Well, the Nobel Prize in Literature will be given out tomorrow, and though it had earlier seemed (based on the odds set by Ladbrokes) that a poet would be given the prize, the favorites now seem to be Ngugi wa Thiong'o, Cormac McCarthy, and Haruki Murakami. But there are still a number of poets with good odds, and everybody knows that the Ladbrokes list is far from official. Today, we’re going to read some poetry from some of the poets who seem to have the best shot at winning the Nobel this year. NB: I have chosen works only by authors who are most notable for their poetry, therefore there is no Vargas Llosa or Achebe poetry. Maybe sometime later I’ll have a special post on “fantastic poetry written by novelists”, but that’s not the focus today. NB part 2: Achebe’s poetry really is spectacular, though.
* * *
KO UN
Ko Un is a Korean poet. He grew up during a time of great disturbance in Korea, and actually poured acid into his own ears at one point after the death of many of his family members. He has been a political activist, spending a lot of time in jail protesting for democracy in South Korea, and actually was a Buddhist monk for a time. His poetry reflects the tragedy which he has seen, though not all of it is as melancholy as this selection from Ten Thousand Lives, entitled “The Moon”.
THE MOON
Every time the moon rose, she prayed.
Finally Wol-nam's mother, at forty, bore a son.
In dreams before pregnancy,
she swallowed the moon.
After her son was born, Wol-nam's mother
would lose her mind
without fail
every time the moon rose.
Late at night, washing dishes,
she'd smash one bowl-
the moon then hid in a cloud
and the world grew blind.
Finally Wol-nam's mother, at forty, bore a son.
In dreams before pregnancy,
she swallowed the moon.
After her son was born, Wol-nam's mother
would lose her mind
without fail
every time the moon rose.
Late at night, washing dishes,
she'd smash one bowl-
the moon then hid in a cloud
and the world grew blind.
* * *
Also, because I just couldn’t resist, here is another of Ko Un’s brilliant poems, the next in the sequence from Ten Thousand Lives, entitled “The Little Spring”.
THE LITTLE SPRING
Without its little spring,
what would make Yongtun Village a village?
Endlessly, snowflakes fall
into the spring's dark waters
and dissolve.
What still still stillness,
as Yang-sul's wife,
covered in snow, goes out to draw water,
puts down her tiny little water jar
and picks up the gourd dipper but forgets to draw water,
watching snowflakes die:
that still still stillness.
what would make Yongtun Village a village?
Endlessly, snowflakes fall
into the spring's dark waters
and dissolve.
What still still stillness,
as Yang-sul's wife,
covered in snow, goes out to draw water,
puts down her tiny little water jar
and picks up the gourd dipper but forgets to draw water,
watching snowflakes die:
that still still stillness.
Translated by Brother Anthony of Taizé, Young-Moo Kim, & Gary G. Gach
* * *
THOMAS TRANSTRÖMER
Possibly one of the greatest Swedish poets to ever live, Tranströmer seemingly has an inside track to the prize, since his work is already in the language of the committee, and he was, in fact, the favorite when betting opened. Tranströmer has been criticized for avoiding political issues in his poetry, which may hamper his chances for the Nobel (since they like to choose writers who have been outspoken in their home countries). He suffered a stroke in 1990, but he continues to write and play the piano, though he was forced to give up his work as a psychologist. Our selection, “After a Death”, reveals Tranströmer’s command of images and his Expressionist and Surrealist tendencies.
AFTER A DEATH
Once there was a shock
that left behind a long, shimmering comet tail.
It keeps us inside. It makes the TV pictures snowy.
It settles in cold drops on the telephone wires.
One can still go slowly on skis in the winter sun
through brush where a few leaves hang on.
They resemble pages torn from old telephone directories.
Names swallowed by the cold.
It is still beautiful to hear the heart beat
but often the shadow seems more real than the body.
The samurai looks insignificant
beside his armor of black dragon scales.
that left behind a long, shimmering comet tail.
It keeps us inside. It makes the TV pictures snowy.
It settles in cold drops on the telephone wires.
One can still go slowly on skis in the winter sun
through brush where a few leaves hang on.
They resemble pages torn from old telephone directories.
Names swallowed by the cold.
It is still beautiful to hear the heart beat
but often the shadow seems more real than the body.
The samurai looks insignificant
beside his armor of black dragon scales.
Translated by Robert Bly
* * *
ADONIS
Ali Ahmad Said (penname: Adonis) is easily the most influential Arabic-language poet living. He was born in Syria, receiving a degree in Philosophy from the university in Damascus at the age of 24. He spent time in prison as a member of a radical pan-Arab party, before founding the Arabic literary magazine Shi’r and becoming a proponent of Syrian nationalism. The selection, from Adonis’ landmark 1961 collection Mihyar of Damascus, his Songs, is entitled “New Testament”. Adonis’ skill speaks for itself.
NEW TESTAMENT
He doesn't speak this language.
He doesn't know the voices of the wastes—
a soothsayer in stony sleep,
he is burdened with distant languages.
Here he comes from under the ruins
in the climate of new words,
offering his poems to grieving winds
unpolished but bewitching like brass.
He is a language glistening between the masts,
the knight of strange words.
He doesn't know the voices of the wastes—
a soothsayer in stony sleep,
he is burdened with distant languages.
Here he comes from under the ruins
in the climate of new words,
offering his poems to grieving winds
unpolished but bewitching like brass.
He is a language glistening between the masts,
the knight of strange words.
Translated by Adnan Haydar and Michael Beard
* * *
LES MURRAY
Les Murray is a celebrated Australian poet. His 30 poetry collections qualify him for the epithet “prolific”. Murray has been no stranger to controversies, opposing the modernist poetry movement in his own country due to its elitist intellectuality, defending the accessibility of poetry to “widespread, popular readership”. For this reason, Murray may have an outside chance of winning the prize, and his collection Subhuman Redneck Poems (from which our selection is taken) has been previously translated into Swedish, giving the committee an opportunity to read some of his best work. The selection, “Comete”, shows Murray’s effective use of radical imagery and experimental words that permeates much of his poetry.
COMETE
Uphill in Melbourne on a beautiful day
a woman is walking ahead of her hair.
Like teak oiled soft to fracture and sway
it hung to her heels and seconded her
as a pencilled retinue, an unscrolling title
to ploughland, edged with ripe rows of dress,
a sheathed wing that couldn't fly her at all,
only itself, loosely, and her spirits.
A largesse
of life and self, brushed all calm and out,
its abstracted attempts on her mouth weren't seen,
not its showering, its tenting. Just the detail
that swam in its flow-lines, glossing about—
as she paced on, comet-like, face to the sun.
a woman is walking ahead of her hair.
Like teak oiled soft to fracture and sway
it hung to her heels and seconded her
as a pencilled retinue, an unscrolling title
to ploughland, edged with ripe rows of dress,
a sheathed wing that couldn't fly her at all,
only itself, loosely, and her spirits.
A largesse
of life and self, brushed all calm and out,
its abstracted attempts on her mouth weren't seen,
not its showering, its tenting. Just the detail
that swam in its flow-lines, glossing about—
as she paced on, comet-like, face to the sun.
* * *
JUAN GELMAN
Juan Gelman, the Argentine winner of the 2007 Cervantes Prize, was heavily effected by his reading (at age 8!) of Dostoyevsky’s The Insulted and Humiliated. Gelman subsequently became a political activist and supported the Montoneros as a journalist. His son and daughter-in-law were murdered during the Dirty War, though he later found their daughter living in Uruguay. His poetry is imbued with a sense of exuberance, but also with the feelings of sorrow and tragedy that he has been through. This can be seen in the selection, the first poem from his collection Dibaxu, about the remembrance of a lost lover.
DIBAXU: I
the tremor in my lips
I mean: the tremor of my kisses
will be heard in your past
with me in your wine
opening the door of time
your dream
allows sleeping rain to fall
give me your rain
I will stop you
still
in your rain of sleep
far inside the thinking
without fear
without forgetfulness
in the house of time
is the past
under your foot
dancing
I mean: the tremor of my kisses
will be heard in your past
with me in your wine
opening the door of time
your dream
allows sleeping rain to fall
give me your rain
I will stop you
still
in your rain of sleep
far inside the thinking
without fear
without forgetfulness
in the house of time
is the past
under your foot
dancing
Translated by Ilan Stavans
* * *
ADAM ZAGAJEWSKI
Czeslaw Milosz and Wislawa Szymborska may be the reason Adam Zagajewski does not win the Nobel this year (or ever): the committee probably doesn’t want to seem like the only poetry they read is Polish poetry. Zagajewski, however, certainly has the chops to win the prize. He left Poland in the 80’s, but returned in 2002. Our selection, “Try to Praise the Mutilated World”, appeared in the New Yorker and gained fame after the September 11 attacks.
TRY TO PRAISE THE MUTILATED WORLD
Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You've seen the refugees heading nowhere,
you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the grey feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.
Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You've seen the refugees heading nowhere,
you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the grey feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.
Translated by Renata Gorczynski
* * *
JOHN ASHBERY
A highly influential American poet of the 20th century, John Ashbery once described himself as a "harebrained, homegrown surrealist whose poetry defies even the rules and logic of Surrealism." His most notable work (unfortunately too long to print here) is entitled "Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror" (based on the Parmigianino painting of the same name. His career began after W.H. Auden chose his collection Some Trees for the 1956 Yale Younger Poets Prize, and he was a member of the New York School with Frank O'Hara and James Schuyler. The selection, "El Dorado", contains examples of the novel descriptions and images (e.g. "living is a meatloaf sandwich") that are found throughout Ashbery's poetry.
EL DORADO
We have a friend in common, the retired sophomore.
His concern: that I shall get it like that,
in the right and righter of a green bush
chomping on future considerations. In the ghostly
dreams of others it appears I am all right,
and even going on tomorrow there is much
to be said on all these matters, “issues,” like
“No rest for the weary.” (And yet—why not?)
Feeling under orders is a way of showing up,
but stepping on Earth—she’s not going to.
Ten shades of pleasing himself brings us to tomorrow
evening and will be back for more. I disagree
with you completely but couldn’t be prouder
and fonder of you. So drink up. Feel good for two.
I do it in a lot of places. Subfusc El Dorado
is only one that I know something about.
Others are recently lost cities
where we used to live—they keep the names
we knew, sometimes. I do it in a lot of places.
Brash brats offer laughing advice,
as though anything I cared about could be difficult
or complicated now. That’s the rub. Gusts of up
to forty-five miles an hour will be dropping in later
on tonight. No reason not to. So point at the luck
we know about. Living is a meatloaf sandwich.
I had a good time up there.
His concern: that I shall get it like that,
in the right and righter of a green bush
chomping on future considerations. In the ghostly
dreams of others it appears I am all right,
and even going on tomorrow there is much
to be said on all these matters, “issues,” like
“No rest for the weary.” (And yet—why not?)
Feeling under orders is a way of showing up,
but stepping on Earth—she’s not going to.
Ten shades of pleasing himself brings us to tomorrow
evening and will be back for more. I disagree
with you completely but couldn’t be prouder
and fonder of you. So drink up. Feel good for two.
I do it in a lot of places. Subfusc El Dorado
is only one that I know something about.
Others are recently lost cities
where we used to live—they keep the names
we knew, sometimes. I do it in a lot of places.
Brash brats offer laughing advice,
as though anything I cared about could be difficult
or complicated now. That’s the rub. Gusts of up
to forty-five miles an hour will be dropping in later
on tonight. No reason not to. So point at the luck
we know about. Living is a meatloaf sandwich.
I had a good time up there.
* * *
YVES BONNEFAY
Yves Bonnefoy is a French poet and perennial favorite for the prize. In terms of influence, either he or Ashbery has the best resume, since both have inspired an entire generation of poets in their home countries. Bonnefoy uses deceptively simple words strung together into beautiful phrases to convey a sense of lightness and childishness, even when discussing heavy subjects, as in our selection, his poem "Mallarmé's Tomb".
MALLARMÉ'S TOMB
His sail should be his tomb, since no
Breath on this earth could convince
The skiff of his voice to say no
To the river's summons of light.
Here, he said, is Hugo's loveliest verse:
"The sun has set, this evening, in the clouds."
Water turns to fire, when nothing can be added
Or removed: by that fire he's consumed.
We see him blurring, far away, as his boat
Fades from view. At its prow, what is he
Waving? We can't tell—not from here.
Is that how people die? And who's he talking to?
What will be left of him, when night comes on?
Ploughing the river, this two-colored scarf...
Breath on this earth could convince
The skiff of his voice to say no
To the river's summons of light.
Here, he said, is Hugo's loveliest verse:
"The sun has set, this evening, in the clouds."
Water turns to fire, when nothing can be added
Or removed: by that fire he's consumed.
We see him blurring, far away, as his boat
Fades from view. At its prow, what is he
Waving? We can't tell—not from here.
Is that how people die? And who's he talking to?
What will be left of him, when night comes on?
Ploughing the river, this two-colored scarf...
Translated by Hoyt Rogers
* * *
CEES NOOTEBOOM
With possibly the greatest name of any living poet, Cees Nooteboom has probably the lowest chance of any poet at the Nobel. That said, Nooteboom is an exceptional poet who is regarded very highly in the Netherlands. He is probably better known for his novels and travelogues, but first gained literary notoriety when he won the Anne Frank Poetry prize and is a very gifted poet. His poem, "Silesius dreams", is found in the collection The Captain of Butterflies, and is an interesting meditation on the nature of dreams.
SILESIUS DREAMS
Dreams are true because they happen,
untrue because no one sees them
except for the lonely dreamer,
in his eyes that are only his own.
No one dreams us while we know it.
The dreamer’s heart keeps beating,
his eyes compose the dream, he is not
in the world. He sleeps inside and outside
of time.
The soul has two eyes, so he dreams.
The one looks at the hours, the other
sees right through them,
to where duration never stops,
looking is consumed into seeing.
untrue because no one sees them
except for the lonely dreamer,
in his eyes that are only his own.
No one dreams us while we know it.
The dreamer’s heart keeps beating,
his eyes compose the dream, he is not
in the world. He sleeps inside and outside
of time.
The soul has two eyes, so he dreams.
The one looks at the hours, the other
sees right through them,
to where duration never stops,
looking is consumed into seeing.
Translated by Ko Kooman
Tomorrow: We celebrate the Nobel winner!
