Q&A with Josh Lanyon discussion
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Mod
“Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
On Dylan Thomas's birthday*, the story behind "Do not go gentle into that good night" and a rare recording of the poet himself reading it.
*October 27 1914 – November 9, 1953
https://www.themarginalian.org/2017/0...
October by Robert FrostO hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow,
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
For the grapes’ sake along the wall.
(from A Boy's Will, 1913)
Here two versions of the same poem, and underneath the original.Day in Autumn by Rainer Maria Rilke
(translated by Mary Kinzie)
After the summer's yield, Lord, it is time
to let your shadow lengthen on the sundials
and in the pastures let the rough winds fly.
As for the final fruits, coax them to roundness.
Direct on them two days of warmer light
to hale them golden toward their term, and harry
the last few drops of sweetness through the wine.
Whoever's homeless now, will build no shelter;
who lives alone will live indefinitely so,
waking up to read a little, draft long letters,
and, along the city's avenues,
fitfully wander, when the wild leaves loosen.
(https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poet...)
Autumn Day by Rainer Maria Rilke
(translated by Stephen Mitchell)
Lord: it is time. The huge summer has gone by.
Now overlap the sundials with your shadows,
and on the meadows let the wind go free.
Command the fruits to swell on tree and vine;
grant them a few more warm transparent days,
urge them on to fulfillment then, and press
the final sweetness into the heavy wine.
Whoever has no house now, will never have one.
Whoever is alone will stay alone,
will sit, read, write long letters through the evening,
and wander the boulevards, up and down,
restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing.
Herbsttag
Herr: es ist Zeit. Der Sommer war sehr groß.
Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren,
und auf den Fluren laß die Winde los.
Befiehl den letzten Früchten voll zu sein;
gieb ihnen noch zwei südlichere Tage,
dränge sie zur Vollendung hin und jage
die letzte Süße in den schweren Wein.
Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr.
Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben,
wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe schreiben
und wird in den Alleen hin und her
unruhig wandern, wenn die Blätter treiben.
Mod
Day in Autumn by Rainer Maria Rilke
(translated by Mary Kinzie)
After the summer's yield, Lord, it i..."
It seems to me that Kinzie's interpretation is more "poetic," and that Mitchell's is more literal. but I don't know German (I can pick out some words). Do you see it this way, Antonella?
Karen wrote: "It seems to me that Kinzie's interpretation is more "poetic," and that Mitchell's is more literal"I don't know. IMO both of them make changes and add things which are not in the original, although some of them might make sense: for ex. Rilke just has _write long letters_, Mitchell writes: _write long letters through the evening_ .
BTW you can find here several other versions in English:
https://teachersandwritersmagazine.or...
Think of Others Written in Arabic by Mahmoud Darwish
As you prepare your breakfast, think of others
(do not forget the pigeon’s food).
As you conduct your wars, think of others
(do not forget those who seek peace).
As you pay your water bill, think of others
(those who are nursed by clouds).
As you return home, to your home, think of others
(do not forget the people of the camps).
As you sleep and count the stars, think of others
(those who have nowhere to sleep).
As you liberate yourself in metaphor, think of others
(those who have lost the right to speak).
As you think of others far away, think of yourself
(say: “If only I were a candle in the dark”).
(Translated into English by Mohammed Shaheen. Published October 30, 2023 © Interlink Books 2010)
The Diameter of the BombWritten in Hebrew by Yehuda Amichai
The diameter of the bomb was thirty centimeters
and the diameter of its effective range about seven meters,
with four dead and eleven wounded.
And around these, in a larger circle
of pain and time, two hospitals are scattered
and one graveyard. But the young woman
who was buried in the city she came from,
at a distance of more than a hundred kilometers,
enlarges the circle considerably,
and the solitary man mourning her death
at the distant shores of a country far across the sea
includes the entire world in the circle.
And I won’t even mention the crying of orphans
that reaches up to the throne of God and
beyond, making a circle with no end and no God.
(Translated into English by Chana Bloch and Stephen Mitchell. Published October 30, 2023
© Yehuda Amichai
© Chana Bloch and Stephen Mitchell)
A poem just published on Instagram by The Parents Circle (https://www.theparentscircle.org/en/a...), a remarkable «joint Israeli-Palestinian organization over 600 families, all of whom have lost an immediate family member to the ongoing conflict. Moreover, the PCFF has concluded that the process of reconciliation between nations is a prerequisite to achieving a sustainable peace. The organization thus utilizes all resources available in education, public meetings and the media, to spread these ideas.»I Am From There by Mahmoud Darwish
I am from there and I have memories.
I was born, as all people are born.
I have a mother,
and a house with many windows.
I have brothers, friends,
and a prison with a cold window.
Mine is the wave, snatched by seagulls.
I have my own view,
and an extra blade of grass.
Mine is the moon at the ends of speech,
and the blessings of birds,
and an immortal olive tree.
I passed over this land before the swords
Turned its body into a table.
I am from here.
I return the sky to her mother,
when she weeps her mother.
I cry to make myself known,
to a returning cloud.
I learned all the words befitting of the court of blood,
so that I can I break the rule.
I learned all the words, and dismantled them,
To create a single word: homeland…
((I'm sorry, they didn't mention the translator))
Mod
Ouch. That's painful in the best ways.
Mod
Today I noticed the very first line on my forehead. It was fascinating to me. And sort of funny. However, I do think Botox may be in my future. 😉
Mod
Oh Rascal Children Of Gaza by Khaled JumaOh rascal children of Gaza,
You who constantly disturbed me with your screams under my window,
You who filled every morning with rush and chaos,
You who broke my vase and stole the lonely flower on my balcony,
Come back –
And scream as you want,
And break all the vases,
Steal all the flowers,
Come back,
Just come back…
Juma’s poem “Oh Rascal Children Of Gaza” was written during the Israeli bombardment of Gaza in Operation Protective Edge and first published on August 24, 2014. From the report by «Defence for Children International»: ”The Israeli military offensive that lasted 50 days between July 8 and August 26, dubbed Operation Protective Edge, killed 547 Palestinian children, 535 of them as a direct result of Israeli attacks. 1 Another 3,374 children suffered injuries in attacks, including over 1,000 children whose wounds rendered them permanently disabled.”
Who could have imagined the scale of devastation we are witnessing now, nine years later.
From: https://www.jewishvoiceforlabour.org....
It is a disturbing poem and not a typical one. My gut reaction.Gregg
I'm still reading Buddhist books to find some guidance in getting through these difficult times...The Good News by Thich Nhat Hanh
They don’t publish
the good news.
The good news is published
by us.
We have a special edition every moment,
and we need you to read it.
The good news is that you are alive,
and the linden tree is still there,
standing firm in the harsh Winter.
The good news is that you have wonderful eyes
to touch the blue sky.
The good news is that your child is there before you,
and your arms are available:
hugging is possible.
They only print what is wrong.
Look at each of our special editions.
We always offer the things that are not wrong.
We want you to benefit from them
and help protect them.
The dandelion is there by the sidewalk,
smiling its wondrous smile,
singing the song of eternity.
Listen! You have ears that can hear it.
Bow your head.
Listen to it.
Leave behind the world of sorrow
and preoccupation
and get free.
The latest good news
is that you can do it.
published in Call Me By My True Names: The Collected Poems of Thich Nhat Hanh
Mod
Not poetry, but I highly recommend The Book of Joy, I just can’t link to it on the app.
Thank you.I suppose that you mean The Book of Joy: Lasting Happiness in a Changing World by Dalai Lama.
Mod
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting–
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
Today, Palestinians commemorate the 1948 Nakba (“catastrophe”): over 500 villages were destroyed, 700 000 people were displaced through massacres, looting and ethnic cleansing. Survivors fled to neighboring regions. Here's a fitting poem:I come from there by Mahmoud Darwish
I come from there and I have memories
Born as mortals are, I have a mother
And a house with many windows,
I have brothers, friends,
And a prison cell with a cold window.
Mine is the wave, snatched by sea-gulls,
I have my own view,
And an extra blade of grass.
Mine is the moon at the far edge of the words,
And the bounty of birds,
And the immortal olive tree.
I walked this land before the swords
Turned its living body into a laden table.
I come from there. I render the sky unto her mother
When the sky weeps for her mother.
And I weep to make myself known
To a returning cloud.
I learnt all the words worthy of the court of blood
So that I could break the rule.
I learnt all the words and broke them up
To make a single word: Homeland.....
Mod
I'm currently reading Dear Writer: Pep Talks & Practical Advice for the Creative Life by Maggie Smith, who is a poet. I highly recommend it, even if you don't write poetry. Her advice works for prose too.
But it's making me think about how I read poetry and why I don't enjoy it as much as fiction/prose. I think I don't read poetry slowly enough. Like, I think you need to take time with each piece to really understand it and get it and I just want to zip through a book like I do with fiction and I can't.
I've also just bought Writing Haiku: A Beginner's Guide to Composing Japanese Poetry which looks like it will be good. I'm doing a light Haiku workshop for our summer reading program starting next month and I need to brush up my skills. (I'm just upset at the use of the word "Oriental" to describe Tai Chi early in the introduction. I don't understand why that was a word choice. But I didn't see that until after I'd gotten the book.)
When it comes to reading poetry, I really enjoy taking in one poem at a time.
Could Have by Wisława SzymborskaIt could have happened.
It had to happen.
It happened earlier. Later.
Nearer. Farther off.
It happened, but not to you.
You were saved because you were the first.
You were saved because you were the last.
Alone. With others.
On the right. The left.
Because it was raining. Because of the shade.
Because the day was sunny.
You were in luck -- there was a forest.
You were in luck -- there were no trees.
You were in luck -- a rake, a hook, a beam, a brake,
A jamb, a turn, a quarter-inch, an instant . . .
So you're here? Still dizzy from
another dodge, close shave, reprieve?
One hole in the net and you slipped through?
I couldn't be more shocked or
speechless.
Listen,
how your heart pounds inside me.
The poem “Wszelki wypadek” by Wisława Szymborska was translated into English by Stanisław Barańczak and Clare Cavanagh.
Mod
It could have happened.
It had to happen.
It happened earlier. Later.
Nearer. Farther off.
It happened, but not to you.
You were saved because you we..."
Ooohh, this is really great! It took me a minute to figure it out. lol
This is more than 10 years old, but sadly still very relevant:Don’t Mention the Children by Michael Rosen
Don’t mention the children.
Don’t name the dead children.
The people must not know the names
of the dead children.
The names of the children must be hidden.
The children must be nameless.
The children must leave this world
having no names.
No one must know the names of
the dead children.
No one must say the names of
the dead children.
No one must even think that the children
have names.
People must understand that it would be dangerous
to know the names of the children.
The people must be protected from
knowing the names of the children.
The names of the children could spread
like wildfire.
The people would not be safe if they knew
the names of the children.
Don’t name the dead children.
Don’t remember the dead children.
Don’t think of the dead children.
Don’t say: ‘dead children’.
From the book Don't Mention the Children.
The poem refers to the banning by the Israeli Broadcasting Authority of an advertisement by the Israeli human rights organisation B’Tselem, where it listed the names of the children killed during the bombing in Gaza by Israel, see ‘Israel bans radio advert listing names of children killed in Gaza.’ Guardian, 24 July 2014: https://www.theguardian.com/world/201...
Mod
Don’t Mention the Children by Michael Rosen
Don’t mention the children.
Don’t name the dead children.
The people mu..."
Ooof. That ending packs a punch. The whole thing does.
Jordan wrote: "Ooof. That ending packs a punch. The whole thing does."Yes. That’s why this evening I’m going to hang it in the shop window of our anti-racism center
And now something lighter, for the International Cat Day.Ode To The Cat by Pablo Neruda
The animals were imperfect,
long-tailed,
unfortunate in their heads.
Little by little they
put themselves together,
making themselves a landscape,
acquiring spots, grace, flight.
The cat,
only the cat
appeared complete and proud:
he was born completely finished,
walking alone and knowing what he wanted.
Man wants to be fish or fowl,
the snake would like to have wings
the dog is a disoriented lion,
the engineer would like to be a poet,
the fly studies to be a swift,
the poet tries to imitate the fly,
but the cat
only wants to be a cat
and any cat is a cat
from his whiskers to his tail,
from his hopeful vision of a rat
to the real thing,
from the night to his golden eyes.
There is no unity
like him,
the moon and the flower
do not have such context:
he is just one thing
like the sun or the topaz,
and the elastic line of his contours
is firm and subtle like
the line of a ship's prow.
His yellow eyes
have just one
groove
to coin the gold of night time.
Oh little
emperor without a sphere of influence
conqueror without a country,
smallest living-room tiger, nuptial
sultan of the sky,
of the erotic roof-tiles,
the wind of love
in the storm
you claim
when you pass
and place
four delicate feet
on the ground,
smelling,
distrusting
all that is terrestrial,
because everything
is too unclean
for the immaculate foot of the cat.
Oh independent wild beast
of the house
arrogant
vestige of the night,
lazy, gymnastic
and alien,
very deep cat,
secret policeman
of bedrooms,
insignia
of a
disappeared velvet,
surely there is no
enigma
in your manner,
perhaps you are not a mystery,
everyone knows of you
and you belong
to the least mysterious inhabitant,
perhaps everyone believes it,
everyone believes himself the owner,
proprietor,
uncle
of a cat,
companion,
colleague,
disciple
or friend
of his cat.
Not me.
I do not subscribe.
I do not know the cat.
I know it all, life and its archipelago,
the sea and the incalculable city,
botany,
the gyneceum and its frenzies,
the plus and the minus of mathematics,
the volcanic frauds of the world,
the unreal shell of the crocodile,
the unknown kindness of the fireman,
the blue atavism of the priest,
but I cannot decipher a cat.
My reason slips on his indifference,
his eyes have golden numbers.
I'm sorry, but I can't find the translator's name. Here is the original text in Spanish: https://www.neruda.uchile.cl/obra/obr...
On This Land There Are Reasons to Live by Mahmoud DarwishThere’s on this land
what is worth living,
The recurring of April,
the smell of bread at dawn,
A woman’s amulet for men ,
Aeschylus’s writings,
the beginning of love,
Grass on a stone,
mothers standing on the thread of a flute,
and the invaders fear of memories.
There’s on this land what is worth living,
The end of September,
A lady leaving the forties
with all its apricot,
The hour of sunlight in prison,
Clouds imitating a flock of creatures,
A people’s cheers for those going up
to their doom, smiling
and the tyrants fear of songs.
There’s on this land what is worth living,
There’s on this land,
the lady of lands,
the mother of the beginnings
and of the ends.
It was called Palestine
Its name later became Palestine
My lady: I deserve,
since you’re my lady,
I deserve life.
This version was found here: https://streetartcities.com/markers/1...
Here are two other versions: https://arablit.org/2013/01/15/we-hav...
British actor Benedict Cumberbatch delivered a heartfelt recitation of yet another version of“On This Land There Are Reasons to Live” by Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish during the Together for Palestine event yesterday in Wembley: https://www.instagram.com/reel/DOuRAf...?
After tonight’s drone attack on https://globalsumudflotilla.org/in international waters, a Swiss poet and translator Vanni Bianconi aboard one of the boats posted the following poem:
The Envoy of Mr. Cogito by Zbigniew Herbert
Go where those others went to the dark boundary
for the golden fleece of nothingness your last prize
go upright among those who are on their knees
among those with their backs turned and those toppled in the dust
you were saved not in order to live
you have little time you must give testimony
be courageous when the mind deceives you be courageous
in the final account only this is important
and let your helpless Anger be like the sea
whenever you hear the voice of the insulted and beaten
let your sister Scorn not leave you
for the informers executioners cowards—they will win
they will go to your funeral and with relief will throw a lump of earth
the woodborer will write your smoothed-over biography
and do not forgive truly it is not in your power
to forgive in the name of those betrayed at dawn
beware however of unnecessary pride
keep looking at your clown’s face in the mirror
repeat: I was called—weren’t there better ones than I
beware of dryness of heart love the morning spring
the bird with an unknown name the winter oak
light on a wall the splendour of the sky
they don’t need your warm breath
they are there to say: no one will console you
be vigilant—when the light on the mountains gives the sign—arise and go
as long as blood turns in the breast your dark star
repeat old incantations of humanity fables and legends
because this is how you will attain the good you will not attain
repeat great words repeat them stubbornly
like those crossing the desert who perished in the sand
and they will reward you with what they have at hand
with the whip of laughter with murder on a garbage heap
go because only in this way will you be admitted to the company of cold skulls
to the company of your ancestors: Gilgamesh Hector Roland
the defenders of the kingdom without limit and the city of ashes
Be faithful Go
Copyright Credit: Zbigniew Herbert, “The Envoy of Mr. Cogito,” translated by Bogdana and John Carpenter, from Selected Poems of Zbigniew Herbert. Used by permission of Oxford University Press, Ltd.
Source: Mr. Cogito (1993)
Q&A with Josh Lanyon
Books mentioned in this topic
Mr. Cogito (other topics)Don't Mention the Children (other topics)
Writing Haiku: A Beginner's Guide to Composing Japanese Poetry (other topics)
Dear Writer: Pep Talks & Practical Advice for the Creative Life (other topics)
The Book of Joy: Lasting Happiness in a Changing World (other topics)
More...
Authors mentioned in this topic
Zbigniew Herbert (other topics)Vanni Bianconi (other topics)
Pablo Neruda (other topics)
Michael Rosen (other topics)
Michael Rosen (other topics)
More...
Now this is more than a bit resonant. I was recently shocked to notice crapy (not crappy) skin on my arms. It all sneaks up on you...