A Compelling Rationale for Taking Up Versifying

… Credit… Michael Tyrone Delaney for The New York Times.

Monet grew up in East New York in Brooklyn and started writing poetry when she was 8 because she was “fascinated by typewriters and people who would sit at typewriters,” she said.

Monet fondly recalls her former college adviser: “I remember her suggesting what schools to go to and it wasn’t Harvard, you know what I mean?”

I think I know what she means. It’s just as well. The Harvard English department has dropped its poetry requirement for an English degree.

Monet’s YouTube video, The Devil You Know, serves up sensory tumult ending with an affecting diminuendo dissolve. Memorable line:

Silence is a noise, too.

I also relish the phrase “word-workers” among her honor roll of callings in the video. I could wish only that Monet’s word work were slightly more audible amidst the lively instrumentation that includes the sterling horn of Christian Scott aTunde Adjuah.

Sources
Marcus J. Moore, “Aja Monet, a Musical Poet of Love,” New York Times, 6-8-23.
Maureen Dowd, “Don’t Kill ‘Frankenstein’ With Real Frankensteins at Large,” New York Times, 5-27-23.

(c) 2023 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved

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Words, Words, It’s Always the Words

These are the generations of mice…

The phrase introduces each of three meaty stanzas in John Kinsella’s “Familiars” (Poetry, June 2023). The device, with its mock portentous sonority and homiletic repetition, has a pleasing (to this Jean-Luc Picard fan) Star-Trekkie smack. Syntactically the stanzas are clearly structured and marked, as if built of hewn and fitted stone. What a relief.

… I am their familiar, restless and emolliated
in sweat, something not quite right with my
body clock, my systems…

So we drywall to reinforce, almost a corbeling.

… The heat wears me down.
Wall spaces fluctuate. A haunting of the endocrine.

Two words are new to me: “emolliated,” which means “weakened,” and “corbeling.” A corbel is a structure jutting out from a wall to support a weight. I listened to the pronunciation of “corbeling” to know which syllable is stressed (the first).

I also confirmed my understanding of “familiar” (a spirit) and “endocrine” (relating to hormone-secreting glands), two words I recognize but rarely use. When reading verse, I do considerable look-up of words I think I already know!

Diction is a big deal to me, and I’ve been ridiculed as snooty for using language perceived as pretentious. A coach I subbed for once in the high school where I taught mocked me for reassuring him in a note that no student had misbehaved “egregiously” in his absence. It hurt me. That’s how I talk; he took it as affected and pompous. I felt emolliated.

When a writer of verse uses words of rare occurrence, I think of Louise Glück’s quip that “poets” are conventionally thought to be writers who are fond of words such as “incarnadine.” She writes that she herself is inclined to stick with common language, because it can have, she believes, the widest range of connotation. As a reader I’m of two minds on the matter; it’s how I roll.

(c) 2023 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved

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Notes on Poetry (Compound Pizza)

To make it clear, I don’t think there’s anything mystical
about “ghosts” — they are an isness. There’s no secret code
or system of access, and they are there whether you want
them to be or not. They are enjambments within your narrative.
(John Kinsella, from “Clarity,” Poetry, June 2023)

My translation:

Hablando claro, no creo que haya nada místico
en lo de “fantasmas” — son una es esencial. No hay código secreto
ni sistema de acceso, y están allí quiéraslo
o no lo quieras. Son encabalgamientos dentro de tu narración.


A speciality pizza lay hot on the chopping block: Pacific Vegetarian, thin crust. My sister on the sofa needed only a surface on which to rest her plate before diving into the junk food. I said, “You know what? I have a lapboard that should be just the thing. Lemme go get it for you.” She said, “Yeah, that should work.” I strode away only to return in a moment toting the lapboard and affably affirming on the heels of her comment:

“I can’t say but what I’d be unsurprised if it didn’t work.”

My translation:

No puedo decir otra cosa que afirmar que quedaría yo lleno de sorpresa si me sorprendiera el caso de que no fuera solución del problema.

Handing her the lapboard I added laughing, “You know, Nan, I’m not entirely sure what I just said!” And we ate our pizza.

Reflecting on the exchange and the feeling it gave me, I realize that what had bubbled out of me unbidden was a burst of poetic speech. I had emitted language rife with feisty pleonasm that escaped known, sensible boundaries. It was a blip of quantum-level expression able to be in several states at once — not contradictory so much as adversative in a poke-in-the-eye but reconciling way. It compressed so much into such tightly elusive utterance, and gave me such pleasure to say in that particular way, knowing full well neither Nan nor I could any longer unspool its latency into straight statement, and knowing that it didn’t make a damn to her or me that we couldn’t, that it gave me, I say, a quiver of joy comparable to pizza.

You scoundrels who call yourselves poets, I salute you. So that’s what it’s all about! I’ve had a taste of your satisfactions.

(c) 2023 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved

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‘Eat Bitterness’: Xi Jinping

The ditches at the edge of the field were thick with poke, which I did like, even loved. The poison root of the poke grows down deep and snaggled like a mandrake.
(Kathryn Nuernberger, from “A Sense of Belonging,” Poetry, May 2023)

There’s video on YouTube of a young Tony Joe White singing his immortal song. For some reason it’s tagged “Polk Salad Annie” everywhere on the platform. Polk?

A guy on mudcat.org vaguely hinted at the following back in ‘99:

Just to add that bit of unneeded fluff…..the “polk” as opposed to “poke” and I don’t know that you can accurately reproduce in print the way the word is spoken in the deep south. Somewhere between the two in a way, but there IS the vaguest hint of the “L” aand [sic] is quite similar to the way you’d say “Pork” in the region, with the vaguest hint of the “R” instead. Clear as mud huh? In the final analysis….Who cares?

I care. The Swamp Fox makes a point of articulating it very deliberately early in the song:

Po…kuh — full stop, allowing the voiceless velar plosive to let out its full acoustic kick on his dorsum — Sellid.

That’s how he says it: Poke Sellid. Maybe he wanted to make sure it didn’t get confused with “polk” or “pork” in the future. Further along Tony Joe says:

Cuz that’s about all they had to eat. (Pause) But they did all right.

There it is, easy to miss, the strongest line in the song: But they did all right. Defiant understatement. Bottom-up glorification of the kick-ass, cussèd intransigence, the scrappy survivalism, the righteous ruggedness of the rural populace rooting and rutting in its canebrakes and truck patches, eternally scratching a living from the dirt and bragging on itself. Suck it up. Embrace hardship. Don’t bellyache about your deprivation. Sing it.

(c) 2023 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved

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Translating a Cryptic Text Helps Weather It

Rodney Gómez, “Mortification by Census,” Poetry, May 2023.

Mortification by Census

brown but which kind?
no entry for oleander
no entry for ocean spume

this cell by which various selves are collocated
this cell by which various selves are evaluated

to geocode the soul
part sweat stain       part hunger

swaddling to say I live in a particular bin
and am recognized
to fish funding there

a thrush passes through me, a former
gate crasher
wind too bestows a compounding value

the numbers in the north are human
the numbers in the south pull wagons

what kind?
no entry for survivor
no entry or apogee

When a text in my native tongue glances off me, I find that putting it into an acquired language sharpens my focus on it. Here’s my translation of Rodney Gómez’s verse.

Mortificación por Censo

moreno pero ¿de qué tipo?
ningún rubro para adelfa
ningún rubro para espuma de mar

esta celda por la que se coubican varios seres
esta celda por la que se evalúan varios seres

geoencifrar el alma
en parte mancha de sudor en parte hambre

mantillas que dicen que vivo en cierto recipiente
y que se me reconoce
para pescar fondos ahí

un tordo me atraviesa, antiguo
intruso
el viento también otorga un valor compuesto

las cifras del norte son humanas
las cifras del sur tiran vagones

¿de qué tipo?
ningún rubro para superviviente
ni rubro ni apogeo

(c) 2023 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved

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Mona Kareem’s ‘Nights’: Stanzas 5-7 (End)

This post is continued from here.

Poetry, May 2023 publishes the Arabic text of Mona Kareem’s poem Lailayāt (“Nights”) along with a translation into English by Sara Elkamel.

My translation follows below.

5
tawallada ^ajūz(un) baina yad(aī) šajaraẗ(in)
tuqaddimu lī tuffāḥaẗ(an) masmūmaẗ(an)
tarā hal sa-‘amūtu min-hā?
‘am sa-‘uṣbiḥu šajaraẗ(an)?

5
Born between a tree’s two hands, a crone
proffers me a poisonous apple.
Do you think I’ll die from it,
or will I turn into a tree?

6
nazīf(u)-l-qamar(i) fī-ṣabāḥ(i) yuqallidu-nī
‘ibtisāmaẗ(u)-l-šams(i) fī-l-masā’(i) tasẖaru min-nī

6
At morning the moon’s bleeding just like me.
By end of day I’m the grinning sun’s punchline.

7
‘al-fatāẗ(u)-n-nā^imaẗ(u)-l-^ainān(i)
tudaḡdiḡu laila-yātī
fa-‘u^īdu kulla lailaẗ(in) mušāhadaẗ(a) šarīṭ(i) maut(i)

7
The girl with the soft eyes tickles my every night,
so nightly I watch reruns of my demise.

(c) 2023 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved

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The Devil in the Machine

This gallery contains 1 photo.

The only social medium I frequent is YouTube. While eating meals I watch elephant videos, Fry and Laurie, sports brawls, blooper reels, and Tuba Skinny. There’s also a good series by a guy who farts in public. The engagement algorithm, … Continue reading

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Mona Kareem’s ‘Nights’: Stanzas 3-4

3
taẓharu naẖlaẗ(un) baiḍā’(u) fauqa ra’s(i) ab(ī)
lā ‘a^lamu kaifa ‘ulawwinu-hā
4
‘al-maṭar(u) yuwaffiru ^alā ab(ī) sabḡ(a) bāb(i)-l-bait(i)
wa-‘a^ḍā’ī-l-latī ‘atabarra^u bi-hā ṭa^ām(an) li-l-qiṭaṭ(i)
lā tuḥawwilu-nī ‘ilā ṭair(in)

This post is continued from here.

Poetry, May 2023 publishes the Arabic text of Mona Kareem’s poem Lailayāt (“Nights”) along with a translation into English by Sara Elkamel.

I can’t vary in any interesting way Sara Elkamel’s excellent, close translation of stanza 3. It’s reproduced here. I do offer an experiment with wording different from hers for stanza 4.

3
A white palm tree appears above my father’s head.
I do not know how to color it.

4
Rain saves my father from painting the door of the house.
And my organs, which I donate as food for the cats,
do not change me into a bird.

Stanza 3 puts me in mind of a children’s coloring book. That’s too literal, of course; is there a cultural reference? Do the preceding 2 stanzas contextualize this one somehow? In any case it’s easy enough to find approximate English for what the Arabic text states on its surface.

The same is true, in fact, for stanza 4. What’s striking to me is the perverse-seeming syntax of its second sentence. Elkamel’s translation is flat and somewhat reductive: “Donating my organs to the cats / doesn’t make me a bird.” It leaves out the Arabic adverbial ṭa^ām(an), “as food.” The omission may seem trivial, but my rule of thumb is: Jettison nothing from the source except for good cause.

More importantly, in the source text the grammatical subject of “change” is “organs,” not the act of donation. Stated differently, agency for changing the speaker (or not) lies with the organs sacrificed as food. This is clear from syntax. The verb for “change” is in the 3rd-person feminine plural, following the rule that broken plurals have feminine markers. The act of donating is nested in a relative clause subordinate to “my organs.” Elkamel’s translation subverts this structuring. I don’t mean to carp at her interpretation. It may seem to be what the verse means to say: The fact of my donating my organs as food for cats doesn’t mean that I’ve become a bird. But it’s not what the verse says!

Should the translator be at pains to make the translation read less strangely than the source?

(c) 2023 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved

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Notes on Poetry (Surprise)

Detail, oil on canvas, 16×20 (JMN 2021).

“I know this sounds strange, but I think the elephant was also surprised that there were people in the room.”

(John Kenney)

(“The Elephant in the Room: An Oral History,” newyorker.com, 5-24-23)

(c) 2023 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved

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Mona Kareem’s ‘Nights’: Stanza 2

taẓharu ḡaimaẗ(un)
‘a^taqidu ‘anna-l-lāh(a) yabtasimu li-l-‘aṭfāl(i)-l-masākīn(i)
‘al-qamar(u) yataḥawwalu ‘ilā hilāl(in)
‘aẓunnu-s-sabab(u) ḥuzn(u)-hu ^alā suqūt(i) najmaẗ(in)

This post is continued from here.

Poetry, May 2023 publishes the Arabic text of Mona Kareem’s poem Lailayāt (“Nights”) along with a translation into English by Sara Elkamel.

2
A cloud comes into view.
God smiles, it’s my belief, for the hapless little ones.
In the heavens moons a crescent.
I think what grieves it is the falling of a star.

In desert lands clouds carry the relief of rain, not gloom as in English tradition. In the poem they’re God’s smile.

A quirk of Kareem’s Arabic text is the insistent speaker-presence. Lines 2 and 4 start “I believe” and “I think.” A declaring first person interprets celestial events.

The Arabic says, “The moon is changed into a crescent.” I upend the line, adding hackneyed “heavens” for its syllables, and leaning heavily on “moon” as a verb meaning to be in melancholy reverie. Duong Tuong said, “An ideal translation should be a work in which the translator is the co-author.” This interesting doctrine sets dangerous traps for the cheeky student.

Prepositions don’t travel well. Arabic li-, usually meaning “for,” connects “smiles” to “little ones.” Resisting “on” or “upon” adds complexity to the trope of compassionate divinity. Similarly, resisting slippage into “falling star” skirts triviality, mirrors the Arabic syntax, and lends a hint of strangeness.

It seems to me, after all, that a signal trait of lyric is to speak unexpectedly. Translation presents opportunities to do so via a judicious literalness. The trick is knowing when to heed and when to ignore Duong Tuong’s advice that “clinging to the words is not loyalty but… slavery.”

(c) 2023 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved

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