Tag Archives: modern poetry in translation

Sunday Poem – Sasha Dugdale

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Hello everyone.  This is a very late blog – I have been busy all day today.  This morning I was working on a workshop that I’ll be delivering tomorrow in a secondary school in Oldham – I’m doing five sessions spread over the whole of year ten.  I’m a bit nervous but I am looking forward to it as well.

This afternoon I went to a friend’s hen party, which was afternoon tea at a very posh hotel in Bowness.  We had sandwiches, scones, tea and cakes and it was very nice – most of the people there were from a school I work at in Barrow – so it was nice to be included-my second one this year – after working for eight years without going to one!

Then I got back, walked the dogs round the slag bank and then watched Game of Thrones, which I have been obsessed with this week but I have got to the end of Season 2 so I’m hoping I can now get back to doing some actual work!  Season 3 has only just come out and it’s far too expensive to buy at the minute!  I’ve been watching it all week and finding it very hard to do anything else.

On Saturday I took my junior band to see the Haffner Orchestra.  For many of the children it was their first classical music concert.  It was interesting how many conventions I take for granted – one of the very young children started clapping after the orchestra had finished tuning up!  They now all know not to clap between movements in a symphony, and to clap when the conductor and the principal violinist comes on.  Lots of audience members came up to me in the interval and at the end and said how well-behaved the children were – so I was very proud of them.

This week I also had a concert with one of my schools and a concert with the band so it’s been pretty full on.  In between concerts and watching the Game of Thrones I’ve been working on a poem for a project in association with St Oswald’s Church in Grasmere – there is going to be a art and craft exhibition in response to poems written about the church – the deadline is Monday and I got my poem sent off yesterday – it’s only the second time I’ve written a poem ‘on purpose’ i.e with a purpose in mind, rather than just letting my mind wander..the first was written in response to a photography exhibition at the Theatre by the Lake…

We were shown around the church by an amazing guide who knew so many stories and facts about the church – but he mentioned the women who come and lay the rushes as part of the rush bearing festival and there is a man in the village who climbs to the top of the church tower to hang the flag.  He also winds the clocks and services the hotel pools in the area – so I guess my poem is about the people that are associated with the church – the saints and the local people who help out in the church now.

I’ve also sent my collection out to a few friends whose opinion I trust and I’ve had some really useful feedback that I haven’t had time to look at properly yet, but after I’ve got this workshop out the way tomorrow, I’m going to print their comments maybe  and go through it all again.  At the minute, if I had to use a metaphor to explain what stage I’m at, my collection is like a house with all the furniture not set out properly, or maybe a house with non-load bearing walls that need knocking down to make space…so that is what I shall be doing this week and the next week…

The next time I blog shall be Tuesday night.  By then I will have been to the Lakeland Book of the Year Award ceremony to find out if I’ve won, and I would also have heard Simon Armitage at the Wordsworth Trust – so I should have lots to say!

This week’s Sunday poem is by Sasha Dugdale, who ran the workshop which I previously raved about on here at the Wordsworth Trust.  I already had Sasha’s most recent collection ‘Red House’ published by Carcanet and after enjoying the workshop so much, I decided to re-read it.

As a workshop tutor, what struck me about Sasha was how much she listens to people, how interested she was in the way people’s minds worked.  As a poet, this quality of listening carries over into her writing.  When I wrote to her to ask her if I could have ‘Plainer Sailing (Alzheimer’s) for the blog, I wasn’t suprised to hear that this poem had been set to music.  I think her lines have a very clear, pure quality – it is the type of poetry that makes me think ‘yes, that is it exactly’.  The first two lines for instance – comparing someone suffering from Alzheimers as being ‘Frail as a cloud’.  But she doesn’t stop there, she pushes the image further so we see the person with Alzheimers’  is not just a victim – they are beautiful in their frailty – she says ‘filled with a cloud’s watered light’.

The other thing I really enjoyed about Sasha’s poetry was her rhyme which is never allowed to control the poem, but instead sits in the background of the poem, like a well trained servant…In ‘Plainer Sailing’  the rhyme scheme of abab never intrudes but it holds the poem together.

If you would like to buy Sasha’s collection, you can get it from the Carcanet website at http://www.carcanet.co.uk/cgi-bin/indexer?product=9781906188023

Sasha is also the editor of one of my new favourite magazines, Modern Poetry in Translation.  The magazine has a fantastic website where you can have a go yourself at translating a poem as well as subscribing!  This is at http://www.mptmagazine.com/

And here is the poem!

Plainer Sailing (Alzheimer’s) – Sasha Dugdale
for A.W

She walked then: pale and unbent
Frail as a cloud, filled with a cloud’s watered light
And all the ropes were gone, and the language unlearnt
And vital knots of past and future long untied.

There was once no sailing without the augur on board,
Who shaped each day and told what tumbled past,
Who sought the truth in feathered gore
Whilst others watched from the crow’s nest.

She too surveyed the calm, and was concerned:
What to make of all the signs, for the sea is rarely blank.
And there was a circling, a moment returned
When daughter was mother, and there the sun shrunk

And bent and was narrow at the line of sky
And still the clouds twisted and birds flew
All above at that time there was no end to life
And no end to other brightnesses at least as true

That seem like mirages now.  For signs were massing
To display themselves in a common light:
They did all surely point to the one passing
Of pale day into paler night.

Sunday Poem – Billy Letford

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Evening everybody.  I am writing this at the other side of a pretty full on weekend – even for my standards, it was a little hectic.  My mum and dad arrived on Friday from Leicester and I immediately dragged them off to Lancaster Spotlight (http://www.spotlightlancaster.co.uk/) as I was a guest reader.  To my delight, Sarah Fiske, one of the lovely organisers of Spotlight greeted my dad with ‘Oh, are you the scaffolder?’  His face was a picture!  Fame at last!

If you haven’t been to Spotlight before – it is really worth a visit.  Although it’s a long night, it is a really friendly event, lots of open mic spots and you get a mixture of poetry, comedy, music.  I was really happy to be reading with Ron Scowcroft.  I heard Ron read recently at an open mic but it was great to hear a longer set from him.

On Friday I was reading at Lancaster Spotlight along with various other readers, including Ron Scowcroft.  It was really nice to hear Ron do a longer set of poems – I think it’s been a while since I’ve heard him anywhere else apart from at the open mic.

Anyway, due to my uncontrollable urge to talk afterwards and gossip, we didn’t get home to after 1am.

Then on Saturday I went to a workshop at the Wordsworth Trust.  Ever since going to Poetry Parnassus last year I’ve been reading a lot of translated poetry – so when Andrew Forster told me that Sasha Dugdale was coming to Grasmere to run a workshop on Translating Poetry I knew I had to sign up!

And it was amazing!!  At first I wasn’t sure – we were ‘translating’ bird song from recordings but once we started I started to think about how we use consonants to define the rhythm of the bird song i.e ‘tikki tikki tikki’ but actually, birds don’t use consonants – I think their ‘song’ is made of vowels, and when humans use vowels, they come right from the body.  The use of consonants brings the sound up to the mouth, or more specifically, the tongue – but we do use vowels when we are in pain or when we are scared – think of if you hit your thumb with a nail – if you are Billy Letford you ‘roar like a lion’ – I would probably shriek but I think both would be made mainly of vowels…anyway…

After the bird song, Sasha read a poem in Russian and we had to write down a translation of the poem from the sound and from seeing the transliteration of the poem on the page – which was interesting – especially when Sasha gave us the literal translation.

Then we got another Russian poem, this one was by Boris Pasternak but this time we had a literal translation to work from.  I really enjoyed this – I don’t think I really understood before that there is no ‘right’ answer when you are translating – and it was so interesting seeing how the other people dealt with the tricky bits in the poem.

So then I hot-footed it home, this time without stopping to gossip, as I’d left my poor mum and dad at home to amuse themselves all day.  When I got back we drove up the west coast to meet my sister and her hubby for dinner.
And today I’ve been recording a CD with my junior band.  The band was brilliant – they played pretty solidly from 9.30-3.00.  They were shattered by the end of it – if you play a brass instrument you’ll know, or maybe you can imagine this is like running a marathon!  I can report I also had a very tired right arm from all that conducting –

We got ten tracks done so soon we will have our first album to flog to unsuspecting parents.  I might even put a paypal button on here for it, just in case there are any poets reading this who have always wanted a CD of a brass band playing Abba and other pop hits!

So marathon weekend is over and although it’s been good, I can’t say that I’m not relieved to have got through it!

Today’s poem is by the lovely William Letford – last Tuesday I went up to Grasmere to see him read along with Fred D’Aguiar.  It was a great reading and he kindly said I could use one of his poems from his first collection ‘Bevel’, published by Carcanet ( http://www.carcanet.co.uk).

William Letford has worked as a roofer, on and off, since he was fifteen .  He received a New Writer’s Award from the Scottish Book Trust and an Edwin Morgan Travel Bursary which allowed him to spend three months in the mountains of northern Italy helping to restore a medieval village.  He has an M.Litt in Creative Writing from the University of Glasgow.

You can buy ‘Bevel’ from http://www.carcanet.co.uk

William came to read for us at Poem and A Pint a couple of weeks ago – and he was brilliant – but it was great to hear some new poems at Grasmere as well – I’m already looking forward to his next book!

If you haven’t seen him read, you need to.  It is a masterclass in how to present a reading – he does everything by heart, always looking directly at the audience and it helps that the poetry is really good as well!   As you will see from this poem which I have appropriated from his book!

So here is the Sunday Poem – I hope you enjoy it.

Be Prepared – William Letford

wear three T-shirts and one hooded top
layers are important
they can always come off
remember your oilskins
it’s always raining somewhere
wear a scarf
cold air moves down from the neck
wear gloves
they’re useless when wet
but handy if you hit the wrong nail
pay attention to the moment
the way water drips
the way a spider scuttles
have a healthy fear of heights
when working from a ladder
know which way to fall
railings and slabs are unforgiving
flower beds and fuchsia bushes are better
practise your scream
if you strike your thumb with the hammer
don’t squeal
roar like a lion
when the pain subsides and you look around
you’ll know exactly what I mean
acknowledge the moon
it was part of the earth once
its loneliness can make you feel beautiful
lift properly
you’ll need your back to make your money

Sunday Poem – Ian Parks

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Today’s poem is by Ian Parks – a wonderful northern poet who I met through our mutual friends, David Tait and David Thom.  Ian is a lovely, warm person who takes time to encourage others in their poetry as well as writing his own. 

I read with him recently at the Heart Cafe in Leeds and I’ve been reading his recent work with interest, as he is working on a new set of translations of one of my favourite poets, C.P. Cavafy.  In fact, I was given a copy of Acumen www.acumen-poetry.co.uk  yesterday at the Inpress Poetry Garden Market ( more on that tomorrow) and I was very pleased to see that one of Ian’s Cavafy translations ‘The Watchman’ was included. 

I’ve decided to include here the title poem from his most recent collection, ‘The Exile’s House’ which is available from Waterloo Press.  http://www.waterloopresshove.co.uk/#/ian-parks-2012/4563010696

I think this poem demonstrates how Ian manages to control the pace in his poems – everything is carefully measured out and no words are wasted.  The poem is mysterious, and has an otherwordly quality about it, whilst at the same time being firmly fastened to our reality, and our time.

Described by Chiron Review as ‘the finest love poet of his generation’, Ian Parks was one of the Poetry Society New Poets in 1996. His collections include Shell Island (2006), Love Poems 1979-2009 (2009) and The Landing Stage (2010).

His poems have appeared in The Observer, the Independent on Sunday,
The Times Literary Supplement, Poetry Review, Modern Poetry in Translation, London Magazine and Poetry (Chicago). He is the RLF Writing Fellow at De Montfort University, Leicester.

 

The Exile’s House – Ian Parks

Precarious, on a cliff above the sea
        the exile’s house is improvised
from objects found while walking on the beach.
        His crime, it seems, was speaking out
against a harsh regime.  Displacing
        dust he moves from room to room

or gazing at the sunset, sits and waits.
        The place is chained, and anchored down
with ships in bottles, figureheads.
        The ghosts of lovers breathe against the glass;
a trace of silver where they came and went.
         An open door, a broken blind,

a rocking horse dismantled on the floor
        with flying mane, distended eyes.
Under a lantern like a paper moon
        at a table ringed with stains
he drinks and listens as the night dictates
       words of resistance, lines of dissent.