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
Monday, 22 June 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
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
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.
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
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
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.
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/
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/
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