VRZHU bullets of pure love

Librivox Poetry

  One thing most of us agree on: sound is an important part of a poem for most  poetry. As with everything else in poetry (or so it seems) this is a spectrum, which runs from poems where sound isn't important at all (concrete poetry) to poems where sound is the whole point (sound poems).But I think most poems fall somewhere between these two.

Sound is also the most problematic element in translation--one that is almost always lost as a poem moves from one language to another.  There have been translations that attempt to keep the sounds of the original poem. These use  various homophonic procedures. The most notable example is probably Zukofsky’s Catullus, which is both brilliant and weird. You could still argue, though, that even this extreme attempt is only an approximation at best.

So with a few exceptions, most translations abandon the sound—and music—of the original. 

As a corollary, lots of poets when writing poems say them out loud during  some part of their composing.  There's the story about Cavafy's office mates hearing him in his office talk out loud to himself as he wrote.

Which brings me to Librivox.org.  Librivox, though, is an online project much like Bartleby, or Project Gutenberg. LibriVox uses volunteers to record chapters of books in the public domain, and then releases the audio files back onto the net for free. Their goal is to make all public domain books available as free audio books. They operate on no money, encourage you to copy the files and share them with friends, and they’ve refused all buy out offers. I’m in awe of their idealism and smarts.

There are, of course, a plethora of good sites on the internet (such as Ubuweb and the Electronic Poetry Center at Buffalo) where you can click and hear poems.  Also there are CD’s of poetry  such as Ian McKellen reading Robert Fagles’ translation of The Odyssey.

On a recent browse I found that Librivox has produced 3 sets of poetry in other languages.  The languages run from Afrikaans to Esperanto (nothing in Zulu yet). I haven’t listened to all or even most of the poems yet, but what I have heard is of very good quality.  Librivox also has recorded poetry in English too, but the Multilingual Poetry Collections are a treat.

Here’s complete list:

Multilingual Poetry Collection 001

Afrikaans - Oktobermaand by C. Louis Leipoldt
Brazilian Portuguese - Cancao do Exilio by Goncalves Dias - :
Brazilian Portuguese - Coracao Perdido by Machado de Assis
Brazilian Portuguese - Flor da Mocidade by Machado de Assis
Chinese - Qing Zhou Duan Zhao by Ouyang Xiu
Esperanto - Al kavaliroj de la paco by Julio Baghy
French - Le Lac by Alphonse de Lamartine
German - Der Panther by Rainer Maria Rilke
German - Er ist’s by Eduard Moerike
German - Der Erlkoenig by Johann Wolfgang Goethe
German - Der Zauberlehrling by Johann Wolfgang Goethe - :
Hebrew - Axarey Moti by Hayyim Nachman Bialik
Hebrew - Rak Al Atzmi by Rachel Blubstein
Japanese - Kouen no isu by Sakutaro Hagiwara
Latin - Eclogue IV by Vergil
Old Norse - Voluspa by Anonymous
Portuguese - Escreve-me by Florbela Espanca
Portuguese - Se tu viesses ver-me by Florbela Espanca
Spanish - En Paz by Amado Nervo
Tagalog - Araw ng Kamusmusan by Ursula O. Maderal

Multilingual Poetry Collection 002

Brazilian Portuguese - Icaro by Machado de Assis
Chinese - Chu Chun Xiao Yu by Han Yu
Chinese - Yuan Ri by Wang Anshi
Czech - Svatebni Kosile by Karel Jaromir Erben
Dutch - De Pruimenboom by Van Alphen
Dutch - Eliza’s vlucht by Ter Haar
French - Alchimie du verbe by Arthur Rimbaud
French - La Geante by Charles Baudelaire
French - Le ciel est by Paul Verlaine
French - Le Revenant by Charles Baudelaire
French - L’Oreiller d’une petite fille by Marceline Desbordes-Valmore
French - Lorsque l’enfant parait… by Victor Hugo
German - Hero und Leander by Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller
Irish - Amhran na bhFiann by Peader Kearney/Bulmer Hobson
Russian - How do I love Thee by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Russian - Teni sizye smesilis’ by Fyodor Tutchev
Scots - Comin Thro’ the Rye by Robert Burns
Spanish - Los Naranjos by Ignacio Manuel Altamirano
Spanish - Soneto Watteau by Juan Jose Tablada
Welsh - yr eos yn y llwyn bedw by Dafydd ap Gwilym

Multilingual Poetry Collection 003

Bengali - Banshi by Rabindranath Tagore
Chinese - Qing Ming by Du Mu
Chinese - Shui Diao Ge Tou by Su Shi
Chinese - Song Yuan Er Shi An Xi by Wang Wei
Dutch - Holland by C.S. Adama van Scheltema
Dutch - Lieve kleine jongens by Hieronymus van Alphen
Esperanto - Lobster Quadrille by Lewis Carroll
French - A la Belgique by Emile Verhaeren
French - Chanson by Victor Hugo
French - Je vous salue Marie by Francis Jammes
French - Namouna chant troisieme by Alfred de Musset
French - Sagesse by Paul Verlaine
German - Sie war ein Bluemlein by Wilhelm Busch
Italian - Davanti San Guido by Giousue Carducci
Italian - Fine della fanciullezza by Eugenio Montale
Italian - Il cinque maggio by Alessandro Manzoni
Polish - Moja Piosnka by Cyprian Norwid
Polish - Oda do Mlodosci by Adam Mickiewicz
Spanish - En Su Tumba by Ignacio Manuel Altamirano
Spanish - Pensando En Ella by Ignacio

Vrzhu Readings for September 28 through 30

Friday, September 28, 6:30 pm

The Poet Experience: Hiram Larew and Kim Roberts

Zu Coffee, 923 Bay Ridge Ave., Giant Shopping Center, Annapolis, MD. (410) 990-0731. Hosted by Rocky Jones. Free admission.

http://www.zucoffee.com Come be part of a poetry reading and open mic night at Zü Coffee every fourth Friday of the month! Sit back and listen to poems and stories from some amazing poets and (if you would like) bring some of your own poems to share. This September 28, join hosts Cliff Lynn and Rocky Jones in greeting our featured poets: Hiram Larew and Kim Roberts.

Larew is a published poet whose collection "Part Of" was recognized by the City of Baltimore in their Artscape Poetry Awards. He is published in over 80 journals and his second collection, "More than Anything" is available now.

Roberts is the editor of the Beltway Poetry Quarterly (http://washingtonart.com/beltway/contents.html) , and is published in countless anthologies and has two books in print: The Kimnama and The Wishbone Galaxy.

Both authors' new books are available from the publisher at http://www.vrzhu.com/books.html

Saturday September 29 at 3:00 pm
Attic: Maryland State Poetry and Literary Society publication reading
Saturday September 29 at 6:00 pm
Barbara Simon tribute reading
Baltimore Book Festival
Outdoors around Mount Vernon Place
600 block of N. Charles Street
Baltimore, MD
(410) 752-8632

Sunday, September 30 at 1:30 pm
Vrzhu Press Reading
Baltimore Book Festival
Outdoors around Mount Vernon Place
600 block of N. Charles Street
Baltimore, MD
(410) 752-8632
Free Admission

Praise for Larew and Roberts & From Our Research Bureau

Both of Vrzhu's inaugural books, The Kimnama and More Than Anything make the Best Books for Fall Reading list at the Montserrat Review here  This is another well deserved accolade for poets Kim Roberts (The Kimnama) and Hiram Larew (More Than Anything). Congrats!

*    *    *    *    *    *    *   *

We here in the research arm of Vrzhu Press are working [tirelessly] to improve the lot of poets, and consumers of poetry alike.

However.  Bethatasitmay. We also recognize that sometimes poetic efforts, effluvia and extravasations are not wanted or desired.

As such, one of the R&D efforts here in the warrens and catacombs of the VRB is to assist those for whom poetry is not an occasion, but a nuisance.  Here is a short summary of our initial research and a peek at one of our many products in continuous development.

Poem Infestation

Poems are among the most difficult household pests to control. Except for submission periods when they may migrate from place to place,  poems spend their entire life inside buildings. Usually they are found in libraries, bathrooms and bedrooms. They can be carried into homes in shopping bags, backpacks, furniture and pet foods.

Poems are one of the most disagreeable literary genres that may invade homes. While it is not true that an unkept home will cause a poem infestation, there is indeed a strong correlation between sanitation and poems once an infestation gets started.  The presence of poems often causes serious mental anguish for some homeowners. Poems often associate themselves with teenagers and are known to be involved in the spread of negative emotions which cause mild depression, self-absorption, herbal tea drinking, and more serious melodramatic behavior. Some people appear to be allergic to poems.

The exact origin of our domestic poems is disputed, but many are European, South American and Eastern in origin and now are widely distributed throughout the country. In most areas, homeowners are commonly bothered by five different categories of poems: confessional, experimental, accessible, surreal (which has a subcategory, deepimage), and nature poems, which are more at home outdoors but can also get into the house.

Species

The American poem may grow from one to several hundred pages. It can be identified by its normal markings: ragged, sloppy right margins and, frequently, a body segmented into “stanzas.”  There is not much reliable information about any one poem’s lifespan, which nonetheless seems to be highly variable: from a few minutes to many years or stretching cycles of years.

Oriental poems, or haiku, are uniform and small in appearance, no more than seventeen syllables long when full-grown and are easily recognized by their short lines, though mutations are possible. The haiku seems to be equally at home inside human habitation and outdoors, where they can be found near ponds or blossoms or other similar areas.

The European poem is larger, usually darker, but vary greatly in appearance and pronunciation. The European poem is quite active and can easily migrate throughout communities thus becoming a major pest, however, it seems to only truly thrive in the presence of American poems, a symbiotic relationship our poentomologists have termed “translation.”  Even so, a troublesome infestation can develop rapidly after the chance introduction of just a few individual poems. It is an unsettled question whether the South American poem, whose habits and behavior are almost identical to the European, is a subspecies, or is an entirely different species.

Another poem sometimes found invading the home is the Woodsy poem. This species lives outdoors and is not as fast nor as wary as its house-dwelling relatives. They may wander into buildings in wooded areas, or may be brought into the house under false pretenses. The males of this species (garysnyderus) are long-lived and have a rough appearance. The females (maryoliveria) are much more reclusive but probably more widespread.

Integrated Poem Management

It is easier (and less costly) to prevent poems from entering a structure than it is to get rid of them.  They can be discouraged from invading buildings by sealing cracks and crevices in foundations and outside walls. Careful inspection of all anthologies and omnibus selections is essential, as poems have been known to hide within large tracts of prose.

Carefully inspect all incoming books, magazines, and junk mail for the presence of poems or references to them.

Control

Unfortunately no method for controlling poems has proven universally successful. We here in the Vrzhu Research Bureau are working on a safe, convenient method of eliminating poem infestations when they occur.

Margaret Atwood's "The Door"

Because I am impatient as hell, I ordered Margaret Atwood's new collection of poetry, The Door, from Amazon.ca.The book won't be released in the states until early November, but I have the Canadian edition in my hot little hands right now. Atwood's poetry is often overlooked because of her bestselling and prize-winning novels like, The Handmaid's Tale and Alias Grace, but I can assure you that her poetry is just as good if not better. The Door is her first collection since 1995's brilliant Morning in the Burned House. I was beginning to wonder if she would publish another collection. It was worth the wait, although the tone of this collection is not quite what I expected.

Morning in the Burned House was a devastating arc dealing mostly with Atwood's beloved father's battle with Alzheimers disease. The uncertainty, fear and grief were sharp as a knife and many of the poems in the collection still bring a lump to my throat. The Door ranges from the whimsical to the political, with ironic twists and lyrical phrasing. While there are lines that will still make you catch your breath, there is a looseness in both the construction and choice of words than I've never seen in Atwood's work. She's always written in prose style, but it seems more pronounced here. Sadly, there are also a few duds...some that wouldn't even cut high school lit mag mustard. Luckily, the good poems outweigh the clunkers.

Some of the most pointed poems in The Door are about the nature of poets and poetry readings. Like this from "Poetry Reading":

Watching the poet - the well-known poet -
ransacking his innards, laying out
his full stock of destructive thoughts
and shameful lusts,
his stale hatreds, his weak but shrill ambitions,
you don't know whether to be scornful or grateful:
he's doing our confession for us.

Atwood also expertly marries "nature" poetry with the personal, finding the sexual and sensual, horror and humanity in animals and plants in the landscape around us. Her take on the political climate is subtle and doesn't choose sides - except peace. This is from "White Cotton T-Shirt":

White cotton T-shirt: an innocent garment then.
It made its way to us from the war, but we didn't know that.
For us it was the vestment of summer,
whiter than white, shining with whiteness
because it had been washed in blood, but we didn't know that,
and in the cropped sleeve, rolled up tightly
into a cuff, were tucked the cigarettes,
also white within their packet, also innocent,
as were white panties, white convertibles,
white-blond brush-cuts,
and the white, white teeth of the lilting smiles
of the young men.

Atwood, who will celebrate her 68th birthday in November, also faces her own aging and mortality with a sense of ironic humor. From "One Day You Will Reach..."

Instead of fear, you'll be handed
a kind of dutiful respect
that isn't really serious
and will find yourself and object
of secret jocularity
like a preposterous expensive hat.

Like many of her previous poems, Atwood often ends a poem with a question, leaving the reader to find their own answer and meaning to to the words that came before. It's interactive in the most sublime way. In "The Weather," Atwood wonders if mankind is to blame for destruction by wind and water that never mentions New Orleans, but it must have been on her mind.

It's blind and deaf and stupendous,
and has no mind of its own.
Or does it? What if it does?
Suppose you were to pray to it,
what would you say?

Out of the 51 poems, maybe 10 are tepid, but even Atwood's lesser work is better than the majority of the poets publishing today. There are cliche phrases and images in several that will make you wince. In "Mourning for Cats" (the title alone is circumpsect), Atwood laments "fuzzy and trusting" lost pets that are "stashed somewhere near the heart." I love animals, but this poem makes Atwood sound like one of those old single ladies who lives with 80 cats. Luckily, these are few and far between.

Make sure to put The Door at the top of your wish list. I leave you with this haunting stanza from the title poem:

The door swings open:
O god of hinges,
god of long voyages,
you have kept the faith.
It's dark in there.
You confide yourself to the darkness.
You step in.
The door swings closed.

The Kimnama in the Alsop Review

Cheryl Snell reviews Kim Roberts' The Kimnama in the Alsop Review.

Feel the love:

"The dualities of the poem, light and dark, beauty and ugliness, the modern and the ancient, all come together by imagining the whole. Czeslaw Milosz reminds us “how difficult it is to remain just one person/ for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors, /and invisible guests come in and out at will.” Each guest is valued in the resonant, musical work that is The Kimnama."

Thank you, Cheryl! And Kim, stop blushing over there. Bask!

Vrzhu bullets of pure love - the Boone's Farm of Poetry Blogs!

Saturday Chrestomathy, or avoiding responsibility by mindlessly drifting through the internet like a pelagic invertebrate so you don't have to.

1. There's been talk and articles about computers writing poetry. But what about robots, huh?  I bet robots could totally produce some boffo sonnets.

2. If you are writer (which, if you are reading this, you probably are, because you're avoiding writing, which I am too, by writing this) then you know that rejection shouldn't be taken personally. It doesn't mean the editor hates you.  Probably.  But haven't we all wanted to do this, or this:

Enjoy the weekend, damas y caballeros!

Kim Roberts on the Blogosphere

A number of great blogs have recently run features on our very own Kim Roberts.

C.M. Mayo has a nice post about Kim, where she calls the author of The Kimnama, "DC's Poetry Goddess.  Check it out at Madam Mayo. 

Over at Shiva's Arms, Cheryl Snell asked Kim to guest blog about her use of travel journals in constructing first drafts of The Kimnama.  Check it out at Shiva's Arms.

Sarah Browning reviews The Kimnama on her site.  The Poets Against War board member writes:

"Emotional issues live at the heart of the work -- faith, compassion, our human differences and similarities -- always treated with nuance and understatement. And yet the poet is unafraid to let love stand as the final and central touchstone..."

Read the full review on Sarah Browning's Blog.

Lastly, Didi Menendez, editor of Mi Poesias has started a fascinating new blog highlighting women publishers.  Her interview with Kim can be found at Women On The Web.

Vrzhu bullets of pure love - the Champagne of Poetry Blogs!

I stole that.

Samuel Johnson was born 298 years ago today.  Probably.

He's better known today for anything other than his poetry, but a poet he was nevertheless. And you have to admire someone who can write a poem with the utterly depressing title of The Vanity of Human Wishes. He is also one of the most famous recipients of "tasteful speculation:" stories told, anecdotes recounted, witticisms repeated.

Why is it that much of Augustan poetry seems less agreeable to us than poetry of the previous century or so?  Marlowe, Willy the Shake, [Ben] Jonson, the metaphysicals like Donne and Restorationites like Herrick and Wilmot seem closer to us for some reason.  Perhaps they're foreign enough to be interesting again? Or are our times consonant with theirs? Are we living in a neo-Restoration? What fun times they were, eh? Friends o' the court with special privileges...magnificent military sorties...a king with the [very] common touch...do not displease him for he shall banish thee...

Here's some quotes by Sam on poetry:

On the principle that if it sounds good, it is good:

"Since the end of poetry is pleasure, that cannot be unpoetical with which all are pleased."

On MFA programs:

"To a poet nothing can be useless.  Whatever is beautiful and whatever is dreadful must be familiar to his imagination:  he must be conversant with all that is awfully vast or elegantly little.  The plants of the garden, the animals of the wood, the minerals of the earth, and meteors of the sky, must all concur to store his mind with inexhaustible variety..."

On confessional poetry:

"A long poem of mere sentiments becomes tedious;  though all the parts are forcible, and every line kindles new rapture, the reader, if not relieved by the interposition of something that soothes the fancy, grows weary of admiration, and defers the rest."

***

Here a vid (Number 3 of 3)

Happy Birthday, WCW & Poetry Vid 2 of 3

William Carlos Williams was born one hundred and twenty-four years ago today.

It is a well known fact that Ezra Pound was insanely jealous of Williams' palindromic intitials, and left America because of them.

WCW was a jersey boy, and, in his later years, penned some of the lyrics for The Four Seasons (Walk Like A Man, Don't Think Twice It's Alright) anonymously.

I believe Williams' was responsible for the third, and ultimately more successful (though much contested), branch of modernism.

Here's a poem by Bill:

Tract      
by William Carlos Williams

I will teach you my townspeople

how to perform a funeral--

for you have it over a troop

of artists--

unless one should scour the world--

you have the ground sense necessary.

See! the hearse leads.

I begin with a design for a hearse.

For Christ's sake not black--

nor white either--and not polished!

Let it be weathered--like a farm wagon--

with gilt wheels (this could be

applied fresh at small expense)

or no wheels at all:

a rough dray to drag over the ground.

Knock the glass out!

My God--glass, my townspeople!

For what purpose? Is it for the dead

to look out or for us to see

how well he is housed or to see

the flowers or the lack of them--

or what?

To keep the rain and snow from him?

He will have a heavier rain soon:

pebbles and dirt and what not.

Let there be no glass--

and no upholstery, phew!

and no little brass rollers

and small easy wheels on the bottom--

my townspeople what are you thinking of?

A rough plain hearse then

with gilt wheels and no top at all.

On this the coffin lies

by its own weight.

           No wreaths please--

especially no hot house flowers.

Some common memento is better,

something he prized and is known by:

his old clothes--a few books perhaps--

God knows what! You realize

how we are about these things

my townspeople--

something will be found--anything

even flowers if he had come to that.

So much for the hearse.

For heaven's sake though see to the driver!

Take off the silk hat! In fact

that's no place at all for him--

up there unceremoniously

dragging our friend out to his own dignity!

Bring him down--bring him down!

Low and inconspicuous! I'd not have him ride

on the wagon at all--damn him--

the undertaker's understrapper!

Let him hold the reins

and walk at the side

and inconspicuously too!

Then briefly as to yourselves:

Walk behind--as they do in France,

seventh class, or if you ride

Hell take curtains! Go with some show

of inconvenience; sit openly--

to the weather as to grief.

Or do you think you can shut grief in?

What--from us? We who have perhaps

nothing to lose? Share with us

share with us--it will be money

in your pockets.

                         Go now

I think you are ready.

****

And here's a vid. enjoy.

Happy Birthday, Hans Arp and Jean Arp & Poetry Video 1 of 3

Bit late with this entry, had to finish a small domestic project. Apologies to Jean, Hans, Jheaanns.

Hans/Jean was born 121 years ago today.

The first of any of Robert Motherwell's great series of books (Documents of 20th Century Art) I saw was Hans Arp's big yellow Arp On Arp: 513 pages of poems, essays, and memoir, but mostly poems.

Arp avoided the German draft by taking the paperwork he'd been given, writing the date in the first blank, then writing the date in all the other blanks, drawing a line underneath and carefully adding them up. He then took off all of his clothes and went to hand in his paper work, and was told to go home.

There is a book to be written on anecdotes of how various people avoided the draft.

Arp's wife, the artist Sophie Taeuber-Arp, died in an accident (stove, leaking valve) in 1943.

Here's a poem Arp wrote in 1944. Surrealism and Dada aside (not because they should be dismissed, but just because) I find this lovely and romantic.

Sophie Dreamed Sophie Painted Sophie Danced

You would always dream of winged stars
Of flowers cajoling flowers
On the lips of infinity,
Of light sources blossoming out,
Of symmetrical bloomings,
Of breathing silks,
Of serene sciences,
Far from the houses of a thousand darts
And the prostrations of naïve deserts,
Among a thousand untidy miracles.
You dreamed of things that rest in the immutable home of light.
You painted an unveiled rose,
A bouquet of waves,
A live crystal.

You painted the shells
That you gathered on the beach
And arranged on the drawing table
Around a large shell
Like a flock around its shepherd.
You painted a teardrop in the dew,
A teardrop among pearls.
You painted the radiance that makes the heart beat,
The gentleness that makes lips stir.
You painted the night that hangs out the stars,
The bright sleep,
The own sweet will of flowers.

You danced the dawn that spilled over the earth.
You danced the trembling garden of daybreak.
You danced in the quilted landscape of the moon
With the mischievous gnomes of darkness.
You danced the nude who loses his toy of air,
The pleasure that sobs dispossessed.
You danced six vermilion armchairs
And were wiser that the brains of six philosophers,
The ivory scaffold darkening in the lava of gloom,
The laughter of the dust,
The southern night and it cricket chirpings.
You danced farewell.

***

And here's a vid: