Visiting the kitten, poetry and a beautiful memoir

Juxtaposing completely unrelated things, as I am wont to do here on occasion: 

|  Branwell is growing so fast, or at least it seems like that to me, as I only see him every two weeks or so. He is at the stage where the shape of his head is trying to keep up with the growth of his features, and he has the cutest long nose. He is more like a dog in character, following you around in outbursts of enthusiasm, not afraid of water and generally a loyal, attention-seeking companion.

|  The third Skylight 47 issue is out, and I am delighted to have one of my paintings in it. If you like poetry (I certainly do), you will love Skylight 47.

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I am also reading Staring at Lakes by the Irish Times columnist Michael Harding, which ended up being kindly lent to me via serendipitous circumstances. This is a memoir filled with beautifully rendered insights into depression and anxiety, middle age, love, Ireland and the human spirit, told with warmth and often self-deprecating humour. I am neither male nor middle-aged, but it feels so right to be reading this at the moment (and it is another example of Gretchen Rubin's observation that we often learn more from "one person's highly idiosyncratic experiences" than from more general, universally applicable offerings, even if we have little in common on the outside.)

Art highlights

 In the Rivera Room at the DIA, with sunlight streaming in

This summer I was lucky to experience two art highlights:

- I got to see Diego Rivera's Detroit Industry Murals, something that had been on my bucket list (which exists loosely in my head and across various notebooks; I have never written one as such). It was impressive, and the new audio iPad tour is worth listening to in full.

- Earlier in the summer a friend invited me to a film about the wonderful artist Pauline Bewick. It explored her creation The Yellow Man (and her Grey Man, representing a darker side, who emerged from sessions with a Gestalt psychoanalyst) and was absolutely beautiful.

Yellow Man Grey Man is available from the director Maurice Galway's website. He currently has a gorgeous picture of Pauline from the film on his home page. There is more information, including a short video, in the news section of Pauline Bewick's website. 

"It's rather sad really. I was searching for the perfect society. That's why I went to The South Pacific and that's why I invented The Yellow Man. He to me is perfection. I created The Yellow Man because if our society were made up of Yellow Men it would be a marvellous place." ~ Pauline Bewick

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On a much smaller - but personal - scale, I was delighted to come home to the second issue of Skylight 47, a poetry publication, which included one of my paintings. 

 

Wear and Read

 

 

|  My sister made me a corset. It is a thing of beauty and I can see it being part of my "uniform" when working from home, to make me sit up that bit straighter and feel more able and in control. I realise the historical connotations would be rather the opposite. But I find it does wonders for one's breathing if you don't make it so tight it squashes all your vital organs. Her online shop is here, but will be transferred to another site when she leaves Germany.

|  I am much more of a baker than a cook, so I want to learn more about cooking. The Flavour Thesaurus is not only a great resource, explaining what goes with what and why, but also entertaining (sample: "If you ever feel a bit decadent tucking into bacon and eggs at breakfast, it may help to know that in pre-revolutionary Russia the Tsar's children started the day with a dish of mashed banana and caviar.") and a beautiful book.

|  The older I get the shorter my hemlines, it seems. For a good part of my teenage years I wore long floaty skirts; in my early twenties a much older boyfriend described my mid-length skirts as "granny-style"; and now I can often be seen in 1960s minidresses and shorts, including these yellow dotty ones.

|  Stag's Leap, Sharon Olds's book of poems about the break-up of her marriage, is a revelation, haunting and powerful, and deservedly won the T.S. Eliot Prize.

[All of the above are presents given to me by real people in my life, not blog freebies!]

Herzzeit - the correspondence between Paul Celan and Ingeborg Bachmann

I finished Herzzeit before I came back to Ireland and now regret that I didn't take it with me, as it is a book for re-reading, especially when revisiting the two writers' literary output. It is the correspondence between the two most important German post-war poets, Ingeborg Bachmann and Paul Celan. Celan's poetry has at its centre the Holocaust and language as the one thing that "remained secure against loss" (both his parents died in the camps), whereas Bachmann's work hinges on the struggles of a woman in a male-dominated world and her search for truthful expression. They are among my favourite poets, and my sister, who knows me well, recommended this book. I had been oblivious of this literary sensation - publication of the letters was supposed to be blocked until 2023, but released by the heirs in 2008.

This was a devastating, difficult read, particularly bearing in mind the tragic deaths of Celan and Bachmann, but also because of the palpable pain - often between the lines - that pertains to their doomed relationship: the misunderstandings, mistrust, missed opportunities and loneliness, and the hurt and subsequent arguments over the reception of Celan's work (critics attacking him; the Goll-affair, when Claire Goll accused him of plagiarism; him becoming a target for antisemites - all of which led to him feeling more and more alienated, angry and lost and made him fall out with friends who did not agree word-for-word with his response).

It may be almost unbearable to read at times, but it is also rewarding - there are a lot of passages where the language can compete or at least comes close to the impact of the poems. Ultimately, the letters provide insight into the dynamic between these two writers, lovers and friends, who came from such different backgrounds, and into their personalities, and how this relationship and the way it shaped them informed their work.

The book also includes poignant letters from Celan's wife Gisèle Lestrange-Celan to Bachmann (in the original French as well as the translation) and correspondence between Celan and Bachmann's lover of four years Max Frisch.

(There is an English translation.)

Love, life, etc.

Allardice, Lisa, "A Lesson in Love", p.20, Review Saturday Guardian 03.11.12

After I bemoaned my temporarily slow reading pace in my last post, I decided to remedy the situation, and today I have done little else but read. There are enough unread books in my house to last me well into the new year, but thanks to the Guardian's Review section, my to-read list is ever-growing, and with the allure of the new I can become greedy. I have to remind myself that the unread books I already have are just as new as the ones that are out there in the world waiting. I will resist the temptation to buy new books for now, but I suddenly feel it is absolutely vital for me to read Colette.

I have never read anything by her, but I think I will enjoy Break of Day (her memoir-as-fiction account of spending a summer alone in her house and garden in the middle of her life, turning to the natural world and away from love), which has been reissued by Capuchin Classics. I am still reading Marion Milner, and this appears to be similar territory, if completely different in style - women artists finding themselves seems to be a recurring theme for me. And of course I couldn't help noting that Colette was a crazy cat lady - another recurring theme and something I aspire to...

In the meantime, I am going back to poetry. I don't tend to re-read novels, unless they are favourites, but the great thing about books of poetry is that they get re-read - and thus energised - a lot (I do subscribe to the Feng Shui view that books that just sit on a shelf untouched become dead energy).

Sylvia Plath was one of my first loves. Faber and Faber has just published a collection of her poems chosen by Carol Ann Duffy, and in her article for the Guardian she emphasises that, although influenced by confessional poetry, for Plath "craft was as important as the exploration of self", that her poems move beyond the life they draw from and take on a life themselves. Duffy also reminds us that despite the often dark themes, there is a playfulness to Plath's work, which displays her "great appetite for the sensuous experience" and her interest and delight in the shaping of the poem. 

"Poets are ultimately celebrators, of life and poetry itself. A vocational poet like Plath gives life back to us in glittering language - life with great suffering, yes, but also with with melons, spinach, figs, children and countryside, moles, bees, snakes, tulips, kitchens and friendships." (Duffy, Carol Ann, "Permission Not To Be Nice", p. 14, Review Saturday Guardian, 03.11.12)

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Speaking of poetry, I love this from William Carlos Williams's Paterson, posted by Leo Babauta on Zen Habits today.

Annie Leibovitz and Emily Dickinson's dress

"...I found myself drawn to the detail in the dress, the alabaster buttons and the trim. If you took a picture of the whole dress, from far away, it was just a simple white dress. But if you came closer, there was a beautiful ornateness to it. For someone who spent most of her time quietly by herself, the details would have been wonderful to contemplate. And to feel. They weren't meant for anyone else." 

(Leibovitz, Annie: Pilgrimage; Jonathan Cape, London 2011, p. 22)

I only got this book today, so there are still hours of reading and viewing pleasure ahead of me, but it starts with shots of Emily Dickinson's house and that of her brother, Austin, and I would have bought it for that part alone. Dickinson was Susan Sontag's favourite poet. Sontag and Leibovitz had planned a Beauty Book that would allow them to travel to places they cared about and for Leibovitz to take pictures when she was moved to do so, rather than with an agenda as when on an assignment. After Sontag's death, she found herself unable to go ahead with the project, but instead produced something similar, with her own list of places, and it turned into Pilgrimage.

Solitude

"If your everyday life seems to lack material, do not blame it; blame yourself, tell yourself that you are not poet enough to summon up its riches; for there is no lack for him who creates and no poor, trivial place."
(Rilke, Rainer Maria: Letters to a Young Poet, Penguin Classics, London 2011, p.8)

This quote is reassuring as well as challenging, and it immediately made me think of Emily Dickinson's poetry, which is incredibly rich and complex, even though she lived the life of a recluse. I am fascinated by those living simple, secluded lives and their creative output (probably because I am an introvert and a bit of a hermit myself). Of course interaction with others can be stimulating and productive, but I often find that the best ideas come to me in periods of isolation and solitude, and too many people and too much talk just leave me drained and unable to think clearly. So a lot of the thoughts expressed by Rilke in these letters resonate with me.

I find myself more and more in favour of a small life - I can honestly say that I never get bored when I spend quiet time at home. Our inner lives hold abundance, and as long as I can read (which provides plenty of vicarious experience anyway), listen to music and create, I am content. This week has been quite the opposite of solitude - I only returned to my house to sleep - and I am craving some time alone, with my notebooks and a drawing pad.

Poetry and passion

"Memorizing lines engages a person with the rhythms of another mind and allows the thought of another, perfectly preserved, to act as a comfort to be turned to in emergencies, like a house that remains standing."  ~ Molly Peacock, The Paper Garden, Bloomsbury, London 2011, p. 52

"One woman told me that she uses the complete works of Emily Dickinson as a form of I Ching: 'Wherever it falls open, I know I will find something there.' "  ~ Daisy Goodwin in The Sunday Times, 14/08/2011

Poetry and felt mouse

When I was a teenager and in my early twenties I consumed poetry daily. I'd spend a lot of time in the poetry sections of bookshops, and when I bought the Bloodaxe anthology Staying Alive, it was one of those defining book moments: it seemed to contain everything I could hope for; the poems expressed things I had thought inexpressible.

Recently I found out that a third anthology has been published (Being Human - the second was Being Alive). I still haven't bought it. When I saw the book I realised I haven't bought a poetry book in quite a long time. I have some favourite poems up on my walls and mirrors, I read reviews of poetry every week (and have been putting titles on a reading list), but I haven't actively sought out poetry in a while.

These days I feel I am returning to it. I have been thinking about my younger self, who was so passionate about discovering a new book/CD/artist. I still am, but it hasn't been happening as often (this may be due in part to the easy availability of everything in the internet age - in the past I never really ordered anything, but instead found things, which is more gratifying, and if I got a recommendation, I searched for the item for ages, and finding it at last would come with a sense of achievement). This visceral joy and excitement when I stumble upon a great book or hear a beautiful piece of music makes me feel engaged and connected with something bigger. It happened recently with The Paper Garden, which coincidentally is written by a poet and which I found in a museum bookshop. 

I got a glimpse of it again when I was in West Cork (see last post) and then again yesterday when I watched American Beauty for the second time after twelve years and it got me thinking and I ended up reading up on it. 

I'm not sure why I am linking it to poetry (it could be anything), but somehow I see the passionate, enthusiastic me as a poetry-reading person. A poem can instantly catapult you into this state of wonder. I will get that new anthology.

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This is a poem I discovered through Natalie Merchant's interpretation of it; it continues to haunt me:

Equestrienne

See, they are clearing the sawdust course

For the girl in pink on the milk-white horse.

Her spangles twinkle; his pale flanks shine,

Every hair of his tail is fine

And bright as a comet's; his mane blows free,

And she points a toe and bends a knee,

And while his hoofbeats fall like rain

Over and over and over again.

And nothing that moves on land or sea 

Will seem so beautiful to me

As the girl in pink on the milk-white horse

Cantering over the sawdust course.

~Rachel Field (1894-1942)

El mar

The only thing that keeps me sane sometimes...
A veces es la única cosa que me mantiene cuerda...




The voice of the sea is seductive, never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander for a spell in abysses of solitude, to lose itself in mazes of inward contemplation.

from The Awakening by Kate Chopin

...and our breathlessness as we run
to the beach endlessly,
as the sun creeps up on the sea.

"Lille" by Lisa Hannigan

La voz del mar es seductor, no cesa nunca, susurrando, gritando, murmurando, invitando al alma a pasear por un rato dentro de abismos de soledad, perderse en laberintos de contemplación interna.
El Despertar, Kate Chopin

...y jadeantes corremos
hacia la playa infinitamente,
mientras el sol se acerca al mar.
"Lille" de Lisa Hannigan, una cantante irlandesa. Esto no se traduce muy bien, disculpad.

Neruda

This is one of my favourite poems by Pablo Neruda.

Note: I wasn't able to get the Spanish "n" with the tilde. I tried copying and pasting from WORD, but that didn't work. So instead I used "nh"

Te recuerdo como eras en el último otonho.
Eras la boina gris y el corazón en calma.
En tus ojos peleaban las llamas del crepúsculo.
Y las hojas caían en el agua de tu alma.

Apegada a mis brazos como una enredadera,
las hojas recogían tu voz lenta y en calma.
Hoguera de estupor en que mi sed ardía.
Dulce jacinto azul torcido sobre mi alma.

Siento viajar tus ojos y es distante el otonho:
boina gris, voz de pájaro y corazón de casa
hacia donde emigraban mis profundos anhelos
y caían mis besos alegres como brasas.

Cielo desde un navío. Campo desde los cerros.
Tu recuerdo es de luz, de humo, de estanque en calma!
Más allá de tus ojos ardían los crepúsculos.
Hojas secas de otonho giraban en tu alma.

Pablo Neruda, "Poema VI", Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada


I remember you as you were that last autumn.
You were a grey beret and a calm heart.
In your eyes the flames of twilight were fighting.
And the leaves were falling in the waters of your soul.

You were clinging to my arms like a climbing plant.
The leaves gathered your voice, slow and calm.
Bonfire of awe, in which my thirst was burning.
Sweet blue hyacinth twisted over my soul.

I feel your eyes travelling, and autumn is far away:
Grey beret, voice of a bird, and a heart like a house
Toward which my deepest yearning migrated
And my kisses were falling like hot embers.

The sky from a ship. The field from the hills.
Your memory is of light, of smoke, of a still pool.
Beyond your eyes the twilight was burning.
Dry autumn leaves were whirling in your soul.

(my own translation)