Tag: Derek Mahon

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Book Reviews Literature Poetry St Ives West Cornwall (and local history)

Two New Poetry Collections

In both of these collections the sea and its various moods features. It is not just this that endears me in each case but it is that element that prompts me to write about them today. It is raining once again here in Cornwall and it is as the mists mizzle gather over the bay that I find myself in somewhat melancholy mood to respond to these collections.

Derek Mahon

Essentially this is a collection of essays by different writers together with Mahon’s poems. Here is one example- the poem-“The Sea in Winter” which was written for Desmond O’Grady. There are so many lovely passages in this poem which is fast becoming a favourite.-

Portstewart, Portrush, Portballintrae-

Un beau pays mal habité,

policed by rednecks in dark cloth

and roving gangs of tartan youth.

No place for a gentleman like you.

The good, the beautiful and the true

have a tough time of it; and yet

there is that Hebridean sunset,

The coast in winter, something familiar here in West Cornwall evokes feelings as in these engaging couplets:-

The sea in winter, where she walks,

vents its displeasure on the rocks.

The human factor appears too beside these images or pathetic fallacies-

………………………….; the spite

mankind has brought to this infernal

backwater destroys the soul;

it sneaks into the daily life,

sunders the husband from the wife.

Sunder seems a significant word here, perhaps evoking “thunder” and reminiscent of the biblical separation of “asunder”. ( The chariot and horses of fire “parted asunder” Elijah and Elisha (2 Kings 2:11). So we are situated on the bleak edge of the sea. Though not quite in the same mood state as T.S.Eliot-On Margate Sands./I can connect/Nothing with nothing./The broken fingernails of dirty hands./My people humble people who expect/Nothing.

There is an interesting piece on Mahon as the poet of place at https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/abs/10.1080/0895769X.2012.640266?journalCode=vanq20

In his comments on this poem, John Fitzgerald https://gallerypress.com/authors/a-to-f/john-fitzgerald/ says;

“I grew to love the poem’s complicit sense of ennui,bordering on but never quite reaching desolation, ‘living on the edge of space’; the memorable turns of phrase and allusive colour, both classical and contemporary; the sense of redemption just out of reach; the agonizing, trapped uncertainty of the writing life; all balanced against the consolation of confident, impeccable poetry.”

Evelyn Holloway

Evelyn’s book is published in English and German by Edition Sonnberg which is based in Vienna, where Evelyn was born in 1955. Perhaps the most interesting poem, it is for me, is Meeting which tells of Evelyn encountering Samuel Beckett in Oxford where she was a student in October 1973. I find that even with my poor German having the text in both languages somehow broadens the comprehension of the text.

Suddenly I see his face

stepped down from book covers,

a furrowed face, a landscape of thought

I waited for Godot,

saw people stuck in bins,

so many figures of his universe,

Now to return to the sea, a sea of memories- some perhaps repressed…….

ERRINERUNG IST EIN OZEAN OHNE SALZ

Ich kam hier um das Wrack zu sehen,

musste tiefer tauchen, tiefer.

Farben sind dort begraben,

Stimmen von der Zeit verschluckt.

Irgendwo in diesem Chaos,

ich bin irgendwo

verlassen,gefunden, und wieder verlassen

Atmen fällt schwer hier unten

Kunstweke hinter Mauern versteckt

Errinerung ist ein Ozean ohne Salz.

So that the memory can appear like a sea too, but one without salt. Memory and dreams have perhaps links to Vienna but the salty sea is close by in St Ives.

Here are just a few lines from WE ARE DANCING ROCKS (WIR SIND TANZENDE FELSEN)

We will outlast you.

Our salty eternity does not count the years.

We do not mourn the sand swallowed by the sea.

We are dancing rocks.

Her collection Words through Walls is published by Wieser Verlag ISBN 978-3-9504320-8-4

Categories
German Matters Literature Poetry

New York Fascinates by Rosa AUSLÄNDER

New York fascinates

In the early morning hours when between plaster and the crystal of Heaven the elegant skyscrapers stand like gems on the salmon ground

Beautiful is New York in the morning, most beautiful early Sunday when sirens and wheels sleep, little voices from park trees coo to the Hudson adapting to the ocean

A person comes upon you and you see is really a PERSON and you see it is really NEW YORK; a fable beautifully devised subtle and strong

The eight million sleeping Sunday dreamers have not yet shaken off the nightmare of the week. Too late they seek when already shadows embrace the streets, seek the PEOPLE too late, NEW YORK the azure-dreamed fable New York.

New York faszinert

New York fasziniert in den fruehen Morgenstunden wenn zwischen Pflaster und Himmelskristall die eleganten Wolkenkratzer gemmengleich stehn auf lachsrotem Grund

Schoen ist New York am Morgen am schoensten Sonntag frueh wenn Sirenen und Raeder schlafen kleine Stimmen von Parkbaeumen kollern der Hudson sich anpasst dem Ozean

ein Mensch dir begegnet und du siehst es ist wirklich ein MENSCH und du siehst es ist wirklich NEW YORK ein Maerchen schoen ersonnen subtil und stark

Die acht Millionen schlafenden Sonntagstraeumer haben noch nicht abgeschuettelt den Alpdruck der Woche

Zu spaet suchen sie wenn schon

Schatten die Gassen umarmen den MENSCHEN suchen

zu spaet NEW YORK

das blaugetraeumte Maerchen New York

I really like the sense of place in this poem of a stranger awaking to a new environment and its fairy tale quality. The word “kollern” apparently can mean goobled up – presumably by the flowing Hudson entering the sea. Derek Mahon and of course, W.H.Auden give voice to similar sensations too.

Categories
Literature Poetry

Discovering a new poet- Ciaran Carson

The town where I live has many barber shops, betting shops (gambling dens) and fortunately many charity shops. Since the end of lock-down, as part of the recovery process I have been raiding the latter and especially one which has a rich supply of poetry books. Taking advantage of my reduced price filter coffee at 50p per cup, I thumbed through, “Poems of the Decade”  in which I happened upon two remarkable poems about historic battles by Ciaran Carson.

Here is the start of a poem about Gallipoli from a collection called The War Correspondant.

Take sheds and stalls from Billingsgate,
glittering with scaling-knives and fish,
the tumbledown outhouses of English farmers’ yards
that reek of dung and straw, and horses
cantering the mewsy lanes of Dublin;

take an Irish landlord’s ruinous estate,
elaborate pagodas from a Chinese Delftware dish
where fishes fly through shrouds and sails and yards
of leaking ballast-laden junks bound for Benares
in search of bucket-loads of tea as black as tin;

The full poem may be found at https://genius.com/Ciaran-carson-the-war-correspondent-annotated

My knowledge of Gallipoli comes from a visit during a minitrek in the early seventies and in addition the outstanding film with Mel Gibson https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gallipoli_(1981_film) 

However, this poem is remarkable with the tumbledown and dilapidated nautical images. There is a clear underlying structure but the surreal images build throughout this poem. I particularly liked the word “mewsy” and there are clear political references in the poem. The situation along with the following poem “Balaklava” show the desperation of war and both battles show the limits of British Imperialism. There is a strange surrealism to the lines-

elaborate pagodas from a Chinese Delftware dish
where fishes fly through shrouds and sails and yards

These somehow reflect the weirdness and disorientation of the context. The Delft reference reminds me too of another favourite poet, Derek Mahon. Yet there is also an association as the poem progresses of Kipling. Then there is a reference to horses which were present in the cramped situation. They were there to move the heavy guns of the Anzac forces. 6100 horses were ready to disembark but only a few were actually put ashore. A search reveals-

After Gallipoli many moderate nationalists began to lose faith in the idea that supporting Britain in the war would assure Home Rule. … But it was in August that Irishmen arrived at Gallipoli in large numbers as part of Allied commander Sir Ian Hamilton’s plan to break the stalemate and go on the offensive.

Sadly in discovering this new poet, I also found how recent was his passing in October of last year https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ciaran_Carson

 

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The Chinese Restaurant in Portrush by Derek Mahon

Before the first visitor comes the spring
Softening the sharp air of the coast
In time for the first ‘invasion’.
Today the place is as it might have been,
Gentle and almost hospitable. A girl
Strides past the Northern Counties Hotel,
Light-footed, swinging a book-bag,
And the doors that were shut all winter
Against the north wind and the sea mist
Lie open to the street, where one
By one the gulls go window-shopping
And an old wolfhound dozes in the sun.

While I sit with my paper and prawn chow mein
Under a framed photograph of Hong Kong
The proprietor of the Chinese restaurant
Stands at the door as if the world were young,
Watching the first yacht hoist a sail
— An ideogram on sea-cloud – and the light
Of heaven upon the mountains of Donegal;
And whistles a little tune, dreaming of home.

Image result for Chinese restaurant

This is the third poem upon this theme following my previous posting. Notice that the place is only almost hospitable. This reservation is somehat typical of Mahon. Nevertheless there is a lovely  relaxed and informal feel about this poem and the sense that home is not entirely out of reach.
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Rising Late by Derek Mahon

Sun on the eyes, clear voices, open window,
birdsong; ponies clop by on the road below.
Whine of a chainsaw, the recurrent roar
of power tools from a building site next door
with crashing, rumbling, safety beep and buzz.
A seagull shadow flickers; harbour noise;
a honking coaster backs out from the quay.
Enter a fly, the vast breath of the sea.

Waking mid-morning to a springlike new year
and a new age of unbeauty, rage and fear
much like the last one, I wonder if
a time could ever come when human life,
relieved of ego and finance, might thrive
on the mere fact of existence. A naïve
hope, but naïve hopes are what open
the doors when January comes round again.

Such tiny houses, such enormous skies!
The vast sea-breath reminds us, even these days
as even more oil and junk slosh in the waves,
the future remains open…

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A Disused Shed in County Wexford by Derek Mahon

They are begging us, you see, in their wordless way,
To do something, to speak on their behalf
Or at least not to close the door again.
Lost people of Treblinka and Pompeii!
‘Save us, save us,’ they seem to say,
‘Let the god not abandon us
Who have come so far in darkness and in pain.
We too had our lives to live.
You with your light meter and relaxed itinerary,
Let not our naive labours have been in vain!’
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This is the final stanza of ten lines. The full poem may be found at https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/92154/a-disused-shed-in-co-wexford
The “Web-throated, stalked like triffids” i,e, some type of mushroom remind me of the deep impression that Anthony Gormley’s clay figurines made upon me when I saw them, years ago at the St Ives Tate.
Antony Gormley's Field for the British Isles at Barrington Court
See https://www.ntsouthwest.co.uk/2012/04/antony-gormleys-field-for-the-british-isles-arrives-at-barrington-court/
Categories
Literature Poetry St Ives Uncategorized

The Last of the Fire Kings -an extract from Derek Mahon

Five years I have reigned
During which time
I have lain awake each night

And prowled by day
In the sacred grove
For fear of the usurper,

Perfecting my cold dream
Of a place out of time,
A palace of porcelain

Where the frugivorous
Inheritors recline
In their rich fabrics
Far from the sea.

I find these few lines deeply even profoundly moving.  The whole poem may be found at http://www.troublesarchive.com/artforms/poetry/piece/the-last-of-the-fire-kings 

There it states,”Derek Mahon’s reference to an ancient curse can be construed as referring to the weight of tradition in Northern Ireland and the legacies of division and violence.” However, it is the mythological images that it conjures up and which I do not fully understand which particularly appeals to me. Although it may help a little to know that a frugivore is an animal that thrives mostly on raw fruits, succulent fruit-like vegetables, roots, shoots, nuts and seeds. It can be any type of herbivore or omnivore where fruit is a preferred food type.

For those interested in an analysis or interpretation of the whole poem, there is a PhD thesis from Durham at https://core.ac.uk/download/pdf/108461.pdf

Categories
Literature Poetry Uncategorized

Under the influence of both Louis MacNeice and Dylan Thomas

It is always a pleasure to discover a new poet as I did when I came across the following book locally, which I strongly recommend for its style and elegance ;-

The spirits have dispersed, the woods
faded to grey from midnight blue
leaving a powdery residue,
night music fainter, frivolous gods
withdrawing, cries of yin and yang,
discords of the bionic young;
cobweb and insects, hares and deer,
wild strawberries and eglantine,
dawn silence of the biosphere,
amid the branches a torn wing
— what is this enchanted place?

From The Dream Play
By Derek Mahon

More may be found at www.poetryoutloud.org/poems-and-performance/poems/detail/92168

Image result for derek mahon

 

Categories
German Matters Literature Uncategorized

Erinnerung an die Marie A. (Berthold Brecht)

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An jenem Tag im blauen Mond September
Still unter einem jungen Pflaumenbaum
Da hielt ich sie, die stille bleiche Liebe
In meinem Arm wie einen holden Traum.
Und über uns im schönen Sommerhimmel
War eine Wolke, die ich lange sah
Sie war sehr weiß und ungeheuer oben
Und als ich aufsah, war sie nimmer da.

Seit jenem Tag sind viele, viele Monde
Geschwommen still hinunter und vorbei.
Die Plaumenbäume sind wohl abgehauen
Und fragst du mich, was mit der Liebe sei?
So sag ich dir: Ich kann mich nicht erinnern
Und doch, gewiß, ich weiß schon, was du meinst.
Doch ihr Gesicht, das weiß ich wirklich nimmer
Ich weiß nur mehr: ich küßte sie dereinst.

Und auch den Kuß, ich hätt ihn längst vergessen
Wenn nicht die Wolke da gewesen wär
Die weiß ich noch und werd ich immer wissen
Sie war sehr weiß und kam von oben her.
Die Pflaumenbäume blühn vielleicht noch immer
Und jene Frau hat jetzt vielleicht das siebte Kind
Doch jene Wolke blühte nur Minuten
Und als ich aufsah, schwand sie schon im Wind.

Autor: Berthold Brecht
Titel: Gedichte 1918-1929
Verlag: Suhrkamp, Frankfurt, 1960

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This poem has been translated by the well-known poet, by Derek Mahon, where at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Derek_Mahon it is mentioned that he is interested in established verse forms and ekphrasis:(the poetic interpretation of visual art). Here is his version of Brecht which can be found in that excellent collection, The Faber Book of 20th Century German Poems edited by Michael Hoffmann.

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A Cloud

One evening in the blue month of September

We lay at peace beneath an apple bough:

I took her in my arms, my gentle lover,

And held her closely like a dream come true-

While far up in the tranquil summer heaven

There was a cloud, I saw it high and clear.

It was so white and so immense above us

And, as I watched, it was no longer there.

 

Since then so very many different evenings

Have drifted past in the general flow.

Perhaps the apple orchard has been flattened;

And if you ask me where the girl is now

I have to admit I really don’t remember.

I can imagine what you’re going to say

But even her face I truly can’t recapture

I only know I kissed it there that day.

 

Even the kiss I would have long forgotten

If that cloud had not been there too-

I see it and will always see it plainly,

So white and unexpected in the blue.

Perhaps the apple-boughs are back in blossom,

Maybe she holds a fourth child on her knees;

The cloud, though, hung there for a moment only

And, as I watched, it broke up in the breeze.

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Another Brecht Love PoemIch will mit dem gehen, den ich liebeIch will mit dem gehen, den ich liebe.
Ich will nicht ausrechnen, was es kostet.
Ich will nicht nachdenken, ob es gut ist.
Ich will nicht wissen, ob er mich liebt.
Ich will mit ihm gehen, den ich liebe.		 I want to go with the one I loveI want to go with the one I love.
I do not want to calculate the cost.
I do not want to think about whether it’s good.
I do not want to know whether he loves me.
I want to go with whom I love.