Saturday, March 31, 2007

Poetry Live & Ezra Pound




On Tuesday, 3rd April -- just a few days away, in fact -- I'll be doing a reading at Poetry Live at the Classic Studio, 321 Queen St (next door and upstairs from the Classic Comedy Club). This was arranged at very short notice -- I was originally supposed to be doing my reading in May -- so I thought I'd try to publicise it here.

It starts at 8pm. Entry is by koha. I'll be reading some new work and making some strange connections, so come along if you're curious about either or both.




[Gaudier-Brzeska, 'Hieratic Head of Ezra Pound']


The other thing I'm publicising in this post is the appearance of my article "Pound's Fascist Cantos Revisited" in issue three of the online journal Ka Mate Ka Ora, edited by Murray Edmond, and located on the nzepc website.

This article includes my translation of the second of these Italian cantos, Canto 73, which still remains untranslated in the latest (1996) edition of the Cantos.

An English translation of Canto 72 -- by Pound himself -- has, however, now been discovered, and accompanies the Italian text in the 1996 New Directions Press edition.

My own translation of both cantos was done in 1991. It's a little bit naughty of me, but I was given permission by the late James Laughlin and his British and Commonwealth representative, Pound's editor at Faber and Faber, John Bodley, to issue my translation down here so long as "no claim was made on world rights." Canto 73 you can read easily enough in the Ka Mate Ka Ora essay, but here (for what it's worth) is my translation of Canto 72, which it might be instructive to compare with Pound's own. If anyone feels I've breached copyright by posting it here I'll certainly take it down. But I did correspond with James Laughlin on the subject in 1991, and he raised no objections then):


CANTO LXXII
Presences



As soon as we start to remember this shitty war
Certain facts will resurface. In the beginning, God
The great aesthete, having created the heaven and the earth,
Volcanic red sunsets, having decked out the rock
With lichens – like a Japanese print –
Shat out the great usurer Satana-Gerione, the prototype
Of Churchill’s bosses. And now it is my turn to sing
In a half-savage cant (not the true (t)’oscano), because
Filippo Tomaso came to me, post-death, saying:
Bene, I’m dead,
But I don’t want to go in Paradiso, I want to keep fighting.
I want your body, so I can keep fighting.”

And I replied: “Tomaso, my body’s too old,
And anyway, where would I go? I still need it.
I’ll give you a spot in my Canto, I’ll give you the mike;
But if you just want to fight, scram – get hold of some kid;
Gedda holda some keed – some dumb scaredy-cat
And lend him some balls (not to mention some brains)
... As if Italia needed one more bloody hero!
That way you’re reborn – a ravening beast –
You have a Renaissance, then die one more time.
Don’t die in bed, viejo,
But to the sound of trumpets
That way Paradiso!
Purgatorio you’ve suffered
After the Surrender, the twenty-first of September,
Ze dyes of Betrayal!
Scram – go make yourself a hero,
Leave the talking to me.
Leave the explaining to me,
Leave me to sing of the battle eternal
Between the filth and the light.
Addio, Marinetti!
Drop in when you’re free.”
“Atten-SHUN”
And, after the barked command, he added sadly:
“I wasted my time in futile folly,
Loved show more than substance,
Ignored the ancients - nor did I study
Confucius or Mencius.
I praised war, you wanted peace
Blindmen both!
though I was hollow, you hated the now.”
Only in part
Was he speaking to me – nor from nearby –
A part of him seemed to be quizzing himself
Without touching centre; and so his shadow
Shaded off into grey
Until from another turn of the dial
A voice issued from the hollow receiver:
Vomon le nari spiriti di fiamma.”
Quoth I:
“Torquato Dazzi, is’t that chloroform in verse
you’ve come here to peddle –
‘Nostrils spewing flame’ – translated 20 yrs back to wake up Mussato?
Marinetti and you – a great double-act
Both over the top, he for the future
And you for the past.
Too often over-affection
Creates over-kill – all that damn’d blasting;
By now there’s enough ruins even for him!”

Again that hasty and impatient spirit
Like a messenger who’s chafing at delay
And will not stay for business of less merit
Burst in – I recognised the voice of Marinetti
Heard long ago in Piazza Adriana, down by Tiber-side.
“Come back!
At Macallè, the Gobi’s farthest bound
A skull lies bleaching in the desert sand
& SINGS
Tireless, strident, sings, & sings, & sings:
– Alamein! Alamein!
We shall return!
We shall return! –”
Me: “I believe you”
... Enough, I hope, to give his soul some peace.

The other spirit resumed his own refrain
With:
“poco minor d’un toro” ...
(a line translated from the Eccerinus;
Latin: “little less than ... bull”).
He did not cap
The quote.
For all the air was trembling, and the shade
Wavered
And, as with sounds drowned out by driving rain,
Flung phrases without sense. Just like a ship
Whose sunken hull caves in when touched by light,
I heard a rattling sigh
Of discharged breath (or on a sick-
Bed, when a man’s about to die):
“Guelph slanderers! Their weapon was it ever –
Calumny ... still is; world without end.
The age-old war’s still raging in Romagna,
Filth risen to Bologna
With looting and rapine – See horses stand
In darkies fetlock-deep as in a river,
Moroccans and such scum
Enough to rouse the bones beneath the fields
To breathe, clench fists, salute, come
Back to life, armed shaft & shield
Against the foe.
I’ve seen such dirt-bags often in my time –
Look through the books, you’ll find them there in droves
Betrayers of a province or a city
But this microbe
The Empire sold, as well as Italy!
Forlì in flames & Rimini forsaken;
Who shall again frequent Gemisto’s shrine
(A wise man surely, even if a Grecian)?
The walls on fire, the arches all are fallen
In Ixotta’s pied-à-terre – goddess & queen ...”

“Who’s there?” I cried
Clamouring to be heard above the storm,
“Is it Sigismundo?”
He did not listen, but
Raved on:
“Sooner the Seat of Peter will be clean
Of a Borgia papa than of a Pacelli.
Sixtus, too, was a son of usury
– The whole conspiracy
Of those who’ve grown so fat on scribbled deeds
Aimed to deny him worthy followers;
So now they’re bellowing that Farinacci
Has dirty hands, because he caught on quick.

One hand is dirty, but the other one
Has earned him pride of place among our many
Unsung heroes: Tellera, Maletti,
Miele, de Carolis & Lorenzini,
Guido Piacenza, Orsi & Predieri,
Volpini, Baldassare, Borsarelli,
To give you just the names of the commanders.
Clement was a banker’s brat - a son
Of usury il Decimo Leone ...”
“Who’s there?” I cried.
“I am that Ez-zelino who would not credit
The universe was created by a Jew.
No doubt I was guilty of other errors, too –
let’s just forget that
Now. Your friend & I were scammed
By the same man: ol’ Muss,
Who told me I was damned
As ‘Satan’s son’ (try swallowing that
& you’ll not need carrots to turn into an ass).
Adonis was disembowelled by a boar
Simply to make the Cyprian goddess cry.
It’s tempting to make a joke of it & say
A prize bull from the zoo or abattoir’s
Worth more, because he weighs more than a pig
(Students of Aesop’s Fables will complain
That animals can’t do arithmetic).
More harm’s been done by one false load of bull
Than all my tricks: a fig, a bagatelle!
Dig that fat ferret out of his warm lair
& see if he don’t say:
‘The bête humaine rejoices in its chains’?
If ever an Emperor sent forth that decree
Byzantium had defiled the parent stream;
His Virtue had ebbed into a parody
Of law, divided from the golden mean.
Caesar sapped not his own integrity,
Augustus, before Peter, built in stone
(The rock sustained the same authority).
‘The lawgiver is law’s custodian’
– Fought for in Florence by the ghibelline.”

Like waves that come from more than one transmitter,
The rippling voices
Fused (in broken phrases), and I heard
A skein of birds who sang in counterpoint
As in a garden
on a summer’s day,
‘Mongst whom, most softly:
“Placidia fui, sotto l’oro dormivo.”
I, Placidia, sleeping under gold” – rang from a well-tuned string.
“Malinconia di donna e la dolcezza” ...
I began
Sorrows and sweets of ladies;” but I felt
Goose-pimples rising,
pulse was racing
Like an engine,
arm and shoulder seized
As if by force: that is, I saw a hand
Had gripped me,
yet I could not see the arm
Pinning me like a thumb-tack to the wall
(You won’t believe me – who cares? You weren’t there).
And then the one who raged at me before
Cut in – I say ‘cut in’; not rudely, rather
Almost like a father
Explaining to his son the fight they’re in:

“It’s an old man’s prize, & you’re the greenest hand.
Listen to me, before I have to go
Back to the night.

Where the skull sings our soldiers
Will return, those banners will come in.”






For further details, please refer to the annotated version included in my chapbook Ezra Pound’s Fascist Cantos (72 & 73) together with Rimbaud’s “Poets at Seven Years Old.” Trans. Jack Ross (Auckland: Perdrix Press, 1997) pp. 24-30.

Much of that information is now available, in updated form, in the Ka Mate Ka Ora article referred to above, however.




[Postscript - 7-8/09]:


[I've been having some correspondence lately on the interpretation of some of the personnel in this canto, so I've decided to append all the notes I compiled at the time (you can find the text of my translation of Canto 73 online here)].


Annotations and Commentary

[1991]


The purpose of these notes is threefold: first, to give a sense of the context of these two poems in the larger body of the Cantos[1]; second, to explain unfamiliar allusions (even those which are common knowledge to students of Pound, Dante, or Cavalcanti); and third, to justify my own translations of particular phrases and expressions. The last of these is, of course, the most self-serving - but if I were to pass over such matters in silence, I would lose whatever pretensions to strict, objective usefulness this version of Pound's Italian verses can claim. I have tried to cross-reference the annotations as far as possible, but cannot conceal the fact that they are really designed to be read progressively, as a kind of cumulative commentary.


CANTO LXXII


l.ii -'Presences' = Presenza (presence, appearance, aspect)[2]

Canto 76, l.217: 'spiriti questi? personae?' (p.459)[3]

I accept Massimo Bacigalupo's contention that this title is 'a reference to the cry "PRESENTE!" (Here!) thrown out by one of its heroes ... The title also appears to suggest that these cantos amount to Pound's act of allegiance - or "presenza" - to the Salò régime' (Bacigalupo, 1984, 72). In order to reproduce this effect in English, however, I have been forced to reject such literal expressions as 'Being there' (to match 'HERE, SIR' at l.35?), but have instead taken it to refer to the 'presences' ('spiriti ... personae') who appear to Pound in his Dantean dream-vision.

l.1 - 'this shitty war' = la guerra di merda.

When conflated with the 'guerra eterna/ Fra luce e fango' at ll.31-32, and the 'guerra antica in Romagna' at l.94, and perhaps the entire struggle against 'usurers' and the 'padroni di Churchill' (see notes on ll.6 & 7 below), this undoubtedly represents Pound's view of the Second World War.

l.2 - 'In the beginning' = Nel principio.

Genesis 1, i: 'In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth'
Canto 55, ll.288-91: 'Reason from heaven ...
Is the beginning of all things, et effectu' (p.298)
Canto 74, l.76: 'in principio verbum' (p.427).

ll.2-3 - 'God/ The great aesthete' = Dio/ Il grande esteta.

Canto 28, ll.1-2: 'AND God the Father Eternal (Boja d'un Dio!)
Having made all things he cd.' (p.133)
Canto 93, l.114: '... Dio, la prima bontade' (p.626).

Terrell (1980, p.112), defines 'Boja d'un Dio!' as (literally) 'Hangman of a God'; the equivalent of 'Darn it!' in Romagna dialect.

l.4 - 'Volcanic red sunsets' = Dopo il tramonto vulcanico.

Carpenter (1988, p.638), in his partial translation based on 'a literal prose version by Mary de Rachewiltz', gives this line as 'after [making] the fiery sunset'. I have, however, preferred to preserve the volcanic (and Vulcanic!) associations of the word 'vulcanico' (fiery).

l.5 - 'like a Japanese print' = a modo nipponico.

Bacigalupo (1984, 73), translates this as 'in Nipponese fashion', which he glosses as 'a topical reference' (i.e. to Japan's role in the war). Carpenter, however, provides 'like a Japanese print' (1988, p.638).

l.6 - 'the great usurer' = il gran' usuraio.

Canto 14, l.74: 'usurers squeezing crab-lice, pandars to authority' (p.63)
Canto 45, ll.41-44: 'Usura rusteth the chisel
It rusteth the craft and the craftsman
It gnaweth the thread in the loom
None learneth to weave gold in her pattern' (p.230)
Canto 74, l.575: 'in the usurers' hell-a-dice' (p.441).

Pound includes the following note at the end of Canto 45, devoted entirely to 'Usura' (p.230): 'N.B. Usury: A charge for the use of purchasing power, levied without regard to production; often without regard to the possibilities of production. (Hence the failure of the Medici bank)'. See note on l.120 below.

l.6 - 'Satana-Gerione'.

Canto 51, ll.62-65: 'sang Geryone; I am the help of the aged; ...
I am Geryon twin with usura' (p.251)
Canto 97, l.210: '"This coil of Geryon" (Djerion) said Mr Carlyle' (p.675).

I have left this name in its italianized form in order to signal its Dantean associations. Toynbee's Dante Dictionary (1968, p.310) describes Geriòn as the 'guardian of Circle VIII of Hell (Malebolge) where the Fraudulent are punished, representing him as a kind of dragon' (1968, p.310) (see Inf. XVII, 1-27 ); and on p. 562 gives Satàn as a (rare in context) synonym for the 'Evil One' - also Lucífero, Dite, Belzebù, rex inferni, etc. - citing specifically Inf. VII, 1.[4]

l.7 - 'Churchill's bosses' = padroni di Churchill.

Canto 74, l.546: '... Churchill's backers' (p.440)
Canto 78, l.164: '... Churchill's return to Midas broadcast by his liary' (p.481)
Canto 87, ll.32-33: 'The total dirt that was Roosevelt,
and the farce that was Churchill' (p.570).

Winston Spencer Churchill (1874-1965) was one of Pound's pet hates, as a representative servant of international usury (see notes on l.6 above, and Canto 73, l.11 below).

l.8 - 'not the true (t)'oscano' = non a (h)antar 'oscano.

I have attempted to reproduce Pound's own echoing, 'in gergo rozzo' (in 'clumsy jargon'), of the sound of spoken Italian dialect: '(h)antar 'oscano' I interpret as 'cantare toscano' (sing in Tuscan). See also, in this connection, l.17: 'Pigiate hualche ziovanozz'', Marinetti's northern (Piedmontese?) dialect version of 'Piglia qualche giovanotto' (l.16); l.22: 'viejo', dialect (and Spanish!) for 'vecchio'; and l.27: 'ziorni', for 'giorni' (l.26).

l.9 - 'Filippo Tomaso'.

Canto 92, l.104: '... old Marinetti' (p.621).

Filippo Tommaso Marinetti (1875-1944), Futurist poet and publicist, converted later in his life to Fascism. Loyal to the German-backed Republic of Salò, 'he participated in the Ethiopian war and was on the Russian front for a period in 1942-43' (Bondanella, 1979, p.318). See also references to 'Tom[m]aso' at l.13, and 'Marinetti' at ll.33, 56 & 65. The Ethiopian references at l.68 are also his (see note). His death in 1944 seems to have been one of the things that prompted the writing of Cantos 72-73.

l.9 - 'post-death' = Dopo la sua morte.

An attempt to echo the effect of Poundian coinages such as 'her hands have no kindness me-ward' ['Homage to Sextus Propertius', III, l.14 ] (Pound, 1984a, p.83).

l.10 - 'Bene' = Be'.

I have expanded the abbreviation in order to keep up the fiction of an Italian speaking in accented English. Hence, too,'in Paradiso' (l.11), 'Italia' (l.19), and 'Paradiso!/ Purgatorio' (ll.24-25). See also Canto 73, l.63.

l.15 - 'I'll give you a spot in my Canto' = ti darò posto nel Canto.

'Canto', here, could mean Canto or song. I have tried to parallel this ambiguity in the Italian by introducing here prematurely the idea of radio communication ('I'll give you the mike'), intimated by Pound at ll.50 & 166.

l.19 - 'one more bloody hero' = Par dare all'Italia ancor' un eroe fra tanti.

I have perhaps exaggerated (given Pound's enthusiasm for 'eroi' at ll.127-32), the degree of disillusionment implied by 'ancor' un eroe fra tanti'. Certainly Bacigalupo (1984, p.79) dismisses Barbara Eastman's similar reading: 'in [Canto] 72 I find no "nice contempt for 'heroics' as a sort of 'folie de jeunesse'" ... - a misunderstanding, apparently, of lines 16-19'. I would, however, plead in my (and Eastman's) defence the narrator's abrupt dismissal of Marinetti at l.28: 'Vai! Vai a farti di nuovo eroe'. I have emended the - in context - meaningless 'Par' at the beginning of the line to 'Per' (the only other emendation to the text of these cantos proposed by me is 'veder' for 'veder’' at Canto 73, l.103).

l.26 - 'the twenty-first of September' = nei giorni del Settembre Ventunesimo.

After King Vittorio Emmanuale deposed Mussolini, the new Badoglio government signed an armistice ('il tradimento') with the Allies on 21st September 1943, 'i ziorni del crollo' (l.27) (Carpenter, 638).

l.40 - 'Confucius or Mencius' = Parola di Confucio né di Mencio.

Canto 80, l.189: 'you can neither eat manuscript nor Confucius' (p.498)
Canto 94, ll.61-62: 'to Mencius, Dante, and Agassiz
for Gestalt seed' (p.635).

Two more of Pound's heroes.

l.51 - 'Vomon le nari spiriti di fiamma'.

Bacigalupo, 1984, p.75: 'the hero-narrator is quick to recognize his friend ... Dazzi's translation of the Ecerinis, the fourteenth-century Senecan tragedy of Albertino Mussato (1262-1329)'. In context it serves as a neat epigrammatic comment on the 'fire' of Marinetti's 'sovra-voler'; as does 'poco minor d'un toro' (l.79) on the Ethiopian passage (ll.67-74). See note on l.53 below.

l.53 - 'Torquato Dazzi'.

Canto 74, ll.728-29: '... (nella Malatestiana)
Torquato where art thou?' (p.446)
Canto 91, ll.137-38: 'Nanni (Torquato) did 3 years with Battista
and wasn't shot till after Salò' (p.614).

Manlio Torquato Dazzi (1891-1968), was 'first librarian in Cesena, where Pound met him while researching Malatesta; he was then director (1926-57) of the Fondazione Querini Stampalia, Venice' (Bacigalupo, 1984, p.75). His translation of Mussato's Ecerinis was 'in fact published ... in 1914', thirty years before Canto 72 was composed. The quotation from Canto 91 above refers to Torquato Nanni, who did indeed publish a biography of Mussolini in 1924, twenty years before, and was one of those captured and shot with Mussolini and Clara Petacci at Como in 1945 (Terrell, 1984, p.552). The similarity of names has tempted me to infer an oblique reference here to 'Muss., wrecked for an error' [Canto 116, l.7] (p.795) - 'Mussato' as a pun on 'mussare' (to boast, froth, hiss), along the lines of the critical remarks of the 'wide-awake', anti-government boys encountered by Pound in Rome in 1943.[5] This might also explain the fact that only ll.9-35 (excluding l.18) of this canto were printed in Marina Repubblicana (Heymann, 1976, p.351) in 1945. Pound certainly admired Mussolini, but his desire was always to 'svegliar' (awaken) him to certain new ideas. See also Ezzelino's complaint, l.141, at having been 'tradì' (betrayed) by 'him whom your friend translated' ('tradotto') - wrote a biography of?

l.53 - 'chloroform in verse' = ninna-nannarmi i versi [54][6]

I have adapted, here, Mark Twain's description of the Book of Mormon as 'chloroform in print' (1918, p. 87) to give the effect of Dazzi's 'lulling' verses. See note on ll.59-60 below.

ll.59-60 - 'over-affection ... over-kill' = Sovra-voler ... sovra-effetto.

Bacigalupo (1984, p.75) glosses this line as follows: 'Like Dante, Pound does not hesitate to coin new words (as with "ninna-nannare" above); needless to say, the result is often awkward'. 'Ninna-nannarmi' is a conflation of 'ninnananna' (lullaby) with 'ninnare' (to sing to sleep). There is, however, a case for regarding the whole poem as being written in a kind of 'Ital-ese' (on the analogy of 'Franglais'), perhaps in some ways more accessible to English readers with a little knowledge of Dante than to native Italians.

l.60 - 'all that damn'd blasting' = egli distrugger volle.

'May this not be a way of reflecting how closely the Vorticist Blast of the "Men of 1914" was followed by less cordial explosions?' (Bacigalupo, 1984, p.75).

l.66 - 'down by Tiber-side' = Lungotevere.

Canto 5, l.65: 'Tiber, dark with the cloak, wet cat gleaming in patches' (p.18)
Canto 74, l.730: '... hooves on the cobbles by Tevere' (p.446).

'Pound says he recognizes the voice he heard at his colleague's home, in Piazza Adriana, Rome - a typically Poundian (and Dantesque) aside' (Bacigalupo, 1984, pp.75-76).

l.68 - 'Macallè'.

'Makkalè was an outpost surrendered in 1941 when Italy lost Ethiopia to the Allies, while the Axis defeat at Alamein in 1942 was generally regarded as the turning-point of the war' (Carpenter, 1988, p.638).

l.68 - 'Gobi's' = gobi [69].

Canto 113, l.19: 'old Pumpelly crossed Gobi' (p.786).

Unless Pound has confused the African 'Makkalè' with the Asian 'Macao', the only explanation I can offer for this odd piece of geography is that the Gobi represented to him (and Marinetti) the ultimate in deserts.

l.80 - 'Eccerinus'.

Canto 29, l.33: 'All serfs of Eccelin my father da Romano' (p.142).

Dazzi's quotation from Mussato's play at l.79 (see note on l.51 above) proves sufficient to call up its hero, Ezzelino III da Romano (1194-1259), head of the Ghibellines, included (as 'Azzalino') among the tyrants in Circle VII of Dante's Hell (Inf. XII, 109-10).[7] Ezzelino's sister Cunizza (Par. IX, 28-31) had an affair with the troubadour Sordello - another Poundian connection (through Browning's Sordello).

l.84 - 'For all the air was trembling' = Perché tutta l'aria tremò.

Cavalcanti: 'Che fa di clarità l'aer tremare' [Sonetto VII, l.2]
Pound: 'And makyng the air to tremble with a bright clearenesse' (1984b, pp.38-39)
Canto 74, ll.798-99: 'e "fa di clarità l'aer tremare"
as in the manuscript of the Capitolare' (p.448).

A textual detail often stressed by Pound.

l.92 - 'Guelph slanderers' = Calunnia Guelfa.

Canto 95, ll.34-35: 'And over an arch in Vicenza, the stemma,
the coat of arms, stone: "Lapo, ghibbeline exile"' (p.644).

Why is 'Guelfa' capitalized in Pound's Italian text, and not 'ghibbelin' at l.165? Ezzelino was, after all, a leader of the Ghibbeline (Emperor's) party and an enemy of the Guelph (Church) party. Dante and Cavalcanti were both Guelphs, and both victims of internal dissension between 'white' and 'black' splinter-groups. In the translation, I have preserved this feature, but have made it consistent by putting 'Guelph' at the beginning of a sentence.

l.94 - 'in Romagna'.

Canto 8, l.151: 'In Romagna, teeming with cattle thieves' (p.32).

The scene, also, of the Malatesta Cantos (8-11). Bacigalupo (1984, p.78) adds, 'Pound wanted these cantos to be read by Mussolini, and the insistence on Romagna (three prominent laudatory mentions [Canto 73, ll.53, 98 & 102]) may have been intended as a hook to catch the attention of the Duce.'

l.95 - 'Bologna'.

Canto 26, l.164: 'Given Bologna, 14th. of August 1453' (p.126).

A city in the Romagna.

l.98 - 'Moroccans' = marocchini [97].

Identified as 'the multiracial Allied forces' by both Bacigalupo (1984, p.76) and Carpenter (1988, p.638).

l.100 - 'clench fists, salute' = s'affascia [99].

I have had to rearrange the order of action somewhat in order to echo the pun on 'fascismo' in the verb s'affascia (though the clenched fist is more of a Communist emblem - 'gather arms', perhaps?)

l.106 - 'this microbe' = quel mezzo-feto.

Bacigalupo, 1984, p.76: 'The speaker goes on to insult "that demi-foetus" (Victor Emmanuel III) who "sold all of Italy and the Empire" (by abetting the fall of Mussolini and initiating the armistice)'. See note on l.26 above.

l.108 - 'Forlì in flames & Rimini forsaken' = Rimini arsa e Forlì distrutta.

W. H. Auden: 'Think in this year what pleased the dancers best:
When Austria died and China was forsaken,
Shanghai in flames and Teruel re-taken' [1938] (1979, p.35)
Canto 26, l.89: '... Lord Sigismundo da Rimini' (p.123)
Canto 80, l.147: 'and the front of the Tempio, Rimini' (p.497).

Forlì is the central town of Romagna (Toynbee, 1968, p.288). Sigismundo Pandolfo Malatesta (1417-1468), hero of the Malatesta Cantos (see note on l.94 above), built the Tempio for his mistress and third wife Ixotta (or Isotta). See also ll.112 ('[il] letto arcano della divina Ixotta ') and 115 («Sei tu Sigismundo?») below.

l.109 - 'Gemisto's shrine' = il sepolcro di Gemisto.

Canto 8, ll.116-18: 'And the Greek Emperor was in Florence ...
And with him Gemisthus Plethon' (p.31)
Canto 83, l.3: 'Gemisto stemmed all from Neptune' (p.528).

Gemisthus Plethon (c.1355-1450), a Neo-Platonic Byzantine Philosopher (Cookson, 1985, p.19), buried in the Tempio at Rimini (see note on l.108 above).

l.119 - 'a Borgia ... than of a Pacelli' = Da un Borgia che non da un Pacelli.

Canto 30, ll.63-64: '... that year died Pope Alessandro Borgia,
Il Papa mori.' (p.149)
Canto 100, l.186: '... das Bankhaus Pacelli kompromittiert' (p.719).

Rodrigo Borgia, Pope Alexander VI (1492-1503), is compared in corruption to Eugenio Pacelli, Pope Pius XII (1939-58).

l.120 - 'Sixtus, too, was a son of usury' = Figlio d'usuraio fu Sisto.

Francesco della Rovere, Pope Sixtus IV (1471-84), builder of the Church of S. Pietro in Vincoli (see Canto 74, l.797, 448), is probably the 'Sixtus' referred to here. He was involved in the Pazzi conspiracy against the Medici, which would account for the mention of two Medici popes at ll.133-34: 'Clement was a banker's brat - a son/ Of usury il decimo Leone' - Leo X (1513-21) and Clement VII (1523-34).

l.124 - 'Farinacci'.

Roberto Farinacci (1892-1945), a prominent Fascist politician, executed in 1945, who 'favoured war on the side of Germany in 1940' and was 'a power behind the scenes during the brief history of the Italian Social Republic [Salò]' (Coppa, 1985, p.147). ‘Mangia-foglia’ (literally ‘leaf-eater’) is a pun linking his ‘farinaceous’ surname with an Italian idiom meaning ‘to catch on quick.’ Pound's other,'lesser known heroes of the same ilk' (Bacigalupo, 1984, p.76), include (ll.128-31): Tellera, Maletti, Miele, de Carolis, Lorenzini, Guido Piacenza, Orsi, Pedrieri, Baldassare, Borsarelli, and Volpini. The only one of these surnames to come up again in other Cantos is that of Paolo Orsi (1859-1935), an Italian archaeologist (Terrell, 1984, pp.673-74) - Canto 103, ll.138-39: 'and Orsi: Anch'io sono/ antichità Siracusana' (p.736) - a no more than half-plausible identification.

l.133 - 'a banker's brat' = Fiol' di banchiere.

Canto 24, l.28: '... Ugo fiolo del Signore ...' (p.110).

An archaic form of 'figlio' (son), repeated at l.142: 'fiol d'Orco'.

l.136 - 'Ez-zelino' = Ezzelino.

See note on l.80 above. Carpenter (1988, p.639), speculates that Ezzelino da Romano 'seems to stand for Ezra himself, or some aspects of him, since he defends having "made fun of reason" [l.147], and says that "one single falsification" [l.152] does more harm to the world than "all my outbursts" [l.153]'. I accept this identification, and have signalled it by writing 'Ez-zelino'.

l.143 - 'Satan's son' = fiol d'Orco [142].

Canto 39, ll.64-65: 'Ad Orcum autem quisquam?
nondum nave nigra pervenit.....' (p.195).
Terrell, 1980, p.161: 'Has anyone ever been to Hell in a black ship?'

(Odyssey X, 502 - in Andreas Divus' 1538 Latin translation). See note on l.133 above.

l.145 - 'Adonis was disembowelled ...' = Il bello Adonide morì d'un porco.

Canto 23, ll.89-90: '... said the helmsman, "I think they
"Are howling because Adonis died virgin."' (p.109).

l.146 - 'Simply to make the Cyprian ...' = A far piangere la Ciprigna bella.

W. H. Auden: 'Simply by being tiny, made her cry' [1940] (1979, p.99)
Dante: 'la bella Ciprigna' (Par. VIII, 2)
Canto 93, l.224: 'e la bella Ciprigna' (p.631).

Venus, ruler of the third sphere (see note on Canto 73, l.23). Cunizza, Ezzelino's sister, is in this part of Paradise (see note on l.80 above).

l.147 - 'tempting to make a joke of it' = Se feci giocattolo della ragione.

In the Italian, Ezzelino is excusing himself from having made a joke of reason, and says that having a 'bull' (usury?) to slaughter excuses such a 'pigeon' ('canard' would be the French equivalent). Mere choice of 'animal' [l.151] does not make (i.e. cannot discredit) a belief. I replace the bull/pigeon dichotomy with a metaphor of weight: bull/pig - 'ol' Muss' the 'false load of bull' (Canto 74, l.6: 'the dead bullock' (425)); and Ez-zelino's tricks the 'pig in a poke': behaviour excusable under the circumstances.

l.158 - 'Byzantium had defiled ...' = Bisanzio fu madre del trambusto.

Canto 96, l.304: 'Mr. Yeats called it Byzantium' (p.661)
Canto 110, l.95: 'Byzance, a tomb, an end' (p.780).

l.161 - 'Caesar sapped not ...' = Né Cesare se stesso mise in schegge.

Canto 89, l.358-59: 'Gold was under the Pontifex,
Caesar usurped that' (p.602).

In the Cantos, this generally refers to Julius Caesar; here , however, it seems to be to 'Caesar' as an institution.

l.162 - 'Augustus, before Peter ...' = Nì Pietro pietra fu prima che Augusto.

Canto 80, ll.304-7: '... from Julius Caesar ...
who crossed the Rubicon up near Rimini
Where is, or was, an arch of Augustus' (p.502).

The pun on 'Pietro pietra' I have continued on the next line, 'The rock sustained ...', to give the necessary hint of 'upon this rock I will build my church' (Matthew 16, xviii).

l.165 - 'Fought for in ...' = E'l caso ghibellin ben seppe il fiorentino.

Canto 16, ll.21-22: 'And in the west mountain, Il Fiorentino,
Seeing hell in his mirror' (p.68).

In Canto 16, 'Il Fiorentino' refers to Dante, 'who as he left Hell could see Satan, as in a mirror, only backwards or "upside down"' (Terrell, 1980, p.69); I have interpreted the uncapitalized 'il fiorentino' here as the everyday inhabitants of Florence, Cavalcanti’s 'Gente stizzosa e leggiera' (Canto 73, l.131).

l.169 - 'birds who sang in counterpoint' = molti uccelli fecer' contrappunto.

Canto 74, l.206: 'with two larks in contrappunto' (p.431).

l.173 - 'Placidia fui, sotto l'oro dormivo'.

Dante: 'Ricorditi di me che son la Pia' (Purg. V, 133)
Cavalcanti: 'Oro, argento, azzurro in ornamenti' (Sonetto XVIII, 8)
Pound: 'And gold and silver and azure and ornament' (1984b, pp.60-61)
Canto 21, ll.87-89: 'Gold fades in the gloom,
Under the blue-black roof, Placidia's
Of the exarchate ...' (p.98).

Galla Placidia (c.388-450), Empress of the Western Roman Empire, buried in Ravenna. Cookson (1985, p.29), describes her tomb as 'one of the sacred places in the Cantos'. Bacigalupo (1984, p.77), remarks that 'Out of the chorus [of birds] ... a woman announces herself, somewhat like Pia in Purgatorio V'.

l.175 - 'Malinconia di donna e la dolcezza'.

Cavalcanti:
'D'alcuna bella donna gentiluzza
Tu non avresti iniquità sì forte,
Né tanta angoscia, o tormento d'amore,
Né sì rinvolto di malinconia
'
(Sonetto XXV, 8-11)
Pound:
'Though by some noble woman partly healèd,
Still you could not be so sin-laden or quite
So bound by anguish or by love's abstractions
Nor so enwrapped in naked melancholy’
(1984b, pp.74-75).

That this sonnet meant something particular to Pound is confirmed by the sub-title he gave his translation: '"Hoot Zah!!!"'

l.193 - 'Back to the night' = prima ch'io torni/ Nella notte.

Dante: 'Poi che ciascuno fu tornato ne lo
Punto del cerchio in che avanti s'era' (Par. XI, 13-14).

Bacigalupo (1984, pp. 77-78), interprets this as meaning 'He will, Ezzelino promises in the end, "return in the night/ Where the skull sings"'. I prefer to interpret 'tornare in' as Ezzelino returning to the night - with the promise that the soldiers ('fanti') will return (as in ll.99-102 above), and have supplied an example of this usage from Dante's Commedia to substantiate the point.

l.195 - 'those banners will come in' = torneranno le bandiere.

W. B. Yeats: 'That all are oath-bound men:
Those banners come not in' [1939] (1989, p.455)

Another attempt to find an English-language equivalent for the Dantean echoes in Pound's Italian.


CANTO LXXIII


l.2 - 'waking in the wasted air' = svegliandomi nell'aere perso.

Dante: '"O animal grazioso e benigno,
Che visitando vai per l'aere perso' (Inf. V, 89-90).

I see this as the dark, 'trembling' air of Pound's own chamber, 'wasted' by so many supernatural visitors. Bacigalupo (1984, p.78) adds that 'the aere perso functions as a metaphor of the dark days at war's end'.

l.4 - 'seemed like a cavalier' = quel ch'io vidi mi pareva andar a cavallo.

Dante: 'Forse cui Guido vostro ebbe a disdegno' (Inf. X, 63)
Canto 4, ll.124-25: '... Madonna in hortulo,
As Cavalcanti had seen her' (p.16).

Guido Cavalcanti (1250-1300) is referred to in the pun on 'cavallo' here, also at l.24: 'cavalcante' (riding), and is 'quel Guido che amasti' (that Guido whom you [Pound] loved) at l.19. Canto 36 is a version of Cavalcanti's canzone 'Donna mi Prega', whose form is again echoed here. Pound wrote in the introduction to his complete translation of Cavalcanti's poetry, 'if he is not among the major prophets, he has at least his place in the canon ... with Sappho and Theocritus; with all those who have sung, not all the modes of life, but some of them, unsurpassedly' (1984b, p.17).

l.11 - 'Roosevelt, Churchill ... Eden'.

Canto 97, l.114: 'Will they get rid of the Rooseveltian dunghill' (p.671).

Franklin Delano Roosevelt (1882-1945), 32nd President of the U.S.A., Robert Anthony Eden (1897-1977), Churchill's Foreign Minister - more of the servants of international usury. For Churchill, see note on Canto 72, l.7 above.

l.16 - 'At Sarzana I lay still' = Morto che fui a Sarzana.

Pound (1984b, p.21): 'Guido was sent with the "Whites" [a Guelf faction - see note on Canto 72, l.92 above] to Sarzana, where he caught his death fever. Dante at this time (1300) being a prior of Florence, was party to decree of exile'.

l.23 - 'Venus's third sphere' = la Ciprigna sfera [22].

Dante: '"Voi che 'ntendeno il terzo ciel movete' (Par. VIII, 37)
Canto 77, l.228: 'in the 3rd sphere do not argue' (p.472).

See also ll.100-1: 'Io tornato son'/ dal terzo cielo'.

l.28 - 'our città dolente' = La città dolente.

Dante: 'Per me si va ne la città dolente' (Inf. III, 1).

Firenze = Florence.

l.33 - 'Passing through Arimino' = Passai per Arimino.

Canto 9, ll.81-82: '... Sigismund Malatesta
Lord of Arimininum ...' (p.36).

'Arimininum' is the ancient name of Rimini, a seaport in Forlì province (Terrell, 1980, p.96). See notes on Canto 72, ll.94 & 95 above.

l.39 - 'with a German on each arm' = ch'aveva a braccio due tedeschi.

Canto 84, ll.105-12: 'e poi io dissi alla sorella
della pastorella dei suini:
e questi americani?
si conducono bene?
ed ella: poco.
Poco, poco.
ed io: peggio dei tedeschi?
ed ella: uguale, thru the barbed wire' (p.540).

Terrell (1984, 466): 'and then I asked the sister/ of the little shepherdess of the hogs/ and these Americans?/ do they behave well?/ and she: not very well/ not very well at all/ and I: worse than the Germans?/ and she: the same'. An advance in insight? Not perhaps so much as the latter passage would suggest on its own.

l.49 - 'I felt a wave of passion' = io ero ghiotto/ d'amore.

Dante: 'che di loro abbracciar mi facea ghiotto' (Inf. XVI, 51).

l.55 - '"mop up" German scum' = 'spugnar' i tedeschi.

Dante: 'trassi de l'acqua non sazia la spugna' (Purg. XX, 3).

ll.75-76 – ‘She played that prank / for love:’ = Lei dava un vezzo / per puro amore.

Bacigalupo (1991, p.18) argues for the reading ‘le davo un vezzo’ [‘I would give a trinket’] from the first printing in Marina Repubblicana. As he remarks, the revised text means ‘she gave a trinket’ (to Cavalcanti?). I bow to his superior knowledge of his mother tongue, but have preferred to play on possible alternative meanings for the word ‘vezzo’ (habit, pet trick, affectation).

l.103 - 'To see the North reborn' = Nel settentrion rinasce la patria [106].

Mussolini's Salò Republic, based in the North of Italy.

l.105 - 'In this "morte saison"' = Che bell' inverno!.

Pound: 'Towards the Noel that morte saison'
('Villonaud for this Yule' [1915] (1984a, p.19))

Wolves were running in the streets of Montmartre when Villon wrote the original phrase.


Notes:

[1] Dilligan, Parins & Bender (1981), has been invaluable in this respect, as has Terrell (1980, pp.1-360) & (1984, pp.361-791).


[2] All Italian definitions are quoted from vol.1 of Reynolds (1962); and have been cross-checked against the Dizionario Garzanti (1978).


[3] All quotations from the Cantos are taken from the 4th Collected Edition (1987).


[4] All Dante references are quoted from Grandgent's edition of the Commedia (Alighieri, 1933); with additional information from Wilkins, Bergin & De Vito's Concordance (1965).


[5] de Rachewiltz (1971): '"Sono svegli," Babbo said as we left - Wide-awake, those boys' (quoted in Carpenter, 1988, p.619).


[6] I have adopted this convention to signal a difference in line numbers between the translation and the Italian original.


[7] Information from Toynbee, (1968, pp. 77-78.) Bacigalupo (1984, p. 75), adds that 'It could in fact be claimed that Dazzi does not actually appear in the vision [as he is not yet dead], but is only believed to be present by Pound-as-hero'.



Works cited:

  • Alighieri, Dante. (1933). La divina commedia. Ed. C. H. Grandgent. Boston: Heath.

  • Auden, W. H. (1979). Selected Poems. Ed. Edward Mendelson. London: Faber.

  • Bacigalupo, Massimo. (1984) 'The Poet at War: Ezra Pound's Suppressed Italian Cantos.' The South Atlantic Quarterly 83: 69-79.

  • Bacigalupo, Massimo. (1991). 'Ezra Pound's Cantos 72 and 73: An Annotated Translation.' Paideuma 20: 9-41.

  • Bondanella, Peter, and Julia Conaway Bondanella. (1979). Dictionary of Italian Literature. Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood Press.

  • Carpenter, Humphrey. (1988). A Serious Character: The Life of Ezra Pound. London: Faber.

  • Cookson, William. (1985). A Guide to the Cantos of Ezra Pound. New York: Persea Books.

  • Coppa, Frank J., ed. (1985). Dictionary of Modern Italian History. Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood Press.

  • de Rachewiltz, Mary. (1971). Discretions. London: Faber.

  • de Rachewiltz, Mary. (1987). 'Translating the Cantos.' Michigan Quarterly Review 26: 524-34.

  • Dilligan, Robert J., James W. Parins, and Todd K. Bender. (1981). A Concordance to Ezra Pound's Cantos. New York: Garland.

  • Dizionario Garzanti: Italiano Inglese, Inglese Italiano. (1978). Milano: Garzanti.

  • Eastman, Barbara. (1980). 'The Gap in The Cantos: 72 and 73.' Agenda 18: 142-56.

  • Heymann, C. David. (1976). Ezra Pound: The Last Rower, A Political Profile. New York: Viking Press.

  • Laughlin, James. (1989). Pound as Wuz: Recollections and Interpretations. London: Peter Owen.

  • Pound, Ezra. (1987). The Cantos. 1954. 4th ed. London: Faber.

  • Pound, Ezra. (1984a). Selected Poems 1908-1959. London: Faber.

  • Pound, Ezra. (1984b). The Translations. London: Faber.

  • Reynolds, Barbara, ed. (1962). The Cambridge Italian Dictionary. 2 vols. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

  • Skelton, John. (1965). The Poetical Works. Ed. Alexander Dyce. 2 vols. 1843. New York: Garland Press.

  • Stock, Noel. (1970). The Life of Ezra Pound. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul.

  • Terrell, Carroll F. (1980). A Companion to the Cantos of Ezra Pound. 2 vols. Berkeley & Los Angeles: University of California Press. Vol. 1.

  • Terrell, Carroll F. (1984). A Companion to the Cantos of Ezra Pound. 2 vols. Berkeley & Los Angeles: University of California Press. Vol. 2.

  • Toynbee, Paget. (1968). A Dictionary of Proper Names and Notable Matters in the Works of Dante. 1898. Rev. Charles S. Singleton. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

  • Twain, Mark. (1918). Roughing It and the Innocents at Home. London: Chatto.

  • Wilkins, Ernest Hatch, Thomas Goddard Bergin, and Anthony J. De Vito. (1965). A Concordance to the Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.

  • Yeats, W. B. (1989). Poems. Ed. A. Norman Jeffares. London: Macmillan.




Further Annotations and Comments

Posted here by kind permission of
Andrew Mason

[July-August, 2009]


l.ii - Presenza

Canto 78: '"not a right but a duty"
those words still stand uncancelled,
"Presente!"
and merrda for the monopolists' (p.499)

re: the cry of "Presente": this was also the way Spanish Falangists saluted their leader, José Antonio Primo de Riviera, who had been executed by the Republicans in 1936. At roll calls José Antonio's name would always be called out and the militiamen would answer "Present!"

As Terrell notes, "not a right but a duty" was an Italian fascist slogan, in full "Liberty is not a right but a duty". Terrell also notes that Pound had this engraved on his stationary. Terrell also addresses "Presente!" at p.417 note 50 in a rather thorough manner, writing "A significant word at Fascist gatherings" and quoting Finer: "For members who have died in great exploits...When the roll is called and the unbreathing lips remain silent, his circle of Fascist comrades reply, "Presente!" Finer dubs it a kind of Fascist transubstantiation. Terrell notes that M de R thought this assessment was a gross overstatement. I have not read her original thoughts so shouldn't comment to much in that regard, but I would say that Finer has not overstated the ritual nor the deep meaning of the word in the Fascist death cult. All this to say that I am not sure that my mention of José Antonio (who I don't believe is mentioned in the Cantos - I couldn't find the mention of "José" Terrell states is on p.466) would add anything - perhaps a reference to Terrell would be more appropriate.

I note that you translate "Presente" at line 35 as "Atten-SHUN". I understand that poetic translation is a delicate matter and anyone who reads Pound's translations knows he would have been pleased with any translation of his own work so long as the message and the lyricism were intact, and I certainly think your translation of 35 lives up to these Poundian requirements. However, Pound has used the term, untranslated, in another Canto (Pound's own translation of 72 leaves in the Italian word). The term also has a specific symbolic significance to an ideological viewpoint that is expressed in Italian (and Spanish) and that may be lost by translating it as a variant of "Attention", the Anglo-Saxon military drill term. Pound's use of the term in Canto 78 in the context of an "uncancelled" fascist slogan certainly could be the basis for an argument that it was used in 72 in a similar fascist context.

At l.36 you use the term "command" with regard to your translation of presente - I have no Italian, but I did a quick internet search for a few of the Italian words. Is this what you have for grido? The (albeit online and non-professional) Italian dictionary I used translates this as "scream" or "cry", noting also that grido di battaglia is "battle cry". Given the symbolic meaning of "Presente" the term may not have been so much of a command as a cry, perhaps a fascist cry linked Marinetti's desire, after death, to keep fighting, his desire for another body (e.g. linked to the notion of transubstantiation associated with the term) - perhaps the dead Fascist wants to have Pound cry "Presente" for him, to acknowledge that he still fights after death or - at even more of a stretch - perhaps it is a reflection of the dire situation of "the cause" that dead fascists have to cry "Presente" for themselves.

l.26 - 'the twenty-first of September'

I would only add that fascists and sympathisers argued that this reversal was an example of mala fides, especially as Badoglio had initially insisted that the régime change would not alter Italy's commitment to the Axis war effort.

ll.90-93: 'Of discharged breath (or on a sick- / Bed, when a man's about to die): / "Guelph slanderers! Their weapon was it ever - / Calumny ... still is; world without end"

ll.164-65: '"The lawgiver is law's custodian"
- Fought for in Florence by the ghibelline.'

I think it is important to note that both Cavalcanti and Dante were actually of the Guelf faction ("White Guelfs") that ended up opposing papal authority.

This theme is also seen in the line:

l.162 - 'Augustus, before Peter ...' [or Emperor before Pope]

In other words, Dante and Cavalcanti were what pro-Imperial Pound would have considered "good Guelfs", e.g. anti-papist, and not beset by "Guelf calumny", and perhaps sympathetic to the Ghibellines.

ll.194-95: 'Where the skull sings our soldiers / Will return, those banners will come in.'

Although I do not disagree with the way you have characterised these lines, I think it is of note that a black flag (or banner) bearing a skull was a symbol of the Brigate Nere, or Black Brigades - units of police/blackshirt militia/fascists/fellow travelers who helped the Germans battle partisans within the Italian Social Republic (RSI in Italian), and who were also responsible for significant atrocities.

Allied bombing

A theme in both cantos is damage to Italy's cultural sites as a result of Allied action, especially with reference to Rimini (the destruction of the apse of San Francesco/Tempio Malatestiano/Ixotta's memorials within - Piero della Francesca's fresco of Malatesta was removed to Mantua for safekeeping in 1944). This is in keeping with official ISR propaganda - as an amateur philatelist (although focused on France, so I can only make superficial comments re Italy) I can note that many of the definitive stamps issued by the ISR displayed cultural sites destroyed by the Allies, with the legend "Hostium Rabies Diruit". Other pieces of philatelic mini-propaganda show a young boy beating a drum with the legend "All' armi", which also fits into the general theme of the cantos (youth taking up the 'cause'; " 109-111: "what girls, what boys wear black!"). I have often wondered whether Pound was in some way inspired by the stamps he saw on his mail, although perhaps it is more likely that he was influenced by other forms of Republican propaganda with similar content, e.g. newspapers (especially the Marina Repubblicana, as you note).

Patronage

One of the themes of the Cantos was of good patrons and poor patrons and the results of good and poor patronage, with e.g. Malatesta, Cunizza and Jefferson being good patrons (educated, surrounding themselves with the best or accomplishing great works or otherwise fulfilling their duties to kin and society) contrasted with others, like the unfortunate Italian poet (I forget his name) crushed in a well after the Pope made him a governor of an area he could not control or Mozart's ungrateful mentor. The general feeling I got from the 'fascist' cantos was that Pound may even have been suggesting that Mussolini himself had been a poor leader, turning from the radical, but fascist, Farinacci ("who had rough hands" e.g. the castor-oil king), and signing a concordat with Pacelli. Mussolini falls, his regime in tatters and Italy in ruins - the heroes Pound celebrates are not the fascist leaders but are instead the young fascists, those youths "who wear the black"; who ostensibly should have been the subject of Mussolini's patronage but in the wake of his failure seem to redeem his ideology by their very selflessness, by their rallying to what is compared to the other 'lost cause', that of the Ghibellines. Propaganda of course, but the Black Brigades in the North did attract enough supporters to trigger a real civil war in Italy.

Ideology of hate

I am not sure it is fair to say, as O’Connor did in his review of your work, that Pound propagated an "ideology of hate", at least no more so than the many Communist authors and artists of his time did. Pound may have said hateful things throughout his poetic career but I don't think it consumed his oeuvre, no more say, that Sartre or Picasso's Stalinism did with regards to their work/legacy. Pound was no Brasillach. I think at times Pound honestly believed he was depicting an eternal war between mud/darkness and light/gold in his work, and he associated the Guelfs/papacy/Churchill/Roosevelt/the Jews/the federal bank with usury, corruption and war and the Ghibellines/the Holy Roman Empire/Mussolini and even Hitler/fascism/Jefferson/social credit with order, peace, law and a sort of confucianism. It is a view of history totally alien from our perspective, but when I think about it, it probably does not differ tremendously from the political views of the "extreme" left today (pacifist in the sense that wars are believed to be the result of conspiracy theories or the cynical manipulations of cartels/anti-Zionist/anti-capitalist/anti-American and anti-British/sympathetic to dictators, be it Castro or otherwise). Had he been young today I wonder if Pound would be considered right of left. As it stands I think he was as much left as right (but I suppose this applies to all fascists and national socialists). Do you reckon I am wrong?

Any responses or further comments on these issues can (of course) be recorded here as comments - or (if you prefer) sent directly to Andrew through the link here.

Friday, March 23, 2007

Meeting Paul Celan



Albrecht Durer: Melancholia I (1514)


This is the text of a paper I gave at the Poetics of Exile conference at Auckland University in July 2003. It was an attempt to contextualise the Celan translations I intended to read out to them, without including the scaffolding of the rest of the Britney Suite.

I had a curious presentiment that there would to be a German professor present who would query my translations, bona fides, etc. and denounce me as a charlatan. Sure enough, there was a German professor there (it was, after all, an international conference). Sure enough, he did try and question my translations, undercut my simplistic view of Celan's poetics, etc.

Unfortunately for him, he chose to question one of the few expressions I'd actually rendered impeccably. And his attempts to explain that the idea of silence was an old poetic trope which went back at least as far as von Hoffmansthal fell on largely deaf ears ... I mean, who cares? Either it's a compelling idea or it isn't. What does it matter who came up with it first? That seemed to be the attitude of the rest of the audience.

There were a lot of sessions running simultaneously, so people would try and drop in for one bit of the hour, then dart off to another talk somewhere else. Nevertheless, I had a fairly respectable turnout, including a learned-looking gentleman who turned out to be one of Gunter Grass's English translators.

Anyway, hopefully this will understand a bit of what is supposed to be going on in - at any rate - the Celan sections of my Suite. It sounds a bit defensive to me now, as if I needed a lot of special pleading to justify what I'd just been up to. But that's probably a consistent trait with me anyhow:

Meeting Paul Celan

… for whom is it designed, then, the earth? Not thought up for you, I can tell you, nor for me – well, then, a language without I and without You: He, rather, It. Do you understand? They, instead, and nothing else.

– “Conversation in the Mountains”
(Celan, Gesammelte, 3: 170-71)[1]

There’s a persistent theme of meeting in Paul Celan’s work, most famously embodied in his 1967 encounter with the philosopher Heidegger. He composed a short poem a week later, still anticipating a “kommendes / Wort / im Herzen” [a coming word in the heart] (Celan, Gesammelte, 2: 255; Felstiner, 1995, 244-47). It was, nevertheless, a disappointment. What words could pass across that gap: between the rationalising ideologue and innocent victim of Nazism?

There are meetings with Nelly Sachs, his fellow Holocaust survivor, who won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1966; with the members of Gruppe 47 in 1952, one of whom commented to him “You … recited in the tone of Goebbels” (Felstiner, 1995, 65); with Martin Buber in 1960 (Felstiner, 1995, 161); with the Hebrew poets of Israel in 1969. They bulk large in his mind and in his work, but are somehow never entirely satisfactory.

Then there is “Gespräch im Gebirg” [Conversation in the Mountains] (1959) – one of Celan’s few pieces of prose, and the only one which could be described as fictional. Actually, it’s more of a fable, written in the tradition of Kafka, or indeed Buber’s Tales of the Hassidim.

It was quiet, too – quiet up there in the mountains. It wasn’t quiet for long, though, because when one Jew comes along and meets another, then it’s all up with silence, even in the mountains.
(Celan, Gesammelte, 3: 169)[2]

The language is bizarrely repetitive and teasing, enshrining, again, a kind of non-communication.

*


Good, let them talk …
(Celan, Gesammelte, 3: 170)[3]

Paul Celan (born Antschel) was the quintessential exile. He was born in what is now Romania, incarcerated in a Nazi work camp during the war, and escaped to Vienna shortly afterwards. From Vienna he went to Paris, where he spent the rest of his life, apart from a visit to Israel and occasional excursions into Germany itself.

Germany is the point, of course. The place he is in exile from. Although he wasn’t born there, all of Celan’s poetry is written in Hochdeutsch, his mother-tongue (literally): the language of the family circle. He also spoke (of course) Romanian, Russian, Yiddish, the languages he heard around him – studied French, English, Hebrew – but German was the language in which poetry happened. Always. Even when he was spewing out endless adolescent love lyrics, pastiches of Heine, Rilke, Stefan George (see examples in Chalfen, 86-87, 128-29).

And yet,
der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland
It’s the most famous line in his most famous poem, “Todesfuge” [Death-fugue] (Celan, Gesammelte, 1: 41-42). “Death is a Master from Germany.” The poem adapts the cadences of the Song of Solomon to a contrast between the golden hair of an Aryan Margarete and the ashen hair of an Israelite Shulamith. Celan was appalled by how readily this poem was adopted by post-war Germanic kultur – how it was included in anthologies, taught in secondary schools as an expression of reconciliation and forgiveness. That was far too facile for what he had in mind, what he felt about his past, the death of his parents in the camps, the horrific relationship between a totalitarian culture and a totalitarian killing machine.

*


So who does it talk to, the stick? It talks to the stone, and the stone – who does it talk to?
(Celan, Gesammelte, 3: 171)[4]

In 2001 (for a film project called The Britney Suite) I translated five poems from Paul Celan’s final book Schneepart [Snow-part] (1971). My German is by no means fluent, but I knew that Celan, as a writer, set himself almost deliberately at variance with the idiomatic cadences of everyday speech. He was, in fact, as much in exile from German as he was from Germany. His way of emphasising this was to use technical dictionaries, archaisms, bizarre neologisms: anything to get away from fluency and ease.

Curiously enough, this can put the outsider at an advantage. One’s sense of idiom is just as likely to send one wrong in interpreting Celan as that common translator’s trick of hunting through lexicons for double-meanings. It’s generally safe to assume that he means all the possible significations of any given word.

It still seems a presumptuous thing to attempt to appropriate and adapt another person’s words – especially such particular words, prompted by such extreme suffering – at such a distance in space and time, but Celan’s own work as a translator encouraged me to persevere. His actual encounters with Heidegger and Gruppe 47 may have been discouraging, but the process of translation offered a better model of “the marriage of true minds” [Shakespeare, Sonnet CXVI: “wo treue Geister sich vermählen” (Celan, Gesammelte, 5: 353)]. Osip Mandelstam, Emily Dickinson, Jules Supervielle kept up their sides of the conversation far more satisfactorily. In fact, two of the seven volumes of his Gesammelte Werke are devoted entirely to translation.[5]

I had help, too. After I had completed my initial versions, I showed them to Professor Dieter Riemenschneider and his wife, the poet Jan Kemp, and canvassed their views on the knottier passages. The end result is, of course, my responsibility, but I can’t say I wasn’t warned about the liberties I was taking.

More to the point, I felt that Celan offered me a precedent for non-cooperation, internal exile. His alienation from the life around him (he was a suicide as well as an exile) was not arbitrary, but prompted by the spirit of the age, our age of coercion and conformity. As with William Burroughs’ (roughly contemporary) cut-up project, Celan’s aim was to find a linguistic expression that was free of the infection of an increasingly oppressive authority. Burroughs cut up his sentences and rearranged them at random. Celan cut open his words to expose their hearts.

Whether I’ve communicated any of this in the translations themselves is for you to judge, but the experience of working on them, of meeting Paul Celan, has been a very important one for me. It’s hard to sum it up simply, but I would have to say that I see him less as a role-model than a fixed point – almost our pole-star – in the constellation of responses to the casual horrors and hedonism of modernity.

Notes:

[1] Paul Celan, “Gespräch im Gebirg.” In Gesammelte Werke in fünf Bänden, herausgegeben von Beda Allemann & Stefan Reichert (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Taschenbuch Verlag, 1986) 3: 169-73 – “… für wen ist sie denn gedacht, die Erde. Nicht für dich, sag ich, ist sie gedacht, und nicht für mich –, eine Sprache, je nun, ohne Ich und ohne Du, lauter Er, lauter Es, verstehst du, lauter Sie, und nichts als das.”

[2]Still wars also, still dort oben im Gebirg. Nicht lang wars still, denn wenn der Jud daherkommt and begegnet einem zweiten, dann its bald vorbei mit dem Schweigen, auch im Gebirg.”

[3]Gut, laß sie reden...”

[4]Denn zu wem redet er, der Stock? Er redet zum Stein, und der Stein – zu wem redet der?”

[5] Celan, Gesammelte, 4 & 5: one 885-page dual-text volume for translations from the French, and another of 665 pages for Russian, English, American, Italian, Rumanian, Portuguese and Hebrew poets.


Bibliography:

Celan, Paul, Die Gedichte: Kommentierte gesamtausgabe in einem Band, herausgegeben und kommentiert von Barbara Wiedemann (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Verlag, 2003)

Celan, Paul, Gesammelte Werke in fünf Bänden, herausgegeben von Beda Allemann & Stefan Reichert, 1983 (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Taschenbuch Verlag, 1986)

Celan, Paul, Selected Poems, trans. Michael Hamburger, 1988 (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1990)

Chalfen, Israel, Paul Celan: A Biography of His Youth, trans. Maximilian Bleyleben (New York: Persea Books, 1991)

Felstiner, John, Paul Celan: Poet, Survivor, Jew (New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 1995)

Felstiner, John, trans., Selected Poems and Prose of Paul Celan (New York & London: W. W. Norton, 2001)

Ross, Jack, The Britney Suite (Auckland: Perdrix Press, 2001)


Wednesday, March 21, 2007

The Britney Suite




Все поэты жиди
– Marina Tsvetayeva, “Poem of the End” (1924)

[All poets – yids]


For Dieter Riemenschneider & Jan Kemp


CONTENTS:

Both-handed




You can be a good person and still be sexy
– Britney Spears


Beidhändige Frühe
holt sich mein Aug,
dann erscheinst du –

wieviel Möwengefolge
hat deine Stirn?

Seegängerisch knattert das Wort,
dem ich absagte, an dir
vorbei,

ein von Steinwut schwingendes Tor noch,
gesteh’s der
notreifen Nacht zu.

[29/9/69]



when is it not a question of last things?
– Paul Celan


BOTH-HANDED dawn
hold up my eye
till you appear

how many seagulls stall
above your forehead?

The word rattles like surf
my negative by
you

a stone-mad swinging door
give up
too earlynight

It's always too late





About 20 April 1970, around Passover, Celan went from the bridge into the Seine and, though a strong swimmer, drowned unobserved. ... Mail piled up under the door of his barely furnished flat. Gisèle called a friend to see if perhaps her husband had at last gone to Prague. On 1 May a fisherman came on his body seven miles downstream. …

People have said that Celan took his own life at forty-nine because valid speech in German was impossible after or about Auschwitz. Yet this was the impossibility that incited him … And he did speak – more validly than could ever have been imagined.

Maybe he felt too alone: “no one / witnesses for the / witness.”
– John Felstiner, Paul Celan: Poet, Survivor, Jew (1995)




It’s always too late
when you got nothing

– Nine Days


it’s always too late
when you got
nothing
walking in the rain
or under girders

seeing in a special way
the light from
buses, passing
did I ask you?
what?

too soon, no doubt
my friend is
Wendy
Wendy Nushe’s trying to
climb out

Dark




Poetry no longer imposes itself, it exposes itself
– Paul Celan


DAS GEDUNKELTE Splitterecho
hirnstrom-
hin,

Die Bühne über der Windung,
auf die es zu stehn kommt,

soviel
Unverfenstertes dort,
sieh nur,

die Schütte
müssiger Andacht,
einen
Kolbenschlag von
den Gebetssilos weg,

einen und keinen.

[5/9/68]



La poésie ne s’impose plus, elle s’expose
26.3.69


DARK splinter echo
nerve im
pulse

the groyne above the turn
where it ends up

panopticon
it’s not
just look

the worship
chute
one
riflebutt away
from prayer silos

one none

mr darling writes to penthouse forum





Isn’t this ‘Britney Spears’ some sort of sixteen-year-old pop idol with a pretty face and plastic voice? I think I noticed a lot of 9-year-old girls on a documentary going on about how she was their heroine and ultimate symbol of everything good in life. Oh yeah, more’s beginning to come back to me ... she’s impertinently sexy, licks her lips and looks like she’s just come in from an all-night party at the local brothel, and proclaims she’s a virgin and gives lectures about traditional family values. She the one?
– Letter to the author (29 October, 2000)



mr darling writes to penthouse forum

dear forum

i think my secretary likes me the other day she was slurping my footlong yes I know it sounds a lot but she works out every morning and is now accustomed to it when i nearly came out and asked her do you like me id have preferred to use her christian name though for such a declaration and i dont know what it is take some dicktation instead ms smith i said and sodomised her on the desk
its preying on my mind
is it just my imagination sometimes when im deep inside i see the faintest glimmer in her eyes as if there was something there some kind of feeling love tenderness call it what you will then she orgasms instead
ive tried buying her things not just the usual g strings baby dolls vibrators but romantic things a bunch of flowers liqueur chocolates she takes the lot the loot beautiful booty

i dont know what to do talking to her seems such an extreme step to take and yet i fear i may be driven to it i cannot work or sleep or even masturbate to climax what would you suggest im really desperate

– Wendy Nu


Chalk-crocus




My main focus are my fans. Not some 40-year-old fart
– Britney Spears


KALK-KROKUS, im
Hellwerden: dein
steckbriefgereiftes
Von-dort-und-auch-dort-her,
unspaltbar,

Sprengstoffe
lächeln dir zu,
die Delle Dasein
hilft einer Flocke
aus sich heraus,

in den Fundgruben
staut sich die Moldau.


[24/8/68]



Poems are sketches for existence: the poet lives up to them
– Paul Celan


CHALK-CROCUSat
daybreakyour
multidimension/locational WANTED
poster vital statistics
stop

bombs
smile at you
the dent of Dasein
helps the radar
out

the Manukau
silts up the vaults

Nouvelle vague





Who is Wendy Nu?

Wendy Nu is a dreamgirl. Literally. She came to me in a dream, up near Spirits’ Bay.

Or rather, in the dream I heard other people talking about her – she never actually appeared.

That morning, when I woke up, I got two poems: not in my manner, I thought, but hers.

Later, I began to get some images of her: dark, perhaps Chinese? – serious, successful, driven – an artist drawn to extremities, and kitsch. Her obsession with pop-cult campiness (The Partridge Family, Peter Pan) is a bit out of my vein, though I can see where she’s coming from.

She came into this poem, jostling for space with Britney Spears.

Only Celan proved too tenacious to dislodge.



ISBNs should not be given to ephemeral printed materials such as diaries, theatre and concert programmes, prospectuses, etc.
– NZ Standard Book Numbering Agency Fact Sheet


Nouvelle vague





whenever &take spirite hottest
peep showeverywherebrothers and sisters
we the workersin townwe can
oobs buttsmeet ourand the poor
best friendwilld something
in betweennaturedestroy to
createnbelievabletake a
magic momentsgrip ofunlock the labs
steeringopen doorpeeps






Ah l’aThings are more alive than peoplel’Islam
rabesquesack rolling in frontn’est pas
le nuof trafficune religion
sans lasqueegee twirled aroundde doute
volupthe cassette that kept turningcomme la
till you’d had enoughnôtre

il y a
de la
certi
tude



[first published in Landfall 202 (2001): 111].

Orespark




Poems: gifts … gifts to the attentive
– Paul Celan


ERZFLITTER, tief im
Aufruhr, Erzväter.

Du behilfst dir
damit,
als sprächen, mit ihnen,
Angiospermen
ein offenes
Wort.

Kalkspur Posaune.

Verlorenes findet
in den Karstwannen
Kargheit, Klarheit.


[20/7/68]



Gedichte, das sind auch Geschenke – Geschenke an die Aufmerksamen
Mai 1960


ORESPARKdeep in the
upthrustf/orefathers

you get away
with it
like fossil
spermsaying an only
word
to them

chalkspoor megaphone

found lost
in the karst beds
spareclear

keith partridge y yo





HAIRDRESSING
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join the ranks of our award
winning Graduates, who
get the best jobs!

Limited places are left in
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Phone NOW for a
personal interview



keith partridge y yo


that other partridge
cassidy he’s the
one things happen
to record deals money
marriages childbirth
i continue to ex
ist however in
sulated from his
whining in the
flicker of a late
night cathoid tube be
getting what?
he was always up
per but now only i re
main sweet scented
fresh of face daydream
in a mirror lake
breasts pressed against
huggy bear hand work
ing working i will always
be there leader of
the pack the bus
the buns
the

– Wendy Nu

Snowpart




I am eighteen years old and I have the whole world staring at me
– Britney Spears


SCHNEEPART, gebäumt, bis zuletzt,
im Aufwind, vor
den für immer entfensterten
Hütten:

Flachträume schirken
übers
geriffelte Eis;

die Wortschatten
heraushaun, sie klaftern
rings um den Krampen
im Kolk.

[22/1/68]



Language doesn’t just build bridges into the world, but into loneliness
– Paul Celan


SNOWPARTclose-ribbedto the last
updraftin front
always gap-windowed
huts

flat dreams shave
stiff brist
led ice

hew out word
shadowscord them
round the ringbolt
in the pit

Britney & Paul

[Daniel Edwards, "Monument to Pro-life: The Birth of Sean Preston" (2006)]


What's become of Britney?

Where's that blonde goddess, resplendent in red spandex, revealed once and for all when the pyramids of Mars split apart in the "Oops, I did it again ..." video? The plaid-skirted schoolgirl temptress of "Hit me baby one more time"? The madly metamorphosing super-spy of "Toxic"?

Pop has, alas, once more eaten itself. She's split with her hubbie, cut off her hair, gone into rehab, run away from rehab, gone back into rehab ...

I guess the whole subject was recalled to me when Gabriel White asked to post "Nouvelle Vague" on his site -- it's a soundfile taken from a sequence of poems I composed back in the palmy days of Britneymania, in 2001 ...

That sequence was called "The Britney Suite," and was based on the conceit of a kind of psychic meeting between Britney Spears and Paul Celan -- the most plastic, constructed persona imaginable, a blonde American teen-singing-sensation, juxtaposed with the very epitome of high culture cool -- the tormented archpoet Celan (for more on him, see my paper from the Auckland University Poetics of Exile Conference (2003): "Meeting Paul Celan".

I guess I thought if I just put them together, sparks would fly. I couldn't help feeling that Celan would find something attractive in the sensuous simplicity of Britney's world. By the same token, Britney seemed to me to be enacting a kind of Zen self-education in the school of hard knocks as she experienced the complete breakdown between public and private in her own life.

But as I began to write, lots of other intermediate figures startling jostling for space: a motley crew of pornographers, pop artists and dream girls.

I put out the poem as a little chapbook at the time, in 2001, and for a while Gabriel and I had a plan of making a film out of it. Funding was refused, however (I wonder why?), so it's languished on the back burner ever since. Though it did go down rather well when I read it in its entirety at Poetry Live -- less well at the Canterbury Poets' Collective.

Now I feel a bit responsible -- as if life were imitating art. The baroque excesses of the poem appear to have been uncomfortably prophetic of the real-life Britter's voyage to the end of the night. It would be megalomaniac to think I had anything to do with causing it, but that doesn't make me feel any less guilty for having discerned its rough outlines from afar.

Cassandra is never a comfortable role to play.

I'd like to share it with you now, though, in any case, and will be putting it up piecemeal on the blog over the next few days. Please note that sections of it are R18, though ... caveat lector.


[Paul Celan (Romania, 1920 -Paris, 1970)]

Friday, March 16, 2007

Scott Free

[Ellen Portch, front cover image for brief #34: War]


The Arts journal brief was founded by Alan Loney in 1995 under the title A Brief Description of the Whole World. In those days it was a quarterly, with a certain number of pages reserved for each of a small number of contributors. The first ten issues of the magazine appeared between December 1995 and October 1998 (a double issue: 10/11).

John Geraets revived it in mid-1999. His first issue was a reprint of Leigh Davis's Willy's Gazette (1983), but he went on to edit eleven more issues, taking the magazine through at least three more name changes (ABDOTWW / Ab.WW & AbdotWW) before settling on the more succinct appellation brief which it retains today.

Geraets asked me to take over as editor in 2002, and I edited the magazine for the next three years, from July 2002 until May 2005, approximately nine issues (depending on whether you count the immense #30/31: Kunst-Kultur issue as one or two). In my time brief moved from being a quarterly to appearing three times a year.

I also followed John Geraets' lead in trying to develop brief's publishing arm, the Writers Group, which issued two titles under his editorship and three under mine. They are, in order:

- Alan Loney’s Reading / Saying / Making: Selected Essays (2001)
- Sugu Pillay’s The Chandrasekhar Limit and other stories (2002)
- Jack Ross's A brief Index: 1995-2003 [Supplemental Index: 2003-2005] (2003/2005)
- Kendrick Smithyman’s Campana to Montale: Versions from Italian (2004)
- K. M. Ross’s novel Falling through the Architect (2005)

Throughout the first ten years (and 32 issues) of its existence, brief's format remained relatively consistent: A4 sheets, copied – so far as possible – exactly as their authors wrote them, ordered, bound, then distributed with bio-notes and a cover. The magazine has always had a commitment to publishing technically adventurous literary and graphic work, by acknowledged (and newly discovered) innovators. Pageworks, critical articles, poems and fictional texts were equally prominent in most issues. The Writers Group, and brief, have never received any official funding beyond subscriptions and donations, so all but occasional guest contributors have had to be subscribers.

Scott Hamilton took over as managing editor late in 2005. He now cedes that role to Brett Cross of Titus Books, who will be editing the next issue, no. 35.

What can one say about Scott as editor? An immensely inspiring and stimulating writer, and generous supporter of other people's work, Scott, I think, has done fine things with the two issues of brief he's edited. His intense political consciousness also gave the magazine a new relevance. All of that is on the plus side.

On the minus side, it's true that it's taken a very long time for those two issues to appear, and that in the process our original commitment to producing three issues a year has rather gone by the board. That's the only negative aspect I can see about his incumbency at brief.

Where the magazine goes to from here I'm not really sure. We've had to scale its size down from the original A4 format to A5 mainly for reasons of cost, but there doesn't seem to be any diminution in the quality -- or quantity -- of material in each issue.

Nor do I get any sense of growing indifference to the concept of an avant-garde literary magazine committed to representing the kinds of material which you won't see in the other journals.

Anyway, once again the managing editor is gone, long live the managing editor! Good luck to Brett in his new role. I hope you continue to support him. Maybe, with your help, this most maverick of literary magazines can continue for another decade or so ...

Here's a summary of the issues to date:

A Brief Description of the Whole World
Editor: Alan Loney
No 1, December 1995: 70 pp.
No 2, March 1996: 52 pp.
No 3, June 1996: 67 pp.
No 4, November 1996: 82 pp.
No 5, May 1997: 58 pp.
No 6, July 1997: 56 pp.
No 7, September 1997: 66 pp.
No 8, December 1997: 76 pp.
No 9, April 1998: 55 pp.
Nos 10 & 11, October 1998: 47 pp.
[629 pages overall]

A Brief Description of the Whole World
Editor: John Geraets
No 12, June 1999:
Leigh Davis: Willy’s Gazette (1983) [vii + 111 pp.]
ABDOTWW
No 13, September 1999: 93 pp.
No 14, December 1999: 110 pp.
ABDOTWW / description
No 15, March 2000: 86 pp.
Ab.WW / AbdotWW
No 16, June 2000: 85 pp.
Ab.ww / Loney
No 17, September 2000: 96 pp.
brief.
No 18, December 2000: 100 pp.
No 19, March 2001: 80 pp.
No 20, June 2001: 68 pp.
No 21, September 2001: 93 pp.
No 22, December 2001: 100 pp.
No 23, March 2002: 100 pp.
[1011 pages overall]

brief
Editor: Jack Ross
No 24, July 2002: 84 pp.
No 25, October 2002: 111 pp.
No 26, January 2003: 118 pp.
No 27, June 2003: 104 pp.
No 28, October 2003: 126 pp.
No 29, March 2004: 102 pp.
Nos 30/31, October 2004: 120/120 pp.
No 32, May 2005: 120 pp.
[1005 pages overall]

brief
Editor: Scott Hamilton
No 33, March 2006: 150 pp.
No 34, February 2007: 188 pp.
[338 pages overall]

[Ellen Portch, back cover image for brief #34: War]

Monday, February 26, 2007

Gothic Reviewer review'd



In one of the six “Supplemental” volumes to his infamous ten-volume translation of the Arabian Nights (1885-88), Richard Burton included a section called “The Reviewers Review’d,” in which he heaped scorn and contumely on various imprudent critics who’d thought to question his command of Arabic. It’s very amusing to read, though occasionally a little unedifying (in another part of the same volume he put in a long essay abusing Oxford’s Bodleian Library, who’d dared to deny him their copy of the famous Wortley-Montague ms. of the Nights – he’d had to employ someone to make primitive photocopies, or “sun pictures,” of it instead. If they had agreed to lend it to him, he crowed, he would have felt honour-bound to suppress some of the more explicit passages, but since he’d had to pay for the pages out of his own pocket, he’d felt at liberty to spell out every last unsavoury detail for the delectation of his readers!)

It’s an interesting idea, reviewing reviewers. The usual assumption is that one has to be pretty desperate to care that much about what other people say, but then critics (and sub-editors) do get away with an awful lot of tosh and misinformation because of their control of the means of production. If you write into the Listener, say, complaining about any misrepresentation of your work, your letter is bound to be followed by some bland, authoritative-sounding dismissal by the author of the original piece.

This week’s Listener contains a review of Gothic NZ: The Darker Side of Kiwi Culture (Otago University Press, 2006), a collection edited by my Massey colleagues Jennifer Lawn and Mary Paul together with Misha Kavka of Auckland University, to which I contributed a few poems under the title “Tiger Country.”

The review is by one Andrew Paul Wood. Sadly, the Listener no longer seems to include notes on its reviewers, but a brief consultation of the web reveals that he “lives and writes in Christchurch, New Zealand. He was born in Timaru in 1975. He is a BA(Hons) graduate of Otago University and PGDipMuStud (Massey). He is a writer, poet and art and culture critic.” [Southern Ocean Review 19 (2001] (& MA (merit) Canterbury 2003, as further research discloses).

That detail about “living and writing in Christchurch” one might have deduced from his complaint that Ian Lochhead is “curiously the only South Island voice” in the collection. What about Justin Paton? Or Jenny Lawn, herself an Otago graduate, for that matter? So what, anyway? Do we really have to descend to that kind of parish-pump niggling every time an anthology comes out? (I fear the answer to that last question is ‘yes,’ but I’d much rather it weren’t).

I guess, for the most part, I enjoyed Andrew Wood’s review. There are some awfully nice adjectives scattered about in it – the book (for the most part) he calls “enormous fun,” Martin Edmond’s essay on abandoned houses is “pure gold,” Stephen Turner and Scott Wilson on road-safety ads are “brilliant,” and Elizabeth Hale’s essay on Maurice Gee and Vincent Ward is a “revelatory tour-de-force.”

The poetry contributed to the volume by Olivia “Macassely” (sic. – for Macassey: that’s what I mean about sub-editors; the spelling error is quite likely not by Wood at all …) and myself is, however, described as “overwrought.”

Nice word that – it has a very satisfying air of the hysterical about it which I would certainly not disavow, though I can’t speak for Olivia. He goes on to say that it might have been nice to include Richard Reeve, which I would definitely concur with. Richard did edit the book for Otago University Press, though, so he might have perceived some conflict of interest if he’d been invited to contribute as well.

I guess where I part company with Wood is with his rather “sophomoric” generalizations about the history and antecedents of “the gothic sensibility.” It’s hardly news that Ann Radcliffe, Mary Shelley, and William Beckford were influential Gothic novelists. So were Maturin and Monk Lewis. What difference does it make to his argument that “the melodramatics of gothic were being mercilessly lampooned as early as Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey”?

Why does it “make sense to attribute gothic sensibilities to 19th-century New Zealand colonial society” but not to “the present day”? Wood follows this remark by a series of (alleged) “omissions” from the book:

Art is explored, but only contemporary, and unconvincingly (Saskia Leek and Yvonne Todd, no Ava Seymour), ignoring the great provincial traditions (Don Driver in Taranaki, Laurence Aberhart in Russell, everyone on Banks Peninsula). There’s little discussion of the “Man Alone” idea, no mention of the 1984 film Heart of the Stag, or that whole up-welling of gothic-themed culture in the 1980s brought about by Rogernomics and Ruthenasia. Jennifer Lawn tries to fill some of the many gaps through vigorous box-ticking in her breathless introduction.


“Everyone on Banks Peninsula,” eh? A bit of “vigorous box-ticking” going on there, I’d say. And fair enough, too. Of course the book isn’t complete. It never had any aspirations to be (as I understand it, at any rate). Wood is more on the money when he remarks: “The book reads like what it is: a collection of conference papers – personal enthusiasms in fancy dress to entertain peers, with dubious connections to a theme and a few reprints from elsewhere.”

Yep. And? Your problem is …? True, it certainly is “a mixed bag.” But then it did originate in a conference (organized by Mary and Jenny in 2002). Wood himself concedes that “Gothic NZ is worth it for the good bits,” though he goes on to complain that “all too often [it] is more camp than Gothic.” But hold on, didn’t you yourself mention Jane Austen’s “merciless lampooning” of “Gothic melodrama” in the early nineteenth-century? How can the genre-formerly-known-as-Gothic not include an element of camp almost two centuries later?

And, in any case, if there are so many omissions, how does it make sense to restrict “gothic sensibilities” to “19th-century New Zealand colonial society”? Wood himself seems to detect it everywhere but the kitchen sink in “the present day” (especially on Banks Peninsula). Heart of the Stag may escape extended discussion (though I notice it’s listed in the filmography at the back of the book), but Alison MacLean’s classic 1989 short film Kitchen Sink certainly doesn’t.

As far as the “overwrought” accusation goes, what about the idea of describing Ian Wedde’s piece as a “whirlwind potlatch of eclectic waifs and strays” during which he “congees and salamalecs to the circle with an afterword more gratuitously stuffed with cultural possessions on display than Te Papa”?

“Congees and salamecs” – great stuff! I like it. Very excessive … very Gothic, actually.

All in all, I think Wood does a pretty good job. He’s dismissive and patronizing in parts, and lays on the erudition a bit unconvincingly in his opening (don’t forget that some of us actually know something about Gothic art and writing, and have even – in some cases – read Horace Walpole and the rest of them), but if the basic purpose of a review is to write entertainingly about the book on display, then I’d give him a solid B+ / A-.

The mark would be higher if it weren’t for the internal contradictions in his piece (trying to restrict “the gothic sensibility” to the late eighteenth / early nineteenth century, and then going on to complain about all the contemporary examples which have been left out of the book – you really can’t have it both ways). I also find criticizing a book which began as a series of conference papers for sounding too much like a set of conference papers a little paradoxical.

I take his point, of course. The book is bitty but fun, is what he’s saying. He expresses it more eloquently, but it comes down to that.

Sunday, February 25, 2007

Traffic


We all know Auckland traffic is appalling -- and it's getting worse. One of the main reasons for living and working on the Shore (at Massey Albany), in fact, is avoiding this sort of thing: the grind across the bridge. Or at any rate having the opportunity to choose one's moment to take the plunge.

So what do you when you do get stuck in traffic, creeping along behind some bozo whose idea of fun is stopping twenty or so yards behind the car in front and then gradually drifting up on them, leaving you unable even to stop and cogitate in peace?

I guess I tend to wish I was somewhere else -- either snouting around some musty time-soaked secondhand bookshop, or lying supine on a sun-baked beach (Mairangi Bay, for instance ...)



So the question is, how do you get from one to the other: traffic-jam to state of inner peace? Well, the obvious solution is to listen to the radio, but there's only a limited number of times you can hear John Tesh dispensing "wisdom for your life" without wanting to strangle the smug bastard, or to those announcers on the Concert Programme who go on and on about every detail of the composer's life before they actually allow you to listen to any music.

Bringing along your own tapes or CDs, and listening to those, is probably the best idea -- if you're organised to remember to keep the supplies stocked up. But here's my own original extra suggestion for mellow, tension-free motoring ...

[I should probably add at this point that everyone to whom I've so far mentioned this solution has reacted to it a bit like Jim Jones's congregation when they got their first big satisfying slug of Kool-aid ... but you never know, you guys might be an exception. It works okay for me, at any rate ...]

What I do is listen to poetry in the car.

"Gaaah!" I hear you cry. "No, no, have mercy -- anything but that."

But wait a second. Jan Kemp and I have spent an awful amount of time over the past few years collecting soundfiles of NZ poets reading their own work (most of which now reside in the vaults of Auckland University Library and the Turnbull in Wellington). We even put out a text/ sound anthology of Classic New Zealand Poets in Performance through Auckland University Press last year (and very successful it's been, thank you very much).



But when can you actually find time to put a bunch of poets on the CD-player during an average day? I mean really, not just that one dutiful listen you give it before packing it away on a shelf forever .... In my case the answer is: in the car.

Not just our anthology, of course (though I've listened to that an immense number of times -- not to mention its sequel, Contemporary New Zealand Poets in Performance, covering the baby-boomer poets, roughly from Sam Hunt to Michele Leggott, and due out later this year).



I guess my particular favourites for traffic jams or long drives in the country are very long epic poems: The Odyssey, The Iliad, The Aeneid. I have a number of versions of each, and it's agreat way of comparing the different translations.

Too intellectual? Too pretentious. Well, as the immortal Blackadder once put it, there's nothing intellectual about wandering around Italy in a nightshirt trying to get laid. That's pretty much the essence of most of these epics -- sex, sadism, family feuds, and lots of drinking. Life, as Homer sees it, is a grim struggle punctuated with moments of brightness, and it doesn't seem to make much difference whether you're a mortal or a god.

I like listening to other poets too, the Moderns: Ginsberg is great to crank up loud when you're cruising round campus trying to disillusion people with the life of the mind: "Moloch! Moloch!" Auden has a kind of dry charm. I like the mellifluous blarney of Irishmen such as Paul Muldoon or Seamus Heaney. And it's not long before you find yourself getting to know their poems far better than you ever did when they just sat in front of you on a page.

It's depressing to think that I can still sing the jingles of most of the TV ads which were on when I was a kid ("We are the boys from down on the farm / We really know our cheese ..." "They're going to think you're fine / 'Coz you got Lifebuoy ..." "Kiss me Cutex / Kiss me quick ..."). Wouldn't you rather din into your head the immortal cadences of Homer or Beowulf, or find yourself intoning "April is the cruellest month / Mixing memory with desire ..." instead? Okay, maybe not -- but it's got to be better than bitching about the traffic or (worse) listening to talkback.

[Editor's note (May, 2008): And here's the cover of the latest in our series, New New Zealand Poets in Performance, due out from AUP on Poetry Day (July 18) this year]:

Thursday, February 01, 2007

I like Mike



This is the text of the speech I'm intending to give at Mike Johnson's sixtieth birthday party / launch for his new book on Waiheke island tomorrow (fingers crossed):


Everybody knows that Mike Johnson’s one of New Zealand’s foremost writers of fiction. If you didn’t know you really haven’t been keeping up. His strange, futuristic debut Lear (1986) matured into the dark Faulknerian vision of Dumb Show (1996), but there are a host of other fascinating novels and stories to be enjoyed along the way – and I hope there’ll be plenty more to come.

The success of his fiction may have had the effect of obscuring to some extent the fact that Mike actually began publishing as a poet, and has kept up this side of his oeuvre with almost equal intensity. His 1996 AUP volume Treasure Hunt, for instance, is woven around the tragic 1993 death of the Chinese poet Gu Cheng, who committed suicide after killing his wife here on Waiheke island.

The book that we’re here to celebrate today, then, The Vertical Harp: Selected Poems of Li He, represents the coming together of a number of strands both in Mike Johnson’s own work and in recent New Zealand culture.

It’s a obvious truism that, like it or not (personally I like it a lot), New Zealand is moving ever faster towards becoming a multicultural society. The trend is clearest in Auckland, because it’s the biggest population centre, and thus plays a kind of Ellis Island role in our cultural melting-pot.

It’s evident on our streets, our shops, and (above all) in our schools. As a tertiary teacher, Mike Johnson has experienced this evolution firsthand (as have I in my own teaching jobs at local Language Schools and at Massey Albany).

For writers, of course, this is truly priceless material – an “international theme” to parallel the New World / Old World divide of Henry James. And what better way to signal this than by publishing this book of poems from the works of that classic Chinese poète maudit Li He (who some of you might know better under the earlier Anglicisation Li Ho)?

Each of the major T’ang poets has his English adherents. The great rivals Tu Fu and Li Po are probably the most frequently translated (by Arthur Waley and Ezra Pound intially, but then by a host of other more-or-less inspired amateurs or experts), but then there’s the beautifully contemplative landscape poet Wang Wei as well, and then – probably somewhere quite far down the list because of his perceived personal and poetic intransigeance – we eventually encounter Li He, the so-called “Chinese Baudelaire” (perhaps Lautréamont might be a better analogue, considering the fact that he died at the age of 26).

In my case it was in a Penguin book called Poems of the Late T’ang (still one of the great titles, I think), translated by a guy called A. C. Graham. I found the whole thing completely entrancing, and spent far too much time reading it the summer I was supposed to be studying for my end-of-school exams (which is one of the many reasons I bombed out so badly, I suspect. I don’t think the English examiners appreciated being bombarded with platoons of quotes from obscure Chinese poets).

I first came across Mike’s own translations when working on collecting texts for the Aotearoa New Zealand Poetry Sound Archive, an immense collection of 171 New Zealand poets reading their own work, on 40 audio CDs, collected between 2002 and 2004 in all four of the major centres (and now housed in Auckland University Library and the Turnbull in Wellington, if you’re curious to check it out). I was very intrigued by the way Mike seemed able almost to ventriloquise through this 9th-century Chinese poet.

I had, however, encountered something similar with Kendrick Smithyman’s translations from the Italian. In Kendrick’s case, it was as if the necessity to incorporate an ideal of the Mediterranean – amore, pane e fantasia – somehow liberated him from late twentieth-century irony, the corner his exquisite art had ended by painting him into.

In Mike’s case, however, Li He appears to have liberated a kind of inner barbarian, a wilder, crazier poet than traditional Kiwi mores really allow us to be (perhaps he’ll prove me wrong later in the evening).

I don’t want to quote too many examples, as I know he’ll soon be introducing and reading from the poems himself, but I’d like to make just this one citation from “occult strings” – a poem about a female shaman exorcising demons:


on her passion-wood lute, the gold-leafed phoenix writhes
as she mutters and mumbles, face twisting to the harsh sounds
picking note for word, word for note

descend stars and spirits! come
taste meat!

That doesn’t sound like Arthur Waley. It doesn’t even sound like Ezra Pound (whom T. S. Eliot referred to as “the inventor of Chinese poetry for our time”). It’s time for some new inventors now, I think: both of Chinese poetry in English, and of New Zealand poetry itself. Mike Johnson is among those brave, outward-looking pioneers.


[This is what came up when I first googled Li He, trying to find a representative image. It’s hard to feel that either poet would really disapprove]:

Friday, January 26, 2007

Pania Press and the quality known as "wu"

... Here is a piece of metal which has been melted until it has become shapeless. It represents nothing. Nor does it have design, of any intentional sort. It is merely amorphous. One might say, it is mere content, deprived of form.’

Childan nodded.

‘Yet,’ Paul said, ‘I have for several days now inspected it, and for no logical reason I feel a certain emotional fondness. Why is that? I may ask. I do not even now project into this blob, as in psychological German tests, my own psyche. I still see no shapes or forms. But it somehow partakes of Tao. You see?’ He motioned Childan over. ‘It is balanced. The forces within this piece are stabilized. At rest. So to speak, this object has made its peace with the universe. It has separated from it and hence has managed to come to homeostasis.’

Childan nodded, studied the piece. But Paul had lost him.

‘It does not have wabi,’ Paul said, ‘nor could it ever. But—’ He touched the pin with his nail. ‘Robert, this object has wu.’

‘I believe you are right,’ Childan said, trying to recall what wu was; it was not a Japanese word — it was Chinese. Wisdom, he decided. Or comprehension. Anyhow, it was highly good.

‘The hands of the artificer,’ Paul said, ‘had wu, and allowed that wu to flow into this piece. Possibly he himself knows only that this piece satisfies. It is complete, Robert. By contemplating it, we gain more wu ourselves. We experience the tranquillity associated not with art but with holy things. I recall a shrine in Hiroshima wherein a shinbone of medieval saint could be examined. However, this is an artifact and that was a relic. This is alive in the now, whereas that merely remained. By this meditation, conducted by myself at great length since you were last here, I have come to identify the value which this has in opposition to historicity. I. am deeply moved, as you may see.’

‘Yes,’ Childan said ...

[Philip K. Dick. The Man in the High Castle. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1965. 161-62.]

The quality known as wu. Pania Press books partake of that feeling also, I believe. They, too, are handcrafted from what might otherwise seem insignificant materials – a few pieces of thread, some sheets of paper – and yet each one is unique, with a unique and individual cover design.

Philip K. Dick’s Japanese businessman goes on to explain to the American Childan that ‘it is a fact that wu is customarily found in least imposing places, as in the Christian aphorism, “stones rejected by the builder.’” (The context gives this dialogue particular poignancy, but if you haven’t yet read his 1962 classic, where he imagines a world where German and Japan won the second World War, I’ll have to leave that up to your imagination).

Anyway, this post is just to signal that Pania Press’s first two commercial publications are now available for purchase. You can read more about them, and read sample poems, at the Pania Press blogsite, but I’ll just say here that:

many things happened, by Thérèse Lloyd, is a delightful and moving first collection of ten lyrics by a poet who will soon be jetting off to Iowa on a scholarship set up by Bill Manhire’s International Institute of Modern Letters.



Love in Wartime, by yours truly, is -- for me –- an unusually direct sequence of poems about love and loss. It seems a rather timely subject for meditation just now. Enjoy.



Thursday, January 25, 2007

Theresia (2)


Well, you can imagine my surprise -- consternation, almost: let's be honest -- when I got home this week to find Theresia's Christmas card waiting for me unopened. Not only a card but a copy of the latest Pohutukawa Press publication. Not only a book but a little poem, too.

Here's the poem:

is this kirihimete kirisimasi christmas?
(for jack ross)

from the green sea against the grey sky
a band of light arises
red orange yellow green blue indigo violet
which the rain erases

from the land of the living
against the world of the dying
a voice of thanks arises
for those gifts sought and needed
for these lessons in avoidance and remedies
which the refusal to accept gratitude erases

but i do not care
you are you
i am me
sing I will
'thank you again'
this is christmas!

(copyright The Pohutukawa Press, 2006)


There's a slight sting in the tail there, I fear. Maybe a hint of admonition. I guess I'd like to talk the poem over with her now -- maybe I'm misreading. But all too late, unfortunately. Now it'll have to speak for itself.

That last gift of hers also enables me to put up a list (as complete as I can make it, at any rate), of the publications Theresia put out through her two imprints (you know us academics love to make lists -- and Theresia was no exception):

The Pohutukawa Press
has published

POETRY:

Soft Leaf Falls Of The Moon (1st ed. 1996, reprint misnamed 2nd ed. 1997, 3rd ed. 1999, 4th ed. 2003). (Apirana Taylor).

nothing is as physical as a poem (1997). (Robin McConnell).

City of Strange Brunettes (1998). (Jack Ross).

dreaming of flight (2002). (Dreu Harrison).

Tagata Kapakiloi: restless people (2004). (John Puhiatau Pule).

passages (2005). (Andre Antao).

Matua: parent (2006). (Rev. Mua Strickson-Pua).

PLAYS:

Apirana Taylor’s two plays in one volume Kohanga and Whaea Kairau: mother hundred eater (1999).

SHORT STORIES:

Iti Te Kopara: the bellbird is small (2000). (Apirana Taylor).


Christian Gray New Zealand
has published

COLLECTIONS OF POEMS:

That was Then (1998). (Lee Dowrick).

Pieces of Air (1999). (Alison Denham).

ANTHOLOGY:

when the sea goes mad at night (1999-2000). (ed. Theresia Liemlienio Marshall).


Twelve books in all -- a substantial legacy.

We're planning a celebration of Theresia's life and achievements to be held at Massey Albany sometime in March. If you'd be interested in coming along, or sharing your own memories of her -- either as colleague, friend, or teacher -- please get in touch.

Thursday, January 04, 2007

Theresia

i.m. Dr. Theresia Liemlienio Marshall (1940-2007)

Once again I have to record a very sad event. My good friend and longtime colleague, Theresia Marshall, died unexpectedly in the early hours of New Year’s Day, 2007.

Where to begin when writing about Theresia?

We met first in (I think) 1992, when I was just beginning as a tutor at Auckland University. Theresia had already been teaching in the English Department there for a few years, while working towards her PhD, and seemed dauntingly knowledgeable about the various papers and their practices. She was never one to pull rank, though, and we hit it off from the start.

We really got to know each other, though, when she rang me up one day early in 1996 to ask if I’d like to help teach a writing paper at Massey Albany, the new campus which had just opened up on Auckland’s North Shore.

As it happened, I was rather anxious for a job at that moment, so the offer was little short of heaven-sent. For the rest of that semester we shared an office in the prefabs in the muddy building site which was then all that was visible of Massey’s Auckland venture (the main campus had scarcely been begun at that point). I’ve been grateful ever since for this act of kindness.

Virtually every semester since then we’ve worked together teaching Written Communication (with the odd lecture in New Zealand literature) at Massey. There have certainly been ups and downs, shifts of responsibility and premises, but this much has stayed constant over the last decade: we’ve always been supportive of one another.

Publisher

Soon after she started to teach at Albany, Theresia began a new career as a publisher. The first book issued by her imprint, The Pohutukawa Press, was Apirana Taylor’s fine book of poems Soft Leaf-falls of the Moon, in 1996. In fact, she told me she founded the press after hearing Api Taylor, then writer-in-residence on Massey’s Palmerston North campus, remark that he couldn’t find a publisher for his poems. She immediately volunteered to publish them herself, so great was her respect for his work.

The next book, a year later, was Robin McConnell’s book of sports poems Nothing is as Physical as a Poem, a characteristic piece of fine design married with powerful writing.

A year later, in 1998, she very generously issued my own first book of poems, City of Strange Brunettes, in tandem with a book of poems about the 1930s by Lee Dowrick, This was Then.

The Pohutukawa Press (and its brother imprint, Christian Gray New Zealand) never dealt in bulk or mass-market titles. There was always a steady demand for Api Taylor’s poems, plays and short stories, and for the various titles she continued to issue, mainly indigenous and Pacific Island poets (John Pule and Dreu Harrison were two I remember reviewing, but there were of course many others). They have and will continue to hold a place of honour both in the history of poetry and the history of fine printing in this country.

Writer

Theresia’s own book of poems, The Pohutukawa-Beringin Tree, was published by Ron Holloway’s Griffin Press in 1993 (a second edition came out in 1997). It’s a pioneering book in the history of multicultural writing in this country – particularly women’s writing. Theresia’s title, and the poems within, draw attention to her own Melanesian origins, and the ways in which both New Zealand and her native islands had shaped her.

Further information on this can be found in some of her own critical writings, as well as the poetry she continued to write throughout her life (I remember encouraging her, the last time we met, to work more concentratedly on her long-promised second volume of poems. She said she would. I hope the materials for such a book remain among her papers. Hers was a unqiue voice in Pacific poetry, as the samples I’m reprinting below will, I’m sure, demonstrate).

Among the prose works I can recall offhand are two long pieces contributed to brief during my editorship of that journal: "Kendrick Smithyman," in the special Smithymania issue (#26 (2003): 94-100), and a comprehensive review of Paul Sharrad’s Albert Wendt and Pacific Literature in issue #29 (2004): 93-100, where she discusses some of her own deeply-considered reactions to the question of Pacific self-representation.

Here, then, are two of the poems she published in brief (the intensely characteristic formatting is, alas, impossible to reproduce in the context of this blog entry):

yarn-spinning
(for c and l campbell)


hello officer of the law said i
on that damp night
of two twelve two thousand and one,
what have i done now?
alright – the truth is that the
commander
of her majesty’s navy
requested the pleasure of my company
to dine with his chief aboard the frigate.

the drinkies were just starting to make merry
when the chief’s sister drove us all off
to a brainstorming tour of the garden of eden where
our raconteur friend rendered clusters of insight into vanuatu-phlegm where
our story-teller cobber strung a rough sketch of singapore-sterility where …
our balladeer mate sang of jakarta-muddle
in polished final version, however, stifling bush-poetry vitality
altogether
frustrating my public tendency
to locate expectation of cultural conduct
in place of birth.

the air of confusion refused to clear
when we sat down to dinner at last
i ploughed into the kebab
while others were still serving
(and my parents rolled over in their grave)
i shouted
i honked
my appreciation thrice
nevertheless at the close
now i am on my way straight home of course.

it was anything but straight?
oh well - at least allow me my turn to say
"cobbers mates and friends
kia ora thank you for a whale of a time –
have a riot of delectable diversions at christmas!"
before you lock me up for the night.

[brief #27 (2003): 61-62]


harbour-bridging


into the shade of seagulls
one sparrow dived to
snatch a crumb or two from
under her eyeshadows

into the rays of sunrise
many powerpoles cast a track to
race a railfence or two alongside
the shadow of her eyes

in the shades and shadows
of bread and buttering
peace worn to a shadow
words catching at shadows,
a delicate shade of meaning
not afraid of its own shadow
she is a shade better today
may her shadow never grow less


[brief #30 (2004): 70].


Theresia Marshall was a subtle and painstaking scholar (her PhD work indexing the New Zealand contributors to Australian periodicals in the early twentieth century has already proved invaluable to more than one research project since), a gifted poet, an inspired teacher and a generous and insightful publisher.

I’ll miss her very much. So will all the hundreds of students whose lives she touched at Massey and elsewhere.

One of my last memories of her is her childlike delight in being taken out to a surprise lunch by this semester’s writing students. They knew she was something special. I hope the rest of us appreciated her enough while we had her.

One last story to conclude on:

One of Theresia’s jobs was working as Academic Director for a Language School in Newmarket. One day, whilst walking down a sidestreet there, she was pelted with eggs by some pakeha schoolboys, who shouted that she should "go home."

Most of us would be pretty upset by such an experience. Theresia, however, took note of the uniforms they were wearing, tracked down the school they came from, went there, demanded to see pictures of the pupils, found the faces of the two boys, had them hauled into the headmaster’s office, forced an apology from them, and made them acknowledge their shame.

That’s the kind of courageous, resourceful person that she was. She wasn’t content to accept, fatalistically, that that’s the kind of country we’re living in now.

Peace and love to you, Theresia. We won’t forget you -- ever.