Oases: Poems and prose

by Alastair Reid

A collection of the poetry, prose, translations and life of Alastair Reid. Subjects include: his contributions as a staff writer for The New Yorker; the politics and poetry of Borges and Neruda; football; buried treasure in Scotland; and the life and personality of Robert Graves.

300 pages, Hardcover

First published January 1, 1997

About the author

Alastair Reid was a Scottish poet, translator, essayist, and scholar of Latin American literature. He joined the staff of The New Yorker in 1959 and translated works by Pablo Neruda and Jorge Luis Borges. Although he was known for translations, his own poems gained notice during his lifetime. He had lived in Spain, Switzerland, Greece, Morocco, Argentina, Mexico, Chile, the Dominican Republic, and in the United States.

Among his many books for children are A Balloon for a Blunderbuss, I Keep Changing, and Millionaires (all illustrated by Bob Gill), and Supposing (illustrated by Abe Birnbaum). In 2008 he published two career-spanning collections of work, Inside Out: Selected Poetry and Translations and Outside In: Selected Prose.

Reviews

[Curtis Bauer · Rating 4 out of 5]

This guy translated Borges, Neruda and the other great S. Am writers. He's the one who created some fictionalized S. Am poets who got by the fact checkers at the NYer...of course...and created havoc in the literary world for a while. A bit of an outsider, but brilliant essays and lovely poems...especially this one:

Curiosity

may have killed the cat; more likely
the cat was just unlucky, or else curious
to see what death was like, having no cause
to go on licking paws, or fathering
litter on litter of kittens, predictably.

Nevertheless, to be curious
is dangerous enough. To distrust
what is always said, what seems
to ask odd questions, interfere in dreams,
leave home, smell rats, have hunches
do not endear cats to those doggy circles
where well-smelt baskets, suitable wives, good lunches
are the order of things, and where prevails
much wagging of incurious heads and tails.

Face it. Curiosity
will not cause us to die--
only lack of it will.
Never to want to see
the other side of the hill
or that improbable country
where living is an idyll
(although a probable hell)
would kill us all.

Only the curious have, if they live, a tale
worth telling at all.

Dogs say cats love too much, are irresponsible,
are changeable, marry too many wives,
desert their children, chill all dinner tables
with tales of their nine lives.
Well, they are lucky. Let them be
nine-lived and contradictory,
curious enough to change, prepared to pay
the cat price, which is to die
and die again and again,
each time with no less pain.
A cat minority of one
is all that can be counted on
to tell the truth. And what cats have to tell
on each return from hell
is this: that dying is what the living do,
that dying is what the loving do,
and that dead dogs are those who do not know
that dying is what, to live, each has to do.