Finding Words

Something that I have started doing in the last year is writing poetry. I was struggling with a novel (my usual state) and decided to take a step back, to find some way of freeing up my thoughts and language. I've only written one poem in my life, in sonnet form. If you like you can search it out here in the deep recesses of my blog.

Since then, I've written a few prose poems. I'm freeing up, with the encouragement and amazingly insightful critiques of my writing group. Oh yes, I joined one of those too, and they are really special people, for whom eating and drinking is as important as writing and sharing. My kind of people.

Well, my poetry is for them right now. So here I'd like to share a poem by a true master, Pablo Neruda, inspired by my other passion, pottery. The English translation comes after the original Spanish.


EL ALFARERO

Todo tu cuerpo tiene
copa o dulzura destinada a mi.

Cuando subo la mano
encuentro en cada sitio una paloma
que me buscaba, como
si te hubieran, amor, hecho de arcilla
para mis propias manos de alfarero.


Tus rodillas. tus senos,
tu cintura
faltan en mi como en el hueco
de una tierra sedienta
de la que desprendieron
una forma,
y juntos
somos completos como un solo rio,
como una sola arena.The Potter

~~~~~

THE POTTER

Your whole body has
a fullness or a gentleness destined for me.

When I move my hand up
I find in each place a dove
that was seeking me, as
if they had, love, made you of clay
for my own potter's hands.

Your knees, your breasts,
your waist
are missing parts of me like the hollow
of a thirsty earth
from which they broke off
a form,
and together
we are complete like a single river,
like a single grain of sand.

Perfection

I was at a wedding at the end of August, between two lovely young people involved in the classical music scene in the city: both talented and delightful. What struck me, apart from the expected pleasure (the beauty of bride, the emotions of the speeches, the joy of the crowd), was the musical selection. In my opinion, it couldn't have been done better. What made it more special was that the highly talented young opera singers who performed are all good friends of the bride and groom:

~ the processional music was "Soave sia il vento" (Così fan tutte) and then "Laudate Dominum" (Mozart)

~ during the register signing, it was Strauss's Morgen

 ~ the recessional was the love duet (piano version) from Götterdämmerung's Prologue

~ at the start of the reception the bride and groom danced to Ella Fitzgerald singing Night and Day

~ during a pause in the speeches, the groom told us that his new wife had always encouraged him to keep at his solo piano career; in her honour he played her favourite piece, Clair de Lune

~ An English language version of "Mann und Weib" (from The Magic Flute) used their names in place of "Mann" and "Weib" and opera singers popped up all over the ballroom to join in.

~ an e.e. cummings poem (used in Hannah and Her Sisters) was the reading during the ceremony:

somewhere i have never travelled,
gladly beyond somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond 
any experience, your eyes have their silence: 
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, 
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me 
though i have closed myself as fingers, 
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain,has such small hands

Total. Heartfelt. Perfection.

A Few Grateful Moments

~ I sat for a long time recently, in a sort of dream, my fingers idly stroking the wilting creamy petals of a vase of roses.

~ A while ago I slipped in a massive and ungraceful fashion on a large, invisible puddle in the supermarket. I literally went flying and came down - bang! - on my right hip. I had a couple of bruises and waited with bated breath for my body to start screaming in pain the next day, or the next. It never happened. I'm seriously grateful for still being pretty bouncy.

~ While shopping with my mum, we saw a stroller out of which peeked a pair of very tiny baby feet. Not so tiny as to be newborn with its shrivelled, wrinkly pinkness; these feet were probably a month old, with that pillowy chubbiness, yet still very small. At the end of those tiny pin-cushion puffy feet were teeny tiny toes, wiggling in slow motion, as though being stirred by a gentle breeze. Each toe was like a perfect small pearl. I recalled this hysterical Onion feature, as we both remarked on how nibblable those little toes were.

~ I was called back for a re-do of my first mammogram ever. Gulp. I thought of this clip. I had the re-do, then I had to wait for an ultrasound. I was told that the results would be sent to my gyno in a few days. But after my prolonged ultrasound, the technician asked me to wait while she showed the results to a doctor. I lay there ready for the worst. I lay there a long time, bargaining with God and making plans for the inevitable. Then I was told... I WAS OK!!! I felt a little... like this. Given my family history, cancer is likely to get me at some point... but not just yet!

~ Yellow leaves are falling everywhere, and the city is aglow with them

~ A year of neighbourhood reconstruction (mainly streets and sidewalks) and the noise of rattling windows at home and at work isn't over yet, but when it is - wow, everything will look fantastic! We have the PanAm games to thank for this... Toronto wants to look its best and as my 'hood is very near the athletes new accommodations, my neighbours and I are benefitting. So are the paving contractors!

Last Day of the Vacation

An afternoon on the Toronto Islands with a dear friend. Reading poetry under trees, later looking at the lake on the far side of the islands (where you'd never know there was a city behind you). Finally, back on the - er - mainland, a really excellent burger on the Against the Grain patio.

Quote of the Day

"According to the established rites,
wine and water are brought
with less ceremony than before.
There are no fresh glasses
and the waiter does not pour
a specimen measure.
But the first courses
arrive soon after -
ravioli annointed with butter,
carpaccio with a chrism of oil -
and the condiments are distributed:
parmesan shaved
from a nubbly, fulvous block,
a sesquipedalian peppermill waved
by the nimble attendant of the kitchen hatch in final blessing.
He watches, and his companion
watches him watch,
the flexing of supple back
and sturdy haunches
as the waitress raises
and twists the head
of the wooden phallus,
scattering seed.

They scarcely need
the waiter's intoned
Buon appetito."

From the book-length poem, The Song of Lunch by Christopher Reid. This has been filmed, and I am gnashing my teeth in desire to see this.

If you've ever loved, have ever lost, or left, met again, shared lunch, or anything that sounds remotely similar, I suggest you read this pointed, funny, sad look at two lovers meeting again years after their relationship ended. Of course, it's hard not to read without imagining Alan Rickman and Emma Thompson in the roles, but that's no problem at all. And check out Emma Thompson - the woman gets more beautiful with every passing year.

Quote of the Day

Let yourself be silently drawn
by the strange pull
of what you really love...
it will not lead you astray.

Rumi

Sonnet Number 2

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now,
Will be a totter'd weed of small worth held:

Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.

How much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's use,
If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,'
Proving his beauty by succession thine!

This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.

William Shakespeare

It Will Rain on my Soul, All Night, All Day

... well I'm sort of hoping it'll stop enough for me to get home dry this time.

It's been a Neruda kind of day. I came in to work as it was destined to rain and I had much to do to catch up and get ahead.

I'm always amazed at how much I can do on a weekend day at work. I achieve more in two hours than I do a normal day, with no interruptions, no segues. So, as much as I refuse to make a habit of it, at times it's very effective.

The rain did start. And I enjoyed the strange pearly light coming in my two office windows, a pearly glow that got progressively darker, until it begain to feel a little apocalyptic. At its heaviest the rain has been magnificent.

I warmed myself with my stash of peppermint tea, some Godiva dark chocolate pearls, and this beautiful scene from Truly, Madly, Deeply (1990 - has it already been 21 years?!)

//Update: The sky cleared, the barometric pressure dropped... all is cool and fresh now - heaven.

Another Song of the Day for Tree Huggers

Im Treibhaus - Studie zu Tristan und Isolde
(In the Greenhouse - Study for Tristan and Isolde)

High-arching leafy crowns,
canopies of emerald
you children of distant lands,
tell me, why do you lament?

Silently you incline your branches,
tracing signs in the air,
and, mute witness to your sorrows,
there rises a sweet perfume.

Wide in longing and desire
you spread your arms out
and embrace, in self-deception
barren emptiness, a fearful void.

Well I know it, poor plant!
We share the same fate.
Although the light shines brightly round us,
our home is not here!

And, as the sun gladly quits
day's empty brightness,
so he who truly suffers
wraps himself in the dark mantel of silence.

It grows quiet, an anxious rustling
fills the dark room;
I see the heavy drops hanging
from the leaves' green edges.


This was another piece performed by Adrianne Pieczonka at her Toronto recital this past spring. Mathilde Wesendonck wrote the words for these songs by Richard Wagner. Much can be read about Wagner's Wesendonck Lieder and how they mirrored Wagner's and Wesendonck's relationship and anticipated his Tristan und Isolde.

A Song of the Day... for Tree Huggers

Ruhe, meine Seele (Rest, my Soul)

Not a breath stirs,
the wood rests in gentle sleep;
through the leaves' dark veil
bright sunshine steals.

Rest, rest my soul,
wild have been your storms,
you have raged and quivered
like the swelling breakers.

These times are violent,
causing heart and mind distress -
rest, rest my soul,
and forget what threatens you!


Strauss set his song to this text by Karl Henckell, and Adrianne Pieczonka sung it beautifully at her recital in Toronto this spring.

"Mais, mon Dieu, quel ennui"

Mon Dieu, was there ever a more irrestible snob than Eugene Onegin? What a vain puss he is. The opera was on TFO last night. TFO is the French version of TVOntario, our advertisement-free public broadcasting station. It was interesting to see a Russian opera with French subtitles, and it made Onegin even more insufferably wonderful. Thank you, Pushkin, for your delicious irony. Thank you, Tchaikovsky, for your aching romanticism. And now... for a small piece of post-dinner dark chocolate. Thanks, Aztecs.

La nostra casetta

Non la sospiri, la nostra casetta
che tutta ascosa nel verde ci aspetta?
Nido a noi sacro, ignoto al mondo inter,
pien d'amore e di mister?
Al tuo fianco sentire
per le silenziose
stellate ombre, salir
le voci delle cose!
Dai boschi, dai roveti,
dall'arse erbe, dall'imo
dei franti sepolcreti
odorosi di timo.
La notte escon bisbigli
di minuscoli amori
a perfidi consigli
che ammolliscono i cuori.
Fiorite, o campi immensi, palpitate
aure marine, nel lunar albor.
Ah... piovete voluttà, volte stellate!
Arde in Tosca un folle amor!

Do you not long for our little house
that is waiting for us, hidden in the grove?
Our refuge, sacred to us and unseen by the world,
protected with love and mystery?
Oh, at your side to listen there
to the voices of the night
as they rise through the starlit,
shadowed silences:
from the woods, from the thickets
and the dry grass, from the depths
of shattered tombs
scented with thyme,
the night murmurs
its thousand loves
and false counsels
to soften and seduce the heart.
Oh wide fields, blossom! and sea winds throb
in the moon's radiance, ah,
rain down desire you vaulted stars!
Tosca burns with a mad love!


From Tosca, the opera by Puccini, with a libretto by Illica and Giacosa. I copied this out from the EMI recording (1965 with Callas), but there was no translation credit. Check out the labels for this post. Yum.

Quote of the Day

Your love
Should never be offered to the mouth of a
Stranger,
Only to someone
Who has the valor and daring
To cut pieces of their soul off with a knife
Then weave them into a blanket
To protect you.

From "The Gift", by Hafiz, one of my favourite poets. The photograph is of a corner of my bedroom at sunset.

Breath of Spring

Pourquoi me réveiller
ô souffle du printemps?
Pourquoi me réveiller?
Sur mon front je sens tes caresses,
et pourtant bien proche est le temps
des orages et des tristesses!
Pourquoi me réveiller,
ô souffle du printemps?

Why do you awaken me?
o breath of Spring?
Why do you awaken me?
On my forehead I feel your caresses,
and yet very near is the time
of storms and sorrows!
Why do you awaken me,
o breath of Spring?

(From Massenet's opera Werther, to a libretto by Édouard Blau, Paul Milliet and Georges Hartmann; translation by Randall Garrou.) Last fall I saw Ramón Vargas sing this aria, and it left me longing for spring, although not wishing time away... and here it is!





I can't get enough of spring this year, of the painfully wonderful blue, of the water, of the fresh air, of the soft blossoms who are nowhere near their height yet.

Bright Star, the Film

I had suspected another luke-warm costume romance, but was gob-smacked instead by this wonderful offering from Jane Campion - I should have had faith!

Bright Star (2009) is is based on John Keats' young romance with Fanny Brawne, who inspired the following sonnet:

Bright Star (1838)
Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art —
Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors —
No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillowed upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever — or else swoon to death.


Abbie Cornish plays a real young woman, prickly, romantic and made strong by her convictions and love for the poet, played to perfection by Ben Whishaw. Kerry Fox is Fanny's loving and sympathetic mother, in a time and society which dictated she should have been less accommodating to young love and more steadfast in her ambitions for her clever, beautiful daughter.

If you're up for a change from the saccharine and predictable prettiness of most costume romances, try the shining and bewitching Bright Star.

*** SPOILER ALERT (in case you're not up on Keats' story)
You'll also witness a scene of grief quite heart-breakingly believeable. Keep a hankie on stand by.

Thanks for the recommendation, Mr. W!

Lovers' Day

Heart’s Burden

I don’t know how this spark was born,
I felt it deep within me glow,
And with your voice and with your words,
It caught and burned, I feel it grow.
And now this spark becomes a flame,
A spell that holds me close and tight,
It climbs and licks and will consume me,
I’m yours by day and through the night.
No other light glows within me,
But this one that you have planted,
All else is ashes by your pyre,
My other joys you have supplanted.

This heart so lately safe from burning,
Now for you is ever yearning.


(Photograph of Bruce the Bat at the Montreal Museum of Fine Art)

Quote of the Day

"And one by one the nights between our separated cities
are joined to the night that unites us."

Pablo Neruda

"Winter Poems"

... is the name of this wood engraving by Gerard Brender à Brandis, which hangs above my desk.



And as I sit at my desk, a little like the one in the picture, I, too, look out at snowy boughs. The first real snow of the season has fallen on downtown Toronto. I don't think it will settle long, as impressive as it looks right now.

It's certainly a night to be warm and cosy. And as I drink my tea I'm perusing a book of poems by Wallace Stevens. Here's an appropriate one for tonight.

The Snow Man

One must have a mind of winter

To regard the frost and the boughs

Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time

To behold the jupiters shagged with ice,

The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think

Of any misery in the sound of the wind,

In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land

Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,

And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

Siegfried Sassoon

As Remembrance Day approached this year, I've been reading Siegfried Sassoon's war poetry. Much of it was written while he was serving in WWI and also while he was committed to Craiglockhart Hospital in Edinburgh, for supposedly suffering from "shell shock", but more accurately because of his anti-war stance: he was willing to be sent to fight, and fight he did, but he wasn't willing to condone it.

You might have read Pat Barker's Regeneration (1991), which was based on real characters, one of whom was Sassoon. The book is stunning and I'm preparing to read it again along with its two sequels, which I haven't read. I believe it was also made into a film, but I didn't see it.

Here is a poem by Sassoon, written while he was incarcerated.


Autumn

October's bellowing anger breaks and cleaves
The bronzed battalions of the stricken wood
In whose lament I hear a voice that grieves
For battle's fruitless harvest, and the feud
Of outraged men. Their lives are like the leaves
Scattered in flocks of ruin, tossed and blown
Along the westering furnace flaring red.
O martyred youth and manhood overthrown,
The burden of your wrongs is on my head.

Craiglockhart 1917

I took the following pictures in Stratford a few weeks ago. The War Memorial is very fine. It was created by renowned Canadian sculptor W. S. Allward and was completed in 1922. It depicts the theme of "Might versus Right."

Poem for Week of Remembrance

Return

I have come home unnoticed; they are still;
No greetings pass between us; but they lie
Hearing the boom of guns along the hill,
Watching the flashes lick the glowering sky.

A wind of whispers comes from sightless faces;
"Have patience, and your bones shall share our bed."
Their voices haunt dark ways and ruined places,
Where once they spoke in deeds; who now are dead.

They wondered why I went; at last returning,
They guide my labouring feet through desolate mud.
And, choked with death, yet in their eyes discerning
My living strength; they are quickened in my blood.

By Siegfried Sassoon, March 1917