Poetry – Page 13 – Alice-Catherine

Poetry at the Post: Sir Gawain and the Green Knight in 101 tweets by Eric Weiskott

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, as translated by A.S. Kline

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (from original manuscript, artist unknown)

Soon as the siege and assault had ceased at Troy,
the burg broken and burnt to brands and ashes,
the traitor who trammels of treason there wrought
was tried for his treachery, the foulest on earth.

Last year while reading Beowulf and googling everything I could find on the topic, I landed on a “tweet translation” by Stanford medievalist (and “text technologies”) researcher Elaine Treharne, who neatly compressed Beowulf into 100 tweets( #BEOW100) as a way of engaging her students in a look at “Beowulf from Then ’til Now.”

Intrigued by Treharne’s endeavor, I attempted to replicate her task by tweeting Song of Roland in 291 tweets (#SOR291). It was tedious and half way through, I almost gave up. I was constantly frustrated by forcing meaty text into 140 characters yet the process gave me an inside look into this medieval classic and made me understand how difficult it is to create a “really good translation.”

So, I thought I was done with all of this “tweeting the classics stuff,” but via the marvels of the small world over the net, I was connected with medieval specialist Eric Weiskott who now plans to continue the “tweetization’ of medieval texts with his “translation” of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. Look for #SG101 in the very near future.

Lady Bertilak at Gawain's bed (from original manuscript, artist unknown) — Lady Bertilak at Gawain’s bed (from original manuscript, artist unknown)

Having never read this 14th century chivalric romance. I’ll be adding Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, to the reading list in The Global Reading Group. Send me a note if you’d like to join. And, yes, we will be looking at Weiskott’s translation along with A. S. Kline’s and others. It should be a fun read!

And when this Britain was built by this baron rich,
bold men were bred therein, of battle beloved,
in many a troubled time turmoil that wrought.

Poetry at the Post: The Reality of Tropical Depressions by Adrian Castro, or Feeling Dreary in Texas

The Reality of Tropical Depressions
BY ADRIAN CASTRO

Let’s not wrestle with water
anymore—

It’s been a dreary winter—even my flowers are droopy so I went on a hunt for a poem—something to get me out of my funk. I’ve discovered that there is a poem for every situation. Someone else has already been there, felt that and today it was the poet Adrian Castro. Yes, things could be worse. I could be lying in the knot of a tropical depression.

“The Reality of Tropical Depressions” captured my attention. I liked its tempo, its progression, its innovative use of language. It made me want to find the book, read more. (Handling Destiny, Coffee House Press, 2009)

tip yr head at the orange sky blue lightning
partially our rainbow

and tonight will be “O.K./ after all.”

Here’s to the sun and flourishing flowers! I am so ready!

A flower in Delhi, India January 2015 photo credit: John Jennings — A flower in Delhi, India
January 2015
photo credit: John Jennings

Poetry at the Post: The Indian Quarterly—Sudeep Sen

Paper T[r]ails by Sudeep Sen

Paper dreams within the cover of a book,
book binds itself with the glue of a spine,

spine weaves together—dovetailed
by the grace of words—words of passion,

India is well—for a first time visitor—indescribable. Somehow, I still cannot put my brief two-week visit to Northern India into perspective. The focus of the trip was the ZEE Jaipur Literature Festival. Billed as the largest free literary festival on earth, the JaipurLitFest 2015 may have lived up to its hype with 300 authors, 140 musicians and 245,000 recorded footfalls over five days.

The crowds were intense—especially as the week wore on. It was nearly impossible to push through the cross paths on the grounds of the Hotel Diggi Palace at midday—or to find a seat at one of the sessions. Yet, if you went early in the morning, the queue for chai-in-small red-earthen-cups was short and you could grab a spot somewhere at one of the 10 venues. And, who you might find seated next to you could be surprising-from an economic advisor to Prime Minister Modi to a graduate student from LA studying Renaissance trade routes in India as international visitors were represented from over 50 countries!

Sometimes the best part of a trip is what you discover when you get back home. That’s what happened to me. After decompressing from the 31-hour journey from Jaipur to Austin, I discovered my complimentary copy of The Indian Quarterly.
This is a beautifully produced literary and cultural magazine full of essays, art, fiction, poetry, photo essays. My favorite part is discovering new poems and poets, such as Paper T[r]ails by Sudeep Sen

Paper dreams in stacks, between covers,

among notes left surreptitiously
between pages for someone else to read.

6 Things I Learned from Retelling The Song of Roland in 291 Tweets #SOR291

I was fascinated by the story of Stanford medievalist (and “text technologies”) researcher Elaine Treharne who compressed Beowulf into 100 tweets. #Beowulf100

Could I do the same with another medieval epic, The Song of Roland? Well, I decided to try. I based my tweeted version on the 1963 prose translation by poet W. S. Merwin. Instead of 100 tweets, I opted for 291, which corresponds to the 291 laisses, or stanzas typically found in medieval French literature, specifically French epic poetry.

I had a time frame—one month from start to end—and although I took a two week break from tweeting while in India, I actually did complete the project.

So what did I discover in all that tweeting?

1. The Song of Roland is repetitive. For example, there’s the question of whether or not to blow the horn.

LXXXIV Roland, for God’s sake, blast your horn! cries Oliver. ‪#SOR291

LXXXV Blast your horn! No! I will not be shamed! says Roland. #SOR291

LXXXVI The horn! The horn! Oliver begs once again. Roland replies I am eager for battle! #SOR291

LXXXVII No more talk of horns! cries Roland. We will meet the enemy head on. #SOR291

Or take the fainting. Roland faints; he is revived; he faints again. Next Charles the King faints a few times. So does the Archbishop. You get the point.

But, of course, this all makes sense because The Song of Roland is a chanson de geste, or “song of deeds” and songs tend to include repetitive lyrics or refrains.

2. The Song of Roland is brutal. Hand to hand combat with halberds and swords is bloody. It is not pretty. War is tough and this is a book about war.

CVII Oliver draws his sword and slices Justin of Val Ferree. #SOR291

CVIII More Saracens are split open by the French. #SOR291

3. The Song of Roland is a propaganda piece. Written a few hundred years after the time of Charles the Great, or Charlemagne, it plays fast and loose with the historical facts and, instead, gears its message towards recruitment for the Second Crusade standing firmly on the side of the Christians. Mountjoy!

4. The Song of Roland is a book about men. The only women (Alde and the Queen of Spain) who appear on the stage briefly are but paper dolls in this story of men.

CCLXVIII Alde, the one promised, learns of Roland’s death. She dies rather than take up with another. #SOR291

5. The Song of Roland is not The Iliad. Both books are books of war and are full of nasty killings—thousands upon thousands of young men being slaughtered in hand-to-hand combat but The Song of Roland lacks the comedic interludes from the soap-opera drama of the Greek gods. There is, however, one similarity in that both Zeus and God interfere in the affairs of the mortals and ultimately influence the outcomes of the wars.

5. The Song of Roland should be called The Song of Charles the King. It is Charles who takes the journey and returns home a changed man. In the end, Charlemagne realizes he is merely a puppet for God’s war on the pagans. Therefore, Charles not Roland fits the mold of the epic hero.

CCXCI The night darkens. Gabriel appears with a call to arms. Oh God, laments Charles the king, my life is a burden. The End. #SOR291

291 tweets is a lot of tweets. Would I do it again? Probably not, but maybe.

Poetry at the Post: Reading the Tea Leaves

Tea-Strainer
BY JOYELLE MCSWEENEY

-keep, un-sibyl; if the soul
Has the weight of a swallow

This poem is so lovely the way it begins—not with the oracular women of ancient Greece but with the hiss of the sibilant “s’s.”

We think of the tea leaves and contemplate the future yet “Wait,” we say, as we remind ourselves that the title of the poem is “Tea-Strainer” which evokes what remains—or that that was “formerly, our future.”

What is our future? I just know for me it is personally BIG. It must be because I think of the future a lot—although usually in the sense of worry and woe and not with the buoyancy of hope and excitement.

McSweeney’s poem reminds me of the importance of the moment of living—that the writing of this post will soon be part of my past—as soon will be my trip to India.

I N D I A! but somehow as I get ready to begin the journey today, the future does feel BIG.

#ZEEJaipurLitfFest #India2015

Poetry at the Post: The Travels of an Accordion

Урок по акордеон * by Alice-Catherine Jennings, as translated from the English by Dimana Ivanova

Те се вмъкнаха в ретро колата и седнаха на предните й места.

Това беше времето, което прекарваха заедно всяка

Oaxaca skyline photo credit: John Jennings — Oaxaca skyline
photo credit: John Jennings

To see your work in print in your own language is pretty great but to see it transformed into another language is totally awesome.

“Accordion Lesson” began as a response to a prompt: ‘Write something from your childhood.” Uh oh! I really did not want to walk down the stairs to that dark basement of memories yet I felt committed to the exercise.

In Oaxaca, Mexico to study Spanish, I was feeling removed from my life in the States, and even more so from my life as a child growing up in Ohio. I was stumped. One morning on my way to the university, I found a connection—the acordeonistas of Oaxaca.

Yes, I admit it. I played an accordion as a child—for about 5 years. My accordion was big, emerald green with a tiny diamond in the center to mark the middle C. I was a tall, skinny kid and the accordion overwhelmed my body.

My green accordion has traveled far via this poem—from Oaxaca to publication in Ireland and south to Bratislava, where my translator, Dimana Ivanova, currently lives. Dimana, is not only a scholar and translator but also a poet. Here are the opening lines of her lovely poem “Come.” You can find the full poem is on her website.

Come by Dimana Ivanova

Translated from Bulgarian by Katerina Stoykova-Klemer

Come and enter my soft sorrow,

with a velvet tail of silver!

Enter me like a gray fox,

enter and run tenderly on my flesh,

*”Accordion Lesson” was first published in Boyne Berries, March 2014

Accordion Lesson by Alice-Catherine Jennings

They slip into the front seat of the station

wagon. This is their time together

Poetry at the Post: Should I Get an MFA?

Workshop
BY BILLY COLLINS
I might as well begin by saying how much I like the title.
It gets me right away because I’m in a workshop now

Poetry Workshop outside Galway, Ireland Photo: Maria Hofman

Now that I have an MFA in Creative Writing, writer friends have asked, “Should I get one too?”

Well, I can’t answer that question as getting an MFA is a personal decision based on one’s objectives, needs—and financial resources. But—if you have already decided to take the plunge and commit yourself to 2-4 years of demanding work then Spalding University’s MFA program may be the one for you.

But what I’m not sure about is the voice,
which sounds in places very casual, very blue jeans,…

One of the reasons you may not have applied to an MFA program yet is that you are nervous about the “workshop experience.” I know I was but “Serious critique doesn’t have to hurt. At Spalding University, you’ll find a top-tier low residency MFA program that celebrates creativity and community, not competition. The program offers real intellectual stimulation in a supportive environment while giving writers the tools to make writing fresher, richer, more uniquely their own. There’s no such thing as a “Spalding voice.” It’s your voice, and at Spalding, it will be heard and read.”

Four years ago I became a member of the Spalding MFA family— a very large family indeed! Not only am I now connected to all of the incredibly talented and caring staff, faculty and fellow students but also to an alumni group over 500 writers strong. In addition, because I elected to do my residencies abroad, I have poet/writer friends around the world—and one of them is currently translating a selection of my poems into Bulgarian!

Poets in Paris Photo courtesy of Stephen Woodward

Residencies abroad? Yes! For me, a global nomad, this was a compelling reason to consider a Spalding MFA. At Spalding, you have the choice to attend your residencies in Louisville, Ky or abroad—or do a combo of the two. During my years at Spalding, I traveled to Rome, Tuscany, Paris, Dublin, Galway, Prague and Berlin. I actually graduated in Berlin! How cool is that?

Graduating class Summer 2014 Spalding MFA in Writing. A biergarten in Dresden, Germany Photo courtesy of Karen Chronister

But the best part is that in actuality you never really graduate as you can continue to connect with the Spalding family with opportunities for post graduate study, homecoming in Louisville, and even travels with the program as an alumn.

In 2015, Spalding’s summer residency will be in Athens and Crete, Greece.

So-what are you waiting for?

The application deadline for spring and summer is February 1. Holy Ouzo! Get that application started today!

You can email: mfa@spalding.edu for more information. Or contact me at alicecatherinej@gmail.com.

You never know—we may meet up this summer in Greece. I hope so! First ouzo is on me!

But then there’s that last stanza, my favorite.
This is where the poem wins me back,

Poetry at the Post: “At the Rodin Museum” by Tishani Doshi

AT THE RODIN MUSEUM by Tishani Doshi

Rilke is following me everywhere

with his tailor-made suits

and vegetarian smile.

Portrait of Rilke by Paula Modersohn-Becker. 1906.

At this exact moment next week, I will be in the sky on my way to India. YES! I N D I A!

Just the thought of India causes a wave of emotions that simulates the flow of the country’s name as it moves from the back of the throat to the tongue and palette and ends with the AH as it floats out the mouth. AH INDIA!

I’ll be traveling with a group of 15 other writers and the meat of our 10 day trip is The Jaipur Literary Festival. Billed as the “largest FREE literary festival on earth,” there will be close to 300 speakers, thousands of attendees, events in tents and gardens—and time for tea! (Tea time is at 4:30 pm)

In sorting through the list of speakers, I discovered Tishani Doshi—a Chennai-born poet, author, journalist and dancer.

Her poetry is inspired, important and full of the unexpected. There is always the element of surprise—as in her poem “At the Rodin Museum.” It took me a couple of reads to realize that it was the poet Rilke following the poet speaker and not the artist Rodin.

Why Rilke at the Rodin? I’m not sure but I do know the two had a connection—in fact, the reason for Rilke’s first trip to Paris in 1902 was to write a monograph on Rodin.

He sees how I’m a giant piece

of glass again, trying

to catch the sun

in remote corners of rooms,

mountain tops,….

The Kedar Range of the Greater Himalayas rises behind Kedarnath Temple (Indian state of Uttarakhand), which is one of the twelve jyotirlinga shrines. Photo by Kaustabh CC by S.A. 3.0 — The Kedar Range of the Greater Himalayas rises behind Kedarnath Temple (Indian state of Uttarakhand), which is one of the twelve jyotirlinga shrines.
Photo by Kaustabh CC by S.A. 3.0

Poetry at the Post: Born on a Tuesday in Albania

“Negative Space” by Luljeta Lleshanaku as translated by Ani Gjika

I was born on a Tuesday in April.
I didn’t cry. Not because I was stunned. I wasn’t even mad

The Palace of Culture of Tirana whose first stone was symbolically laid by Nikita Khrushchev in 1959. Photo by Jeroen CC by SA 3.0 — The Palace of Culture of Tirana whose first stone was symbolically laid by Nikita Khrushchev in 1959.
Photo by Jeroen CC by SA 3.0

Tuesday’s child is full of grace but a Tuesday child is also a worrier. At least I am—have always been. Since childhood, I have had my worry dolls all lined up in a row. When I knock one down, another one pops up. I feel that it must be a condition cosmologically acquired as in reality I had little reason to be unsettled as a child. So why did I wake up mornings feeling bile in my throat, panic in my breath?

1968. At the dock, ships arriving from the East
dumped punctured rice bags, mice
and the delirium of the Cultural Revolution.

Luljeta Lleshanaku, who was born in Albania in 1968, had a reason to be anxious. A young girl coming of age during the Stalinist dictatorship of Enver Hoxha lived a different reality than mine.

In LLeshanaku’s poem, “Negative Space,” we have the opportunity to enter ever so slightly a window into the Albania of the 70’s and 80’s. We can visualize the “men in uniform” clearing out the church; the “portrait of the dictator, puffing smoke from its temples;” Halil’s “eight children” who entertained “themselves carrying famine on their shoulders;” and the man in prison who writes “I am well . . .” and “if you can, please, send me a pair of woolen socks”.

Yet, within these confines, there is the push by the poet against her fate and a search for the spirit of the goddess Athena “wearing a pair of flip flops and an owl on top of a shoulder.”

This is a richly-layered poem. You can listen to a few more Lleshanaku’s poems here:

Poetry at the Post: Out of the Darkness—Albania

“Perhaps the Last Encounter With the Moon” by Visar Zhiti, as translated by Robert Elsie

I fooled the guards tonight
When they were doling out supper, that sordid soup,
Because I saw the moon….

Statue of Asclepius Museum of Epidaurus Theatre. Photo by Michael F. Mehnert. — Statue of Asclepius
Museum of Epidaurus Theatre.
Photo by Michael F. Mehnert.

If Asclepius—the god of medicine— is willing, my wrist will soon be released from its splint prison. Yes, prison.

Low and grounded—hellish for a nomad—I’ve been thinking a lot these past couple months about constraints of freedom—external as well as internal yet, of course, my seven weeks of being inconvenienced by a broken wrist is microscopic compared to the seven years of harsh imprisonment experienced by the Albanian poet, Visar Zhiti—a poet I discovered yesterday at Malvern Books in Austin.

Born in 1952, Zhiti was arrested on November 9, 1979, for his poetry which was seen as anticommunist and “interpreted as having blackened socialist reality.” After five months in solitary confinement, he was tried and sentenced to up to thirteen years imprisonment and sent to concentration camps in the northern mountain region of Albania.

During his time in solitary, Zhiti managed to write in his mind and commit to memory 100 poems and then he wrote more—even in the harshest conditions, such as in the “living hell of the copper mines at Spaç.”

Zhiti chose to come out the darkness through things small
—a glimpse of a moon,
a leaf, a bird,
a rainbow..

If we look, there is light.

Today there will be one more minute of daylight than yesterday.

The deep darkness of the winter solstice has ended.

Legendary darkness and light, magic luminosity
Like a little cosmos,
ephemeral.
of hope.

Zhiti Visar. The Condemned Apple: Selected Poetry. Trans. Robert Elsie. Green Integer, 2005.

Category: Poetry