Education by Stone: João Cabral de Melo Neto

Two poems, taken from the recent The FSG Book of Latin American Poetry

O Fim Do Mundo

No fim de um mundo melancólico
os homens lêem jornais.
Homens indiferentes a comer laranjas
que ardem como o sol.

Me deram uma maçã para lembrar
a morte. Sei que cidades telegrafam
pedindo querosene. O véu que olhei voar
caiu no deserto.

O poema final ninguém escreverá
desse mundo particular de doze horas.
Em vez de juízo final a mim me preocupa
o sonho final.

The End of the World


At the end of a melancholy world
men read the newspapers.
Men indifferent to eating oranges
that flame like the sun.

They gave me an apple to remind me
of death. I know that cities telegraph
asking for kerosene. The veil I saw flying
fell in the desert.

No one will write the final poem
about this particular twelve o’clock world.
Instead of the last judgememt, what worries me
is the final dream.

Translated by James Wright

Elbow Room

A letter brings me to my teenage father,
unpicks his bones and calls him back
from his week of boarder’s rations, his years
of darkness and silence, to where he sits
in the depths of winter in his cousins’ kitchen
and wolfs his Sunday lunch.

What does he say? He lifts a fork and vanishes
until now, how many winters
later, and his father, too, lifted and returned
to drive his hackney down the narrow roads
flat capped and with his elbow out the window
so close I can reach my hand across –

as if that casual elbow opened a portal,
poked through time to graze the city air
or as if I might somehow reach in to raise
these always resisting bones, always
unfinishable journeys. How much can you stretch
from lunch to dinner, from headstone to hearth

and back again? But the engine is running
in the unkillable car, my grandfather changes up
as he leaves the bend
and accelerates from the letter.
Around the corner, my father drains his cup,
pushes back his chair. After lunch

comes nothing, unmemory, unwritten.
I can follow them to nowhere, to where
the engine rusts and the broken years
lie in fields, and when the traffic stalls
I can open the window
and rest my arm on the door, let my elbow

graze the zone, let the altered day come in.

Valerio Magrelli

Age of the duck-hare: the poetry of Valerio Magrelli

published in Agenda Vol 45 No.4 / Vol 46 No. 1, May 2011


Valerio Magrelli is one of the brightest stars of Italian poetry, widely acclaimed since the appearance of his first collection Ora Serrata Tesserae when he was twenty three. The title of that collection gives a hint of the kind of poet he is — it’s the irregular, serrated demarcation between the retina and the circumferential tissue inside the eye. So specialist is the title that when he went to the optician some months after the book came out, the optician remarked ‘I didn’t realise we were colleagues, I see you’ve written a book . . .’

The scientific term directs us to a poetry preoccupied with visual perception of the world, and the forensic attention applied simultaneously to the gaze. The blank page is ‘like the cornea of an eye’ where the poet ‘embroider(s)/an iris and in the iris etch(es)/the deep gorge of the retina’:

A gaze then
sprouts from the page
and a chasm gapes
in this yellow notebook.

Falling

Back from the blogging dead. Has The Cat Flap been filled with cement? someone asked. Pretty much, for the last few months, but it will now be re-activated. To begin with, a piece published in the Dublin Review for Winter 2010-11. The piece led to a documentary on RTE Radio, produced by Bernadette Comerford, available for download here

Poems, prose and who knows what else to follow...

When I started falling, I didn’t think much of it. I took it as something the body naturally did, a way of testing itself, maybe, or a kind of trick. I’d get up in the morning and go down to the bathroom on the first landing, splash water on my face, and immediately lose consciousness. A few seconds later I’d find myself on the red lino of the bathroom, haul myself up, and go back to the sink. And then it would happen again, and again I’d pick myself up from the floor and return to the sink. (I might not have been so quick to return if I’d known that water was one of the triggers of the falling, or rather the alchemy that took place between water and light as I washed my face.) To me, falling was just part of the morning ritual. Occasionally I reported it to my mother, but the notion must have seemed too silly to register, just the kind of thing a boy could be relied on to make up. So I went on falling, giving myself a few bruises every morning, lurching backwards into the day.

More

Continual Visit

From Drop Box

Somehow a wilderness grows. The grasses
are full of small animals, the nights so absolute
you could haul yourself through blackness to the stars
and stream down like a stray god on the meadow.

The lake shifts and startles, a vixen cries from her lair.
The cottage veers and shakes and makes
like a mad thing for the trees. If there is a dog
he is barking now, shocked head pummelling air.

If there are foxes they are running, if the dead
have spilled from their fields they are here now
running headlong into the night. They are lost
and their gods with them, running down the narrow
lanes, leaping into hedgerows and ditches, mingling
with ash branches, rushes, the sleeping machines
   in their sheds.

Sequence continues in The Manchester Review

Click here for the rest of the issue

Lines from a Victorian Photographer

(Paul Martin, Yarmouth, 1892)

She lies in the sand as if she’d risen from it,
as if the sand had dreamed her dress
and elaborated
her pinned up hair, her sculpted hat.

He leans over her
dark-suited, composed
having stepped outside his century
as if for a moment and travelled down

still bowler-hatted and immaculately shod,
his umbrella still perfectly rolled
and lying now beside her
to await the outcome.

[]

He has conjured her maybe
though not so much as she has taken him.
The sand is in every fold of her dress,
she lies in the sand, the sand lies in her

and she is smiling: there is nothing of him
she doesn’t comprehend, the brim of his hat
knows more than he does
and travels farther.

[]

Around them a world moves,
someone else’s,
a procession of dark dresses escorting children,
boats conquering the foreshore,

a solitary chair
that has somehow wandered out
to take the air and suitably refreshed will return
to its great affairs.

[]

Now they have fallen deeper,
they have disappeared into the mantelpieces
nightstands and abandoned chests, they are gazing out
like cathedrals of themselves

where the light took hold of them,
raised them up, wiped them down
and disposed them for the future
but missed

their true flourishing
where disbelieving the arrangement they tumbled
out of the frame to attempt
instead a fallen kiss, a dishevelment.

Into the Deep Street

Into the Deep Street: Seven Modern French Poets 1938-2008. Edited and translated by Jennie Feldman and Stephen Romer. Anvil, 2009, 335 pp. 17.80 euro

with thanks to Poetry Ireland Review 101, where this piece first appeared.
How do you go about presenting a selection of French poets to an English-language readership? One method might be to try for a generous inclusivity, hospitable to the full range of what is on offer. Another might be to isolate a trend, a set of affinities between poets, and represent that. This anthology takes the second approach, bringing together Jean Follain, Henri Thomas, Philippe Jaccottet, Jacques Réda, Paul de Roux, Guy Goffette, and Gilles Ortlieb. The idea is that this is the line of Follain, a loose notion of elective affinity rather than a school or tradition. Follain’s brief, intense poems are a fixed point around which many of the poems here constellate themselves. The constituent parts of a Follain poem are concrete, material but they serve very different ends than they might in another poet’s sensibility, or in a poem in English. Very often Follain seems to sever the link between one part of a poem and the next, so that a lot of the reading work is to establish the connection between the various parts. There is also the importance accorded to memory, a memory from which, often, all context has been removed, leaving a frieze of details mysterious in their isolation. Follain’s was also an imagination haunted by the first world war – especially evident in a poem like ‘Life’ or the final poem given here, ‘The War’. In the latter the child’s eye view of the moment of departure of his father for the front is stark and moving:

A few drops of coffee laced with alcohol hung on his drooping moustache, his naked heart was bleeding, he asked the child’s forgiveness for unfair bouts of anger, an entire and incredible lover coming to light; an hour later the winter sun had shone, putting bright touches on birds’ plumage and the bayonets of columns of men: they were marching down the frozen road.

Follain might be too elusive, too distinctively particular a poet to spawn a school, but the poets here might be said to share with him a modesty of means, a tendency towards compressed forms, a surface clarity and a preference for the material over the abstract or idealised. A clue to his influence on later generations of poets might lie in the remark by Jacques Réda quoted in Romer’s introduction, on Follain’s ‘magical art of contiguity, his ability to set a current running between objects in juxtaposition, in the absence of any single governing metaphor.’ Apart from Follain, the other presiding influence is Réda, who published many of them in the Nouvelle Revue Française and whose interests in jazz and the possibilities of prose for the poetic imagination are also shared by this group. One of the formal interests of this collection is precisely the easy continuity between poetry and prose. As Romer puts it: ‘The poets here switch from one to the other rather as a musician might switch from a flute to a clarinet...’ Prose here means multiple genres: the selections include prose from novels, notebooks or carnets, as well as prose poems. It’s the kind of fluidity that can regard Jacques Réda’s Les Ruines de Paris, a wonderfully inventive and restless set of responses to Paris, as a collection of poems, though its English translation, part of Reaktion Books topographic series, is presented as straight prose.

However they are lineated, the different works of these poets have their own strong internal unity. Unlike the prose excursions of poets in English, the journals, novels or other prose of these poets fit comfortably within a single aesthetic range. This is not entirely surprising, in that French publishing is hospitable to more adventurous or genre-bending prose than its more commercially focused English counterpart.

The notebook, by now a well established form in its own right as well as the foundation upon which many of the poems are built, is accorded an especially privileged place in the selections. If this suggests both an interest in process, the carnet as a serial engagement both with the primary material and the mediation by which the apprehension of that material is transformed, it also means that a great deal of the impetus in these poets is provided by keen attention to what is close at hand –

I observe the day through the window. This will turn out to be the most constant of my activities. (Paul de Roux, Au jour le jour, 3: Carnets 1985-89)

Seated at the same table as me is that character I always meet in the cafés on the Boul’Mich, ever since I’ve been taking that sad and weary walk from the Observatoire to the Seine. He is remarkable for the red hair that flows down his back and runs over each shoulder, part of it joining his beard in front which is equally red and unkempt. . . (Henry Thomas, Carnets 1934-1948)

Getting used to the new noises: the heels upstairs, the door down below, the neighbour’s piano, the blinds opposite, the grunts coming from a nearby gym at the end of the day. Moving from flat to flat, from district to district, as if to outwit the different storeys of the self. (Gilles Ortlieb, ‘Moving’, Carnets de ronde, 2004)

Before everything goes the way it came, for all of it will go, and all good things come to an end, as they say; before this journey we’ve shared is over for Partance and me, I’ll say something about her in simple words that will also go one day, like everything else. Describing is an act of love, to quote a poet.
The interior is modest, like a cockpit, four metres by two, though as I’ve said, I’m not good at figures, and enthusiasm doesn’t help. Let’s say three by one-and-a-half, give or take a decimetre. In any case, I wouldn’t wish for more. On the orchard side, a narrow seat for afternoon rests; on the meadows side, two more with cushions, and a folding table that brings them together to make a single comfortable bed. In the middle of the side wall, opposite the door, an aluminium sink with shelves above it. I’ll put some books there, the essential ones, not more than about ten, for something to dream on at leisure. (Guy Goffette, Partance, v)

The contingent can be grounds for a kind of comedy of self-awareness as well as a love affair with the manipulation of the observed world into language, or, in the case of Jaccottet, the basis for a scrupulous examination of the natural world which is also necessarily a scrutiny of the examination itself. If that sounds problematic it’s because it is; the tightrope walk between the observing consciousness and the consciousness of the observing is always precarious. The more self-conscious the scrutiny, the more the world, and the poem, shrivel and disappear. The sense that language disguises the world underlies lines like ‘From now let our life be told to you by birds..’ (‘Letter of 26 June’) yet it never dissuades the poet from the effort. Jaccotet’s scrutiny can produce the lightness, and light-heartedness of

Walking by the meadow today heartens me, cheers me.
It’s full of poppies in among the wild grasses.
Red, red! It’s not fire, certainly not blood. Much too cheerful, too slight for that.
Don’t they look like so many little flags barely attached to their poles, cockades that a breath of wind might carry off? or bits of silk paper tossed to the wind to invite you to a fête, the festival of May?

The extract from ‘The Word Joy’ provides a striking image for the poet’s struggle: he is ‘like someone digging through mist/in search of what slips away from mist,/having heard footsteps just further on/and words exchanged by passers by. . .’ In another prose piece, ‘Early Spring in Provence’, an austere landscape furnishes a further image of what Jaccottet wants from writing: ‘No luxury, no excess, no cushioning, nothing that dissembles or distorts: earth alone, from which all emerges, and into which all will return.’

This could function as a description of the collective aesthetic of the poets here, as well as a reminder that, for all that the title of the anthology suggests that ‘the city street is the place where the inner tension and outer vision of the poets seem chiefly to collide’, a good deal of the poetry is enacted far from what Jaccottet has called ‘l’ébranlement des villes’: Follain’s Normandy, Jaccotet’s studied concentration on the landscape of the Drôme, Guy Goffette’s Lorraine belge, Gilles Ortlieb’s Luxembourg and Lorraine.

The tendency to separate themselves from the metropolitan, as well as from the mainstream, can be read an indicator of a certain independence of spirit – Romer cites their sauvagerie or a solitariness of feeling which all seven share. Part of that cultivated solitariness is a gentle but consistent undercutting of the importance of self. The self, maybe, is like the small drama in Henri Thomas’s poem of that title which recounts the loss of a notebook on a march; it ends up ‘in the mud/black and formless’, and is accompanied by other small dramas, birds coming down ‘to peek at oats and droppings’ and pale puddles reflecting ‘without illusion/a pale November in Lorraine’. The poet’s conclusion –

and in a barn I think
about everything, and shrug.

– perfectly enacts the dissolution of the self into everything around it. The gesture is replicated in ‘Vain Rampart’ as the poet sits beside a mother and her child. Again, nothing happens and exactly that becomes the site of the self’s merging with everything around it:

in a while the chestnut trees will flower,
the three of us deep in the day,
and how many others. . .
Vain rampart
of the self
when you crumble
it feels so good
in the light.

Guy Goffette’s breakthrough volume was Éloge pour une cuisine de province (1988) and the poems taken from it here testify to a resolute belief in the significance of the small drama, the remembered provincial childhood, a neighbour’s ladder

The neighbour is dead but the ladder
still leans against the tree that with the sun
sinks deep into the firm flesh
of apples and the young raiders’ throats.

His poetry is playful, subtle and deeply interested in the releasing possibilities of strict forms. His ode to his caravan is a celebration of a certain kind of solitariness ‘I will be humble and learn with her, from the inside, how to weather the cape of illusions and. . .catch up with life as glimpsed in that childhood garden.’ Like him, Gilles Ortlieb seeks out the company of small gestures and studied concentration: the act ‘of running the back/of the spoon across the rim of the plate or soup bowl/so it won’t drip on its way to the mouth. . .’ , observing disused/blast-pipes from the furnaces’ or ‘The mist [that] has concealed the mist that hides the three lights level with the water at the café Jean le Pauvre.’ Objects come into sharp focus as they are relished for their material unshakability, as in his ode ‘to the small enamel mug edged in blue/and its metal that burns if you seize it/distractedly by the sides. . .’

Many of these poets have been translated into English before. Selections of Follain’s poems have been translated by W.S. Merwin and Heather McHugh. Jennie Feldman has published an excellent translation of Réda’s early books; Marilyn Hacker has published a book length selection of Goffette. Derek Mahon and others have translated Jaccottet. It’s probably true to say that the nature of this strand of poetry in French lends itself well to translation in English. If the impulses seems very recognisable it is not least because many of the poets are very taken with poetry in English. Réda has translated Frost, among other Anglophone poets. Goffette has expressed his admiration for poets like Auden, Larkin, Frost, for what Marliyn Hacker identifies in her preface to her translations of his poems as the specificity and concreteness of English language poetry. English poetry appeals to him, he has explained, ‘because of its grip on reality’. Hacker also identifies Seamus Heaney as a reference point for Anglophone readers, citing, among the things they share, ‘a solidity of place, and of objects, with an emphasis on the perceived material thing’.

One of the key figures in the anthology is Jacques Réda, both as an encourager and as a brilliantly adventurous poet. His achievement is too protean to be easily condensed into an anthology selection. The earlier work, available in English in Jennie Feldman’s translations from the first three books, is densely textured and richly musical.Feldman quotes his insistence that poetry, if it is to survive, must have ‘rhythm, or better still, le swing.’ He is a serious jazz fan and there is a jazzy unpredictability to his work:

To my left, the city that was a maze of stone
is now an airy monument of ash or dust
sinking without a sound beneath the weight of mist
and reappearing further off, but fainter,
like something dreamt in a fever-tossed sleep,
between the long groping hands of bridges.
And on I go among other shapes unravelling
on snowy embankments, towards gardens with no end.
(‘Pont des Arts’)

Paris is what he writes with, providing subject and technique. The poems are often grounded in the city which he explores obsessively, traversing vast tracts of it on foot or on his Solex, especially in The Ruins of Paris, which is one of the major works of recent French poetry. He reinvents the tradition of the flaneur, prowling the streets, noting and observing enough to release the stream of images and reflections that are the real core. His city is, therefore, free of cliché; he sets himself afloat to drink in the sense data of the streets and deploy it for his own ends.

The one brief sample here gives a flavour but the curious reader will want to seek out Mark Treharne’s translation of the book. The selection from his work includes wonderful moments from his wanderings in both city and countryside. whether setting out to discover the source of the Seine or catching someone’s eye as his moped slows in traffic, his reports from ‘infinitesimal drop[s] of time’ are unmissable.

Most things in this anthology are worked from a concentrated alertness to the subject in hand, from stumbling against the immediate, to paraphrase Paul de Roux. The quality of attention might be familiar to English readers, but it is the way the attention is deployed that constantly strikes, the unusual cast of the minds processing the immediate. It isn’t, of course the whole story of contemporary French poetry, or even an exhaustive version of this strand – it would have been interesting to have Claire Malroux, another Follain admirer and another poet deeply influenced by Anglophone poetry. But as a window into the work of seven interesting poets this bilingual selection is invaluable. The translations themselves are subtle and resourceful. Jennie Feldman characterises their aim as trying to recreate the ‘acoustic inevitability’ of the original and she contributes a very useful essay on the detail of the translation challenges. Both translators have flexed enough creative muscle to make convincing English poems out of the originals, but the dual-language format allows the reader to let the two poetries talk to each other across the spine. Feldman ends her piece on the translation with an image from Paul de Roux of the ‘cold and heavy bricks’ of words that are chosen and piled on top of each other: ‘In metamorphosis, the wall takes flight, each brick suddenly winged.’ Her hope is that translation might provide a like metamorphosis, and acquire wings, and this book certainly provides ample evidence of flight.