henrik nordbrandt

 i was saddened to hear that henrik nordbrandt died last year. he had a good innings so not so much that but more that, in the first place, i hadn't heard anything about it but also, these days, how little of his work is available in english, esp as i can hardly read danish these days. anyway, here's this doco form the louisiana channel 

my heart's in the highlands

 

the battle of maldon

now this is what lego is for! it's a shame it's not in oe but, as they say, they wanted it to be more accessible. i'm not sure accessibility equates to interest which is a great shame. nevertheless, good effort! 

william blake's printing

 what a brilliant thing to get into! i remember a time, going to vienna years ago and not having previously been taken with the wake of egon schiele, sitting in the leopold museum (?) thinking, i could draw like that. then picking up my sketchbook and altering my process immediately. and still, if i'm feeling i can't make up my mind what to do, copying a schiele is just a lovely wait to settle my mind and go off at a tangent. this guy, tho, takes it to a whole other level! 

michael phillips again. same thing but more detail. and close ups! 

carl sandburg

 

after yesterday's documentary, here's this. i'm not a fan of this form of documentary but, at the same time, it's carl sandburg, so i'll likely try and listen to it while i'm working. i used ot really like sandburg but, for some reason, haven't read him in years

sylvia plath

really interesting podcast re sylvia plath. i'm not the biggest plath fan, in part because of the baggage plath comes with and, for a long while i avoided her because, as a man, it just didn't seem possible to enage with her. i do like anne sexton tho and it was interesting reading her letters that the antagonistic relationship i'd been led to believe in, wasn't really supported by the primary material. plus, the sylvia plath that emerged, was much more the version that emerges in this podcast - a vibrant, interesting writer, rather than someone who killed herself and lived in the shadow of some bloke. 

back in the day i parallel read anne sexton's biography, her letters and the poems and it was a great exercise. on the basis of this i really fancy going back to plath and doing the same 

luis garcia montero

it's been a long time since i posted any poetry and, to be honest, i can't remember what i last read in english. i do, however, still like reading poetry in other languages, not least for the vocabulary practice! here's this  (i don't know who the translation is by - not me or it would've been shonkier!)

La ausencia es una forma de invierno

 

Como el cuerpo de un hombre derrotado en la nieve,

con ese mismo invierno que hiela las canciones

cuando la tarde cae en la radio de un coche,

como los telegramas, como la voz herida

que cruza los teléfonos nocturnos,

igual que un faro cruza

por la melancolía de las barcas en tierra,

como las dudas y las certidumbres,

como mi silueta en la ventana,

así duele una noche,

con ese mismo invierno de cuando tú me faltas,

con esa misma nieve que me ha dejado en blanco,

pues todo se me olvida

si tengo que aprender a recordarte.

Absence is a form of winter

Like a man's body defeated in the snow,

with that same winter that freezes the songs

when afternoon falls on a car radio,

like telegrams, like the voice wounded

who crosses the late night phones,

Just like a cross lighthouse

for the melancholy of the ships on land,

like doubts and certainties,

like my silhouette in the window,

so it hurts one night,

with that same winter when I miss you,

with the same snow that has left me white,

because I forget everything

if I have to learn to remember you.

you can listen to him reading it here

the poetic edda

 

just come across this open source dual language version of the poetic edda. wow!

paul celan

i've got a bit of a holiday coming up and i'm intending doing a bit of paul celan reading, conparing and contrasting the hamburger and felstiner translations with this. good interview with joris here

 

charles bukowski

i found myself getting irked the other day by coming across, again, bukowski described as the laureate of lowlife. i never really found hin so when i was younger - i liked a drink, had rubbish jobs, (still) love a day out at the horses - but i never considered myself a lowlife. and this before i started liking bukowski, a poetic 'i' seeming so excoriatingly honest compared to just about everyone else i knew in poetryland. and likewise, as i got older, i don't know anyone else who captures disappointment and loss quite so well. happy days then to discover these readings

predictably enough there's plenty in the comments that toher people shouldn't be reading, that their accent is wrong, that it doesn't sound 'lowlife' enough! one of these days i'd like to take a bunch of his later poems and have them read by older women, just to hear what that sounds like. you'd think it was a simple idea but poetry types don't like that sort of thing, not one bit.

all of which lead me to this guy and some hard spanish practice! 

conference of the birds

 

donald hall

 this is a great wee film about ageing and the poet donald hall 

if you like this, i'd thoroughly recommend seeing more on the itchy dog website

pj harvey

 the news that a musician is putting out a book of poetry fills me with as much joy as the prospect of eating cold, water logged toast. that said, the news that pj harvey is bringing out a book next year is something to look forward to for the pj fanpeople. in the meantime a reminder of why she's great 

the man with the beautiful eyes

 this bukowski animation via psyche  

monika herceg

i was very taken with this group of poems by monika herceg at asymptote 

lake

coming home from the village’s barrelhouse

mato fell into a ditch drunk

and slumbered in the snow

meridians of his travelogues

fell out of his hat

and sunk into the depths of the soft snow

drawing on the icy cushion

a unique map of the world

four continents on which

he drove wild horses

sprang up underneath the dry snow

volga’s delta slopped over

right under his head

and he dreamt of the fishermen

in the caspian sea

throwing the nets

filling them with rare specimens

gigantic belugas and sterlets

carelessly awakening

the creatures petrified at the bottom

the largest lake

mato always told the neighbors

its waters never flow out

he never married

had children

nor grandchildren

and had he

maybe he would’ve run faster and bolder

like startled cattle

when the water snakes surfaced

and dragged him down

to the bottom

gabriela mistral

spanish practice with gabriela mistral

english version here 

original manuscript version here

and some biographical detail here

La contadora, de Gabriela Mistral

Cuando camino se levantan
todas las cosas de la Tierra,
y se paran y cuchichean
y es su historia lo que cuentan.

Y las gentes que caminan,
en la ruta me la dejan
y la recojo de caída
en capullos que son de huellas.

Historias corren mi cuerpo
o en mi regazo ronronean.
Zumban, hierven y abejean.
Sin llamada se me vienen
y contadas tampoco me dejan.

Las que bajan por los árboles
se trenzan y se destrenzan,
y me tejen y me envuelven
hasta que el mar las ahuyenta.
Pero el mar que cuenta siempre,
más rendida, nos deja.

Los que están mascando bosque
y los que rompen la piedra,
al dormirse quieren historias.

Mujeres que buscan hijos
perdidos que no regresan
y las que se creen vivas
y no saben que están muertas,
cada noche piden historias
y yo me rindo cuenta que cuenta.

A medio camino quedo
entre ríos que no me sueltan,
y el corro se va cerrando
y me atrapan en la rueda.

Al pulgar van llegando las de animales
al índice las de muertos.
Las de niños, de ser tantas,
en las palmas me hormiguean.

Los marineros alocados
que las piden, ya no navegan,
y las que cuentan se las digo
delante de la mar abierta.

Tuve una que iba en vuelo
de albatroses y tijeretas.
Se oía el viento, se lamía
la sal del mar contenta.
La olvidé de tierra adentro
como el pez que no alimentan.

¿En dónde estará una historia
que volando en gaviota ebria
cayó a mis faldas un día
y de tan blanca me dejó ciega?

Otra mujer cuenta lejos
historia que salva y libera,
tal vez la tiene, tal vez la trae
hasta mi puerta antes que muera.

Cuando tomaba así mis brazos
el que yo tuve, todas ellas
en regato de sangre corrían
mis brazos una noche entera.

Ahora yo, vuelta al Oriente,
se las voy dando por que recuerde.

Los viejos las quieren mentidas,
los niños las piden ciertas.
Todos quieren oír la historia mía
que en mi lengua viva está muerta.
Busco alguna que la recuerde,
hoja por hoja, hebra por hebra.
Le presto mi aliento, le doy mi marcha
por si al oírla me la despierta.

charles bukowski

death of an idiot

he spoke to mice and sparrows
and his hair was white at the age of 16.
his father beat him every day and his mother
lit candles in the church.
his grandmother came while the boy slept
and prayed for the devil to let loose his hold upon
him
while his mother listened and cried over the
bible.

he didn’t seem to notice young girls
he didn’t seem to notice the games boys played
there wasn’t much he seemed to notice
he just didn’t seem interested.

he had a very large, ugly mouth and the teeth
stuck out
and his eyes were small and lusterless.
his shoulders were slumped and his back was bent
like an old man’s.

he lived in our neighborhood.
we talked about him when we got bored and then
went on to more interesting things.
he seldom left his house. we would have liked to
torture him
but his father
who was a huge and terrible man
tortured him for
us.

one day the boy died. at 17 he was still a
boy. a death in a small neighborhood is noted with
alacrity, and then forgotten 3 or 4 days
later.

but the death of this boy seemed to stay with us
all. we kept talking about it
in our boy-men’s voices
at 6 p.m. just before dark
just before dinner.

and whenever I drive through that neighborhood now
decades later
I still think of his death
while having forgotten all the other deaths
and everything else that happened
then.

matt mcdermott

matt mcdermott's lovely treatment of rilke's gravity's law

the battle of brunanburh

when i read old english it comes out all swedish inflected. in my head it sounds something like this.

lola ridge

i've been reading a lot of lola ridge lately not least because, after a little biographical detail, she seems to have disappeared so completely. i'd need to hit the books but i don't think she appears in any of my larger anthologies of the time and i'd be lying if i said i could recall her from any poetic biography. i think i maybe just saw her picture and thought - she's a one.

and reading her poetry, not wrong! the ghetto and sun up are handily available for nothing on kindle and while yes, there's a certain whitmanesque quality about them i'm hardly going to complain about that. what does come across very clearly is her writing on childhood in sun up and her representation of the working class existence. comparisons to whitman and sandburg drift up easily but she seems much more in touch with the lived experience somehow.

check her out. maybe you'll like her, maybe not - either way she's interesting. and it's always a timely reminder to look behind the canonical names and see what else was going on