel
have confirmed
their connection
to the Israeli Bulldozers
in Beirut
where the bodies
of murdered Palestinains
were buried under the rubble
of their quarters

It is now reported
that in the middle of Israel
the Memorial Cemetery
for the dead of Deir Yassin
has been partly destroyed
by Bulldozers
"Not intentional" it's called:
"An oversight during building work"

Also the murder
of the people
in Sapra and Shatila
shall become known only
as an oversight
in the work of building
a great Zionist power

------
translation of publisher's* footnote:
Deir Yassin's occupants were murdered in 1948 by Begin's Freischärlern (the 250+ dead were mostly women, children and old men); Sapra and Shatila in Beirut were the two refugee camps destroyed.

*Wagenbach, Berlin

Friday 19 June 2009

What it is, Erich Fried

Erich Fried (1921-1988) fled from the Nazi terror and settled in London. He is best known in England as the poet who translated the Dylan Thomas play Under Milk Wood for German radio. He was a prolific poet in his own right and wrote about Love, Fear and Pain. Poet-in-Residence is currently translating some of Fried's poems into English. Here's the first:

What it is

It is nonsense
says reason
It is what it is
says love

It is misfortune
says calculation
It is nothing but pain
says fear
It is hopeless
says insight
It is what it is
says love

It is laughable
says pride
It is frivolous
says caution
It is impossible
says experience
It is what it is
says love

-----
from Es ist was es ist
pub. 1983, 1994, Klaus Wagenbach, Berlin
translation - gw 2009

Tuesday 16 June 2009

Gwilym Williams' poetry

Where is it? Poet-in-Residence has recently been asked.

Some of 'it' can be found here by entering gwilym williams and/or gw in the search box, earlier poems like those in the award winning pamphlet Mavericks can be chased up and downloaded from the excellent Poem Hunter website pages, then there is some poetry on Alan Morrison's The Recusant website, on Poets Against War also (including a poem of the month), and on other popular sites such as Charles Christian's Ink, Sweat and Tears; in fact the Gwilym Williams poetry is in more places than Poet-in-Residence cares to remember. Today, for instance, there's a new haiku on the Summer Haiku 2009 webpages.

If you have a spare 5.25p (plus two pounds p&p) could do worse than buy the 1st placed book in the Purple Patch 2008 Best Individual Collection Awards - yes, the 54 pp poetry book titled Genteel Messages written by Gwilym Williams and published in June 2008 by Martin Holroyd's Poetry Monthly Press, Nottingham, UK.

But the main thing, it goes almost without saying, is to enjoy the Poet-in-Residence Poetry Kit Recommended blogspot and all the bardic bits and bobs that come this way. It's the bardic home-from-home with a warm welcome on the proverbial doormat. And these days, thanks to Blogger, there's the wonderful and immortal Plato with our daily dose of wisdom.

Tuesday 9 June 2009

It is about those days - In the Labyrinth, Satyapal Sehgal

The friendly and agreeable Indian poet Satyapal Sehgal was recently in Vienna's Cafe´ Kafka (see below - 1st June) as part of a Scandinavia-Italy-Austria tour. The English translations of several of Sehgal's poems were read with aplomb by Labyrinth's Peter Waugh.
The following work, the translation here gently edited, appealed to Poet-in-Residence's sense of the bardic. It is a fine thing. In the original language it must be beautiful to read. It sounded so.

It is about those days

It is about those days
when each drop of the rising and setting sunshine
would drench with poetry.

It is about those days
when I would observe the man working in the kitchen
looking at the pigeons' eggs.

A glass of water
would sometimes amaze me.

It is about those days.

But these days it is about my desire
to become a town planner
and create a new town.

Or to go around in a rocket
or work on machines
or speak on the screen.

Those days I was songlike
like a tree in the evening
where a thousand birds were chirping.

Those days I was a child
and wanted to remain only that.

------
Satyapal Sehgal 2009

Thursday 4 June 2009

An Old Man Walks Home

Clint Eastwood's neighbour recently e-mailed to say he was knocked-out by the following poem. Good, Bad or Ugly - it's in the collection Genteel Messages (p30) and also in the new Ink, Sweat and Tears Anthology.

Gwilym Williams' poems? Hang 'em high, says Poet-in-Residence shamelessly!


An Old Man Walks Home

In the garden there grows a crippled tree
heavy with crab-apples
food for worms
and wasps.

In the garden pond
the frogs float
grim faced
they blink and croak.

On the outhouse roof
the owl rests
patient for the night
Magritte's clock with no hands.

Homeward on the wing
not contending with the problem
of where he came from
the white dove.

And below is an old man
walking home and wondering why
he was given the ability
to question it all.

In the kitchen
his wife
face to face with twilight
draws the curtains.

------
gw 2008

Wednesday 3 June 2009

Benjamin Britten's Owen Wingrave at Vienna's Kammer Oper

Benjamin Britten's opera Owen Wingrave was composed in 1969/70 for the BBC. The stage version premiered in May 1973 at Covent Garden. A Channel 4 TV production followed in 2001. A chamber orchestra production was performed at the Linbury Studio Theatre in London in April 2007. An Austrian premier, conducted by Daniel Hoyem-Cavazza, took place at the Wiener Kammer Oper on 23rd May this year. Poet-in-Residence attended the 2nd June performance in Vienna. It was the uncompromising statement to pacifism that one expects from Britten and it was superbly directed by Nicola Raab.

To understand the great strengths and depths of Owen Wingrave we must first consider the ethos behind the almost claustrophobic atmosphere induced in the small chamber opera theatre by Britten's music. We the audience must almost become Wingrave the pacifist rebel, the young man who refuses to set foot on the traditional career ladder as a military officer, refuses to become a pawn, perhaps rising to the rank of knight, on the world's political and religious war games chessboard. We must finally strive to lock ourselves and our minds in the haunted attic, a space the size of a cupboard, with Wingrave the family outcast, for we must bring ourselves to feel that we have died in there with him.

So what does Britten himself have to say about military matters? How does he view the role of the non-combatant, the disgraced man who refuses to fight for his country, the man who must eventually be labelled as an unworthy coward?
Here's what he said as early as 1942: Since I believe that there is in every man the spirit of God, I cannot destroy [...] however strongly I may disapprove of the individual's actions or thoughts. The whole of my life has been devoted to acts of creation (being by profession a composer) and I cannot take part in acts of destruction. Moreover, I feel that the fascist attitude to life can only be overcome by passive resistance. If Hitler were in power here or this country had any similar form of government I should feel it my duty to obstruct the regime in every non-violent way possible, and by complete non-cooperation.

In a key scene from the opera the pacifist hero puts it more poetically in the words of librettist Myfanwy Piper which are powerfully sung by Andrew Ashwin: In peace I have found my image, I have found myself. [...] Peace is not weak but strong like a bird's wing bearing its weight in dazzling air. Peace is not silent, it is the voice of love. [...] Peace is not won by your wars. Peace is not confused, not sentimental, not afraid. Peace is positive, is passionate, committing - more than war itself. Only in peace I can be free.

The Wingrave family routinely educates its boys into the ways of war and has done so for hundreds of years. It begins as soon as the youngster is able to hold a toy soldier in his hand. They have cupboards crammed full of soldiers; in fact they have so many soldiers that when the cupboard is opened many of them fall off the shelves. As he grows into adulthood Owen finds that he prefers to read the works of the poets rather than play with soldiers. His family becomes concerned about this strange behaviour. They bombard him with horrible words which are angry and futile attempts intended to force him to change his ways.

At last it's out, Owen tells the family, I'm strong, not mad or weak. Strong against war [...] the word NO, the peace - the kind the poets know wins everything! He is beyond the pale when he charges: politicians [...] and priests in blood red robes look to thyselves!. He draws attention to his grandfather's blinkered ignorance: Grandfather with smouldering eye knows no other life than war! And all the time the tension builds, the sounds of trumpets and preparations for battle disjointed in the music, almost falling apart, dissolving into disaster, returning and fading to end with almost hypnotic effect in the building tension; enhanced by the sound of the strangely ticking clock.

Owen Wingrave, to use a cliche´ meaningfully, is an opera for today and it ought to be performed more often than it is. Full marks therefore to the Wiener Kammer Oper and all concerned for putting it on. We were treated to wonderful perfomances, and indeed some exceptional ones, not only from the amazing Andrew Ashwin but from all the cast including Rika Shiratsuchi (Mrs Coyle), Brian Galliford (Sir Philip Wingrave) and Craig Smith (Spencer Coyle). Anne Marie Legenstein's uncluttered stage design and Michael Hofer's atmospheric lighting were both spot-on.

------
Owen Wingrave (with German subtitles) at the Wiener Kammer Oper, Fleischmarkt 24, Vienna on the following dates: 4, 6, 9, 11, 13, 16, 18 June 2009.

Monday 1 June 2009

Rati Saxena and Satyapal Sehpal in the Labyrinth

The smoke-filled air in Cafe´Kafka the home of Vienna's English-speaking poets becomes more unbreathable by the monthly session. On Friday evening the clouds of tobacco smoke, known affecionately in Austria as 'the blue dust', were denser than usual because of the bad weather we've been having in Vienna lately. Temperatures are barely rising into double figures on the Celsius scale, which means that the large cafe´ window facing onto the street cannot be opened for ventilation. In fact so strange is the weather for the time of year that snow was falling in nearby Burgenland, Austria's sunniest spot, on the penultimate day of May.

Labyrinth's polite and friendly Indian guests did not object to the bad air in the cafe´. I suffered afterwards for 2 days with ill health induced by passive smoking. Perhaps the visiting poets were simply too polite to complain. They had travelled to Vienna from smoke-free Rome which Satyapal Sehpal described to me as "a lively city where one can sit outside, just like in Dehli". Vienna was the last stop on a European trip which began in the Norwegian town of Stavanger.
The anti-smoking laws in Austria must be the European Union's most complicated, nonsensical and ineffective. One so-called law speaks of premises of so-many square meters and non-existent doors. It has not yet sunk in in Austria that breathable air should measured in cubic meters! It could be a long time before I re-enter a Vienna coffee house where passive-smoking is the order of the day.

On the subject of political chicanery and its consequences I was quite taken by a poem of Kritya* editor Rati Saxena's titled The Love of Big Black Ants. She has given permission for it to be reproduced here.

The Love of Big Black Ants

One doesn't know from where the big black ants
Spread on the floor like black stars on rainy evenings
Will attack their prey

They do not believe in
The line discipline of the red ants
Nor in their Queen's orders

They catch and swallow
Everything white
Like sugar, rice, moths

If they want to carry a big dead body
They are united like labour unions

They can live anywhere -
The wrinkled skins of trees
Houses of leaves
Roots of any thing

Those whom they love
Change into them

Of the trees they live on -
Not a single fruit can remain
Nor bird live

Their kiss is
Sharper than their sting,
Which changes them into pieces

They are greater lovers than humans

________________
Rati Saxena 2009

*Kritya - http://kritya.in/