Poetry Monday: Poetry Parnassus

Firstly, I'm back home now.  Thanks for indulging my blog posts on poets of the US east coast as I made my way forward in space and backwards in time (more on that in poetry form later I suspect).  There was indeed a great deal of poetry on my trip, but since the 2012 Olympics begins this week and Olympic fever is spreading rapidly like an iron-pumped virus everywhere I turn, I thought I'd call attention to an event held in London at the Southbank Centre, as a precursar to the event.  Poetry Parnassus is finished now, but it brought together poets from over 145 countries for a series of readings, workshops, debates and "jives" (I'll leave the meaning of "jive" to your imagination).  The event began with a helicopter drop of 100,000 bookmark-sized poems which floated across the city as far as Camberwell, and progressed with readings by Seamus Heaney,Wole Soyinka, John Kinsella from Australia (who waved his usual fees), Kay Ryan, Jang Jin-sung and a welter of other poets - some well known and others less well-known - from around the world. Also included was poet Simon Armitage, who organised the event as a  "non-commercial, non-corporate and decidedly non-competitive happening". His own reading wasn't a poem, but rather from his nonfiction account of walking the Pennine Way. I include it on Poetry Monday though because he travelled as 'modern troubadour', giving poetry readings for food. The reading is punctuated by music and is quite funny:
Simon Armitage Walking Home Launch by southbankcentre

All of the poetry is captured in an anthology titled The World Record, published by Bloodaxe Books with Southbank Centre.You can listen to a number of podcasts of the event here: ticketing.southbankcentre.co.uk/poetry-parnassus/podcasts, and if you click on the poet link, you can also read interviews and profiles of each of the poets, sorted by country. 

Poetry Monday: Leo Ferre and Verlaine - where poetry meets music

I've been listening to a lot of poetic music lately. That's not just well written song lyrics, but proper poetry -- the sort designed to be read on its own -- set to music. The results are often exquisite, especially when the performers are able to infuse tremendous understanding and power to the work in their delivery.  Although this isn't new by any means, Leo Ferre's rendition of Verlaine's "Green" is one of those pieces.  Here is a version from YouTube (the visuals don't add anything, but just close your eyes for a moment and let Leo's voice work its magic).  I've also appended the full text of the poem in English translation (unabashedly sentimental, yet beautiful too - with a kind of underlying melancholy) and in the original French below.  

Green
 
See, blossoms, branches, fruit, leaves I have brought,
And then my heart that for you only sighs;
With those white hands of yours, oh, tear it not,
But let the poor gift prosper in your eyes.

The dew upon my hair is still undried,-
The morning wind strikes chilly where it fell.
Suffer my weariness here at your side
To dream the hour that shall it quite dispel.

Allow my head, that rings and echoes still
With your last kiss, to lie upon your breast,
Till it recover from the stormy thrill,-
And let me sleep a little, since you rest.  
(Translated by Gertrude Hall)

****
Voici des fruits, des fleurs, des feuilles et des branches
Et puis voici mon coeur qui ne bat que pour vous.
Ne le déchirez pas avec vos deux mains blanches
Et qu'à vos yeux si beaux l'humble présent soit doux.

J'arrive tout couvert encore de rosée
Que le vent du matin vient glacer à mon front.
Souffrez que ma fatigue à vos pieds reposée
Rêve des chers instants qui la délasseront.

Sur votre jeune sein laissez rouler ma tête
Toute sonore encor de vos derniers baisers;
Laissez-la s'apaiser de la bonne tempête,
Et que je dorme un peu puisque vous reposez.

Poetry Monday: Billy Collins

I love the notion of a Poet Laureate. The concept dates right back to ancient Greece with the awarding of crowned laurels in recognition of great skill in rhetoric, grammar and language. We don't have one in Australia, mores the pity (Julia? Can I table this?), but over a dozen other countries do, including the UK, where poet Carol Ann Duffy gets to hold the position for a decade, and the US, where the post is for one year only. The current US Poet Laureate is Philip Levine, who I may feature some other Monday. The job of the Poet Laureate is to raise the national consciousness to a greater appreciation of the reading and writing of poetry - a wonderful job that is often done with great skill.  One of the more well known US laureates is Billy Collins, who held the position from 2001 to 2003. I think that one of the reasons for Collins' success is his absolute accessibility - his poems are rich with the details of everyday life, with recognisable referents, and impact that any reader will get. He is also, often, very funny. Here is one of his poems not published in a collection - one that, I think, encompasses the simultaneous humor and beauty of Collins' work.

I Ask You

What scene would I want to be enveloped in
more than this one,
an ordinary night at the kitchen table,
floral wallpaper pressing in,
white cabinets full of glass,
the telephone silent,
a pen tilted back in my hand?

It gives me time to think
about all that is going on outside--
leaves gathering in corners,
lichen greening the high grey rocks,
while over the dunes the world sails on,
huge, ocean-going, history bubbling in its wake.

But beyond this table
there is nothing that I need,
not even a job that would allow me to row to work,
or a coffee-colored Aston Martin DB4
with cracked green leather seats.

No, it's all here,
the clear ovals of a glass of water,
a small crate of oranges, a book on Stalin,
not to mention the odd snarling fish
in a frame on the wall,
and the way these three candles--
each a different height--
are singing in perfect harmony.

So forgive me
if I lower my head now and listen
to the short bass candle as he takes a solo
while my heart
thrums under my shirt--
frog at the edge of a pond--
and my thoughts fly off to a province
made of one enormous sky
and about a million empty branches.