Poetry Readings VIII: Stef Grassi's Frosty Trap

This fragment is from the notebook of Stefania Grassi, a contemporary tuscan poet, from her 2006 visit to Russia. It was not intended for publication, at least in this preliminary form, but I find it nonetheless extremely powerful as it is, a speck of burning heat in the midst of Moscow's frost.

A minimal metrical editing has been done by myself.

TRAPPOLA

Sapesse

la neve
ricalcare

la striscia

di desideri

non formulati
E il fuoco
starmi

dentro

con meno

danno.
Preparerei

io stessa
cumuli

di carta
per farlo

divampare

Ingoiando

calore liquido
dalla bocca

finalmente

aperta.

Ma troppo

a lungo
è stato

freddo
per poter

sciogliere

i capelli
e vedere
ciò che

stavo

guardando.

*******************************************

TRAP

If only the snow knew

to trace the footprints

of unformulated desires

And the fire follow me

with less damage.

I would prepare

myself

heaps of papers

'to make it blaze

Swallowing

liquid heat

from the mouth

finally open.

But all too long

it has been cold

to untie

my hair

and see

what

I

was

watching

(translation by PolyMathicus 2008)

Stefania Grassi retains all the rights of the above. No copy or redistribution is allowed without explicit permission of the author. She can be contacted at her blog Aobliquo.

Poetry Reading VI: From Daumal to Pradal

Rene' Daumal was no minor fellow: in his brief life he managed to be a mountain climber, a writer, an orientalist, a poet, and most important of all, a Truth Seeker.

Recently I have found a small poem of his which left an indelible impression when I first read it, years ago. Here it is:

Je suis mort parce que je n’ai pas de désir,

Je n’ai pas de désir parce que je crois posséder,

Je crois posséder parce que je n’essaye pas de donner.

Essayant de donner, on voit qu’on n’a rien,

Voyant qu’on n’a rien, on essaye de se donner,

Essayant de se donner, on voit qu’on n’est rien,

Voyant qu’on n’est rien, on désire devenir,

Désirant devenir, on vit..."

*************************

I have died because I do not have desires,

I do not have desires because I think that I own,

I think that I own because I do not try to give.

Trying to give, one see that one has nothing,

Seeing that one has nothing, on tries to give oneself,

Trying to give oneself, one seer that he is nothing,

Seeing that he is nothing, one desires to become,

Desiring to become, one lives...

(poor translation is mine)

*********************************

Now comes the funny part: after I posted it somewhere on the Social Web, Caroline Pradal, a french artist and a contributing member of AristoKracy, wrote this small poem in reply (she of course retains the copyright of this delicious creature), which I found witty and lovely (and I am sure Daumal, were he still alive, would forget her little "impertinence"):

Je suis en vie parce que je n'ai que des désirs,

J'ai des désirs parce que je les possède,

Je les possède parce que je les donne.

Essayant de donner, on voit que l'on a tout,

Voyant qu'on a tout, on essaye de ne rien donner,

Essayant de ne rien donner, on voit que l'on est Tout.

Voyant que l'on est Tout, on ne désire plus Etre,

Désirant ne plus Etre, on meurt...

***********************************

I am alive because I have only desires,

I have desires because I own them,

They are mine because I give them.

Trying to give, you see that you have everything

Seeing that you have everything, you try not to give

Trying not to give, you see that you are All.

Seeing that you are All, it no longer wants to Be,

Desiring not to Be, you die ...

(translation by Caroline Pradal, all rights reserved)

Poetry Readings V: Lispector's Dangerous Clarity

Scouring Youtube for a recitation of Clarice Lispector 's A dangerous Clarity I found these two videos. Which one to choose? The first one energetic, vigorous, almost dry, the second more intimistic, introspective, refleshingly humid. I feel a tad like Buridan's ass. Well, there is a way out: I shall not choose. They are both right. A poem, a real one, has many identities, it supports an almost endless number of interpretations. A poem is reborn each time is recited. Always the same, always different.

Hear the voice of the most dangerous clarity.

A Lucidez Perigosa

Estou sentindo uma clareza tão grande
que me anula como pessoa atual e comum:
é uma lucidez vazia, como explicar?
Assim como um cálculo matemático perfeito
do qual, no entanto, não se precise.
Estou por assim dizer
vendo claramente o vazio.
E nem entendo aquilo que entendo:
pois estou infinitamente maior que eu mesma,
e não me alcanço.
Além do que:
que faço dessa lucidez?
Sei também que esta minha lucidez
pode-se tornar o inferno humano
- já me aconteceu antes.
Pois sei que
- em termos de nossa diária
e permanente acomodação
resignada à irrealidade -
essa clareza de realidade
é um risco.
Apagai, pois, minha flama, Deus,
porque ela não me serve para viver os dias.
Ajudai-me a de novo consistir
dos modos possíveis.
Eu consisto,
eu consisto,
amém.

my translation:

The Dangerous Lucidity

I am feeling a clarity so great
that erases me as a real and common person:
it is an empty clarity, how to explain?
like a perfect mathematical calculation
which, however, is not needed.
I am as, it were,
seeing clearly the void.
Nor do I understand what I see
for I am infinitely greater than me
and I do not reach myself.
Besides:
what do I do with this clarity?
I also know that this clarity of mine
can turn into a human hell
- it happened to me already-
Thus I know that
- in terms of our daily
and permanent arrangements
resigned to unreality-
this clarity of reality
is a risk.
Quench, God, my flame
for it doesn't help me to live the days.
Help me to consist
of the possible modes.
I consist,
I consist,
amen.

Poetry Readings IV: Gerard De Nerval's Divine Enchantress

Recently I have been visiting, after so many years (too many, alas!), my native homeland, la bella Italia, and have drank once more the heady cocktail of life that Toscana offers to all. In a brief stop from my restless motorcycle rides up and down the Apuan Alps, I was glancing into the greenery of the Mediterranean landscape, and all of a sudden the first verse of Nerval's Myrtho resounded like a hypnotic melody from a never forgotten past:

MYRTHO

Je pense à toi, Myrtho, divine enchanteresse,

Au Pausilippe altier, de mille feux brillant,

A ton front inondé des clartés d'Orient,

Aux raisins noirs mêlés avec l'or de ta tresse.

C'est dans ta coupe aussi que j'avais bu l'ivresse,

Et dans l'éclair furtif de ton oeil souriant,

Quand aux pieds d'Iacchus on me voyait priant,

Car la Muse m'a fait l'un des fils de la Grèce.

Je sais pourquoi, là-bas, le volcan s'est rouvert...

C'est qu'hier tu l'avais touché d'un pied agile,

Et de cendres soudain l'horizon s'est couvert.

Depuis qu'un duc normand brisa tes dieux d'argile,

Toujours, sous les rameaux du laurier de Virgile,

Le pâle Hortensia s'unit au Myrte vert!

here is my translation:

Of you I think, Myrtho, divine enchantress

Of proud Posillipo, bright with million fires,

Of your face flooded in the clarity of the East,

Of black grapes mixed with the gold of your braids.

From your goblet I too drank euphoria

in the furtive flash of your smiling eye,

When at Iacchus' feet I was seen suppliant

For the muse has made me one of Greece sons.

I know why over there the volcano erupts once more…

Because yesterday you stroked it with your agile foot,

and suddenly the horizon was buried in ashes.

Since a Norman duke broke your clay gods,

Forever, under the branches of Virgil's laurels,

The pale Hortensia & the green Myrtle entwine !

Poetry Readings III: A Wise Quatrain by Valduga

Thanks to a poetess friend I have discovered Patrizia Valduga, a true gem in contemporary italian poetry. Here is a short quatrain by Valduga, which I memorized as a remainder:

Tu mandali a dormire i tuoi pensieri,

devi ascoltare i sensi solamente;

sarà un combattimento di guerrieri:

combatterà il tuo corpo e non la mente

You send your thoughts to sleep

you must listen only to your senses;

it will be a fight of warriors:

the body will fight, not the mind.

(my translation. I refrained from the futile exercise of rendering the meter)

Yes Patrizia, the mind has fought already, way too long. It is the body now that must continue the fight. The body, and a brave heart.

Poetry Readings II: A Pound of Gold

It was in my college years in Pisa. It was perhaps springtime. It was a gorgeous morning.

I grabbed a copy of the Pisan Cantos, and walked along the Lungarno Pacinotti, trying to fathom the arcane abundance of cross-references, of ostentatious unmitigated erudition, of sparkles of divine beauties disseminated throughout this maddest of poems.

Then, as if struck by lightning, I stopped.

Those magic lines from the Canto LXXXI, the lines that redeem forever the sick life of Ezra Loomis Pound, il Miglior Fabbro:

What thou lovest well remains,

the rest is dross

What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee

What thou lov'st well is thy true heritage

Whose world, or mine or theirs

or is it of none?

First came the seen, then thus the palpable

Elysium, though it were in the halls of hell,

What thou lovest well is thy true heritage

What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee

Hear them, fellow reader, ponder them, one by one, line by line, and never, ever forget them. This is the speck of gold that shined in the darkest of muds

Poetry Readings I: Abdication, by Fernando Pessoa

ABDICAÇÃO

Toma-me, ó noite eterna, nos teus braços
E chama-me teu filho... eu sou um rei
que voluntariamente abandonei
O meu trono de sonhos e cansaços.

Minha espada, pesada a braços lassos,
Em mão viris e calmas entreguei;
E meu cetro e coroa - eu os deixei
Na antecâmara, feitos em pedaços

Minha cota de malha, tão inútil,
Minhas esporas de um tinir tão fútil,
Deixei-as pela fria escadaria.

Despi a realeza, corpo e alma,
E regressei à noite antiga e calma
Como a paisagem ao morrer do dia.

*******************************
ABDICATION

Take me, O eternal night, in your arms
and call me your son.... I am a king
who willingly forsook
my throne of dreams and fatigues.

My sword, heavy in tired arms,
I entrusted to virile and calm hands;
my scepter and crown-I have left them
in the antechamber, broken in pieces.

My chain mail, so useless,
my spurs of so futile tingling
I have left them on the cold staircase.

I dismissed royalty, body and soul,
and went back to the ancient and calm night,
like the landscape at the end of the day.

Fernando Pessoa, 1913

Translated from the original by Polymathicus, the 18th December AD 2007

PS F. Pessoa will appear again in this blog, but not as the great gnostic poet he most certainly was. Instead, he will crop up as a remarkable example of accomplished personality shifter.