Poetry Life & Times

For Olga. A Poem by Blanca Andreu. Translated from Spanish by Robin Ouzman Hislop & Amparo Arrospide.

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This work comprises in an excerpt from the anthology on contemporary Spanish female poets entitled Las Diosas Blancas. Madrid, 1985. Copyright Ed. Ramon Buenaventura. Hiperion. This is an original and unpublished English version of the original poem written in Spanish. Translators Robin Ouzman Hislop and Amparo Arrospide would like to thank Casa del Traductor, in Tarazona and the British Literary Translation Association, East Anglia University Campus.

From this Spanish anthology –compiled by the well-known scholar and translator Mr. Ramón Buenaventura, whom we contacted earlier– a few selected authors were chosen for our joint translation work: Amalia Iglesias: Te buscare para decirte (I Will Find You To Tell You) , Ana Rossetti: Triunfo de Artemis sobre Volupta (Triumph Of Artemis Over Volupta) and Isolda (Isolda) , Blanca Andreu: Para Olga (For Olga) , Isla Correyero: Los Pajaros (Small Birds), Amparo Amoros: Midas (Midas) and Criaturas del gozo (Creatures Of Joy) , Rosalia Vallejo: Horno en llamarada (A Furnace In Flames) , Maria del Carmen Pallares: Sisargas (Sisargas), Margarita Arroyo: Era el mar lejos del mar ( It Was Sea Away From Sea).

We would like to thank Mr. Ramón Buenaventura and the above name poets, in advance, and let them rest assured that their work is protected by a legal Creative Commons Licence, by virtue of which the above named translators are willing to provide excerpts from their original translation work, provided that readers agree to use it under the terms of such licence. We strongly recommend reading the entire work and the poets’, who have continued evolving during these decades.

For Olga

Girl of delicately golden tresses,
girl obsession of the virgin stork
with tufts of damask feathers
that splashed death,
of the crazy stork with wings
of golden strychnine
which flew off leaving you with a corporeal perfume,
a neat smell of lilacs, already golden and rude dreams.
Girl who obeyed the apostle scops owl
and the murky look of real eyes,
with puerile drawings of Selene and the rest.
Girl of non-existent concert,
girl of cruel sonatines and malevolent books by Tom Wolfe,
or witch lace to bandage wounded deer ulcers,
of fallow deer gazing from mystical knolls,
or places like that.
Pluperfect girl, girl we never were,
tell it now,
tell it now, you, now that it’s so late,
spell out the sombre tempo,
spell me the tear
the purple silhouette of the mare,
the foal that lay at your feet waking up foam.

Abandoned recite the words of yesteryear,
shadow of Juan Ramón: Solitude, I am true to you.
Scornful recite the words of yesteryear,
but not that courtly verse,
don’t talk of queens white as a lily,
snow and Joan burning
and interwoven melancholy
of dear Villon,
speak clear verbs where you can drink the saddest liquid,
jars of sea and relief, now that it is already so late,
raise your tiny voice and summon up the song:
tell life that I remember her,
I remember her.

This small death is definitely lost in a nascent forest,
the shoot of an arrested comet,
that nobody saves
young volcano of novice gust and bones
made of bird, eyelid and thinking wave
that no stella book
no book painted with Italien solar gold,
no book of lava
will seal for me.

And so death so many times written
becomes radiant,
and i can talk
of desire and the unseeing beam of the lighthouse,
of the chimerical corpse of the crew.
And so death
becomes the story
of that mute girl who hanged herself
with boreal harp’s strings
because of nuptial poison on her tongue.
I definitely get lost cradling litters of rare epitaphs,
girl of golden tresses,
I will tell life that you remember her,
I will tell death that you remember her
that you remember their lines conjuring your shadow,
that you remember their habits and tempo solo,
bitter laurel, deep bramble, brazen error and sorrowful hordes,
while Ephesian cats are crying at my feet,
while lost silver cats
go curdling their ancestry in genealogical cypress and poplar,
I will tell life to remember you,
to remember me
now,
when I rise with loops and hair strings
up to the disaster of my head
up to the disaster of my twenty years,
up to the disaster, lammergeier light.

De una niña de provincias que se vino a vivir en un Chagall, 1980

Para Olga

Niña de greyes delicadamente doradas,
niña obsesión de la cigüeña virgen
con mechones de plumas de damasco
que salpicaban muerte,
de la cigüeña loca con alones
de estricnina dorada
que viajaba dejándote un corpóreo perfume,
un pulcro olor a lilas, ya dorados y rudos sueños.
Niña que obedeció al autillo apóstol
y a la mirada turbia de los ojos reales,
con pueriles dibujos de Selene y demás.
Niña de inexistente concierto,
niña de crueles sonatinas y malévolos libros de Tom Wolfe,
o de encajes de brujas para vendar las llagas de los corzos heridos,
de ciervos vulnerados asomados en los oteros místicos,
en los sitios así.
Niña pluscuamperfecta, niña que nunca fuimos,
dilo ahora,
dilo ahora tú, ahora que es tan tarde,
pronuncia el torvo adagio,
pronúnciame la lágrima,
la silueta morada de la yegua,
la del potro que se tendió a tus pies despertando la espuma.

Declama abandonada las palabras de antaño,
sombra de Juan Ramón: Soledad, te soy fiel.
Declama desdeñosa las palabras de antaño,
pero no aquella estrofa cortesana,
no hables de reinas blancas como un lirio,
nieves y Juana ardiendo,
y la melancolía entretejida
del querido Villon,
sino los verbos claros donde poder beber el líquido más triste,
jarros de mar y alivio, ahora que ya es tarde,
alza párvula voz y eco albacea y canta:
Dile a la vida que la recuerdo,
que la recuerdo.

Definitivamente se extravía en un bosque naciente esta muerte pequeña,
el brote del cometa detenido,
esto que nadie salva,
joven volcán de huesos y ráfaga novicia
hecha de pájaro y de párpado y de ola pensante
que ningún libro estela,
ningún libro estofado de oro solar de Italia,
ningún libro de lava
viene a sellar por mí.

Y así la muerte tantas veces escrita
se me vuelve radiante,
y puedo hablar
del deseo y del lacre rubio y ciego en los faros,
del cadáver quimera de la tripulación.

Y así la muerte
se convierte en historia
de aquella niña muda que se ahorcó
con las cuerdas boreales del arpa
porque tenía en la lengua un veneno nupcial.
Definitivamente me extravío acunando camadas de raros epitafios,
niña de grey dorada,
diré a la vida que la recuerdas,
diré a la muerte que la recuerdas,
que recuerdas sus líneas conjurando tu sombra,
que recuerdas sus hábitos y su carácter solo,
su laurel ácido, su profunda zarza, su descarado error y sus hordas dolidas,
mientras gatos efesios van llorando a mis pies,
mientras gatas perdidas plateadas
van cuajando su alcurnia en ciprés genealógico y en álamo,
diré a la vida que te recuerde,
que me recuerde,
ahora,
cuando me alzo con cuerdas capilares y bucles
hasta el desastre de mi cabeza,
hasta el desastre de mis veinte años,
hasta el desastre, luz quebrantahuesos.

“De una niña de provincias que se vino a vivir en un Chagall”1980

AUTHOR: BLANCA ANDREU (1959)
Bibliography:
– De una niña de provincias que se vino a vivir en un Chagall (awarded the 1980 Adonais International Poetry Prize) (Ediciones Rialp, Madrid, 1981).
– Báculo de Babel (awarded the Fernando Rielo International Poetry Prize) (Hiperión, Madrid, 1983).
– Elphistone (Visor Libros, Madrid, 1988)
– El sueño oscuro: (poesía reunida, 1980-1989) (Hiperión, Madrid, 1994).



Blanca Andreu (born 1959 A Coruña) is a Spanish poet. She grew up in Orihuela, where her family still resides, and attended El Colegio de Jesus-Maria de San Agustin, followed by studies in philology in Murcia. At age 20, she moved to Madrid without formally completing her education. Here, she met Francisco Umbral, who introduced her to the literati of the city.

In 1980, she was awarded the Premio Adonáis de Poesía for her work entitled, De una niña de provincias que se vino a vivir en un Chagall. Her use of surrealism is considered the beginning of the Post-Modern Generation. Her later work has tried to shy away from the surrealist tendencies of her early pieces.[2]

In 1985, she married novelist Juan Benet. After he died in 1993, she returned to La Coruña where she now lives a semi-reclusive life.

Awards

1980: Premio Adonáis de Poesía
1981: Premio de Cuentos Gabriel Miró
1982: Premio Mundial de Poesía Mística, Fernando Rielo
1982: Premio Ícaro de Literatura
2001: Premio Internacional de Poesía Laureà Mela

Translators:

Amparo Arrospide (Argentina) is a poet and translator. She has published seven poetry collections, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar, Presencia en el Misterio, En el Oido del Viento, Hormigas en Diáspora , Jaccuzzi, and Valle Tiétar, as well as poems, short stories and articles on literary and film criticism in anthologies and in both national and foreign magazines. She has received numerous awards.

 

Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; his publications include

All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as  Key of Mist  and the recently published Tesserae  , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.

You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author.  See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

 

 

Editor’s Note: see also Poetry, National Literature Prize 2018, Francisca Aguirre, Translated from Spanish by Amparo Arróspide & Robin Ouzman Hislop

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Poetry Life and Times An Interview with Prabhu Iyer

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Prabhu Iyer

POETRY LIFE AND TIMES AN INTERVIEW WITH PRABHU IYER

by Sara L Russell for Poetry Lifetimes & Poetry Life & Times

Brief biographical sketch

Educated in India and England, Prabhu Iyer writes contemporary rhythm poetry. He counts the Romantics and Mystics among his influences. Among modern poets Neruda and Tagore are his favourites for their haunting and inspirational lyrical verse. He lives and works in Chennai, India, where he has a day job as an academic scientist. Some of his poems can be found athttp://hellopoetry.com/-prabhu-iyer/. In 2012, he self-published ‘Ten Years of Moons and Mists’ at Amazon Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/Prabhu-Iyer/e/B008F8M0JS. Reach him at twitter @iyerprabhu, facebook.com/prabhuiyerpage

The Interview – as recorded in November 2014

Sara: What first made you start writing poetry, Prabhu?

Prabhu: Firstly, I wish to thank you and PLT for featuring me in your widely regarded journal, I’m very grateful for this indeed! Coming to this question, I have to answer in stages. It all began years ago as a child, when I read the English Romantics at school – Tennyson, Wordsworth, Keats. At home, education was highly regarded and both parents were particular that we learned the languages, particularly English, well – my mother’s prized possessions included an old bounded Oxford English Dictionary and a Wren & Martin Grammar which her father had used. My father is a great admirer of Wordsworth and ‘Daffodils’ is his favourite poem, which even today as he fondly recollects, he narrated to an audience when he was still at school! The ecstatic works of classical Indian poets, were an early influence too, chief among who was our national poet, Kalidas, whose transformation from an illiterate shepherd to the most revered poet in Sanskrit language by the grace of the Goddess was often told and retold. Popular poetic hymns by mystical philosophers were recited in our family on all occasions.

In this atmosphere, I took to poetry almost naturally, as a way of expressing myself. The idyllic surroundings I had the blessing of growing up in (Hyderabad was a small town in the 80’s and my father’s official accommodation provided an island of peace, nestled in fields, gardens and open spaces) deeply inspired me. Later in teens and early twenties, poetry was my way of capturing all the angsts of growing up – from first crushes to rebellion and all sorts of emotional fluff. In recent years poetry has also become the vehicle to manifest my inspirations, quest for beauty, and activism
on various causes: sustainable development, condition of women, and freedom of thought and religion. Although English was and remains the main medium in which I write, when I started, I would also write in some Indian languages, including Telugu and Hindi.

Sara: Who are your favourite poets of the past?

Prabhu: To start with, English Romantics influenced me the most – I really enjoyed reading poems by Kipling, Tennyson, Wordsworth. These poets seem from an era so different now, but their work is refreshing till today, even considering the sentimentalism they often displayed. Who is not fond of quoting Keats as ‘a thing of beauty is a joy forever…’, and although I majored in science, I cannot recollect something more vividly than studying ‘La Belle Dame sans Merci’ and ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’ at high school. Perhaps my fascination for these figures is tied culturally, as the Indian poetic tradition itself is quite often lyrical, sentimental – even melodramatic – and mystical.

Among the Indian mystical poets, I really admire the moving compositions of Meera, the medieval Rajput saint-princess. Through Whitman, Frost, and (Ogden) Nash, I discovered the American moderns, and later, Plath and Bukowski. Of late, I have been studying the work of the avant-garde poets, Ezra Pound, Rainer Maria Rilke, the poetical cubism of the French poet Pierre Reverdy and the mystical future-poetry of Sri Aurobindo. My all-time favourites though, are Pablo Neruda and Ranindranath Tagore – and whenever I am down I get to reading ‘20 love poems and a song of despair’ or ‘Geetanjali’, books that I think will remain timeless for their stirring, evocative lyrical style.

Sara: What contemporary or classic style do you tend to use the most, in your poetry?

Prabhu: I mainly write rhythm poetry, where any traditional elements such as rhyme or alliteration come about as natural features of the verse. More often than not I tend to follow a free rhythm structure, and this to my surprise, I’m discovering, is again a feature of much of Indian vernacular poetry. Lyrical poetry is closest to my style, although, I’d like to call this abstract impressionism, (after the impressionist movement whose leading figure was Monet), in the tradition of Tagore and Neruda. Here’s an excerpt from the poem, ‘Why shouldn’t I’, illustrating my writing in this form:

… Dawn mingles with your ruddy cheeks;
Peasant woman, I read the language of toil in the wrinkles on your brow.
Why should I love you? I ask of myself.
This is the constant soliloquy of the monsoon rain in empty valleys.
What do you brood over on sultry noons?
But then, why shouldn’t I? Winter’s witheration is everybody’s lot. …

This is the particular style that readers have appreciated me most for. I’m also keenly interested in the poetical meanings and interpretations of other art movements such as cubism, surrealism, and magical realism – exploring them as suited to different purposes. I find Surrealist techniques to be a wonderful way of introducing a sense of mystery, marvel and disjointedness into poetic settings: here is an example excerpted from my poem, ‘The edges of awareness’, where I’ve used Montage:

How do I know. Splattered across. Misty spiral halos. Dark dark dark. I drew a handful. I saw stars. Gone –
ancient light. Who is the witness? Canvas of life painted.

Cubism provides a template to throw intense light on a subject, bringing in various shades of meanings and ideas, helping to deconstruct and allow the reader to re-synthesize something deeply meaningful and symbolic, as for instance, in my take on the death of Indian cities:

The urchin banging at the windscreen on rainy nights,
The old house down the road making way for another high-rise,
The cobbler at the corner store smiling away toothless
The now-glorified mausoleum of the rebel from past –
The aquarium where water dried up and all the fish died;
I am the city that you don’t see dying, obsessed with ‘progress’.

Being the major art and literary movement of our generation, represented by such powerful voices as Rushdie and Marquez, and carrying a powerful resonance for post-colonial native cultures, Magical Realism of course has a major attraction. I find this to be one of the most difficult genres to write in, but a good grasp allows a superlative use of allegory and fantasy to create really intense experiences for the reader. An example excerpted from the ongoing series, ‘Mr K’s Life’:

…In the morning, he worships the Eye in his shrine. Upholding traditions, one must get ahead in life. Half-believing, within ‘Bounds of reason’ tepid; The Eye sits observing him: sometimes, staring from the sky above, and some times, through
the eyes of the beggars lining the temple street. Irāvāṇ laughs as Mr. K walks past the totem pole.

I also like to experiment on the lines of the avant-garde poets, especially, Ezra Pound’s ingenious use of irregular spacing (for ex: see Pound’s ‘In a station of the metro’) to convey an unsettling view (excerpted from my recent poem, ‘Escape, refuge’):

      On a shore flooded in the tide. Now        on a          flitting log:
      Rain,          trying to      fill up the ridges         white, that,        I,        along with
      crabs, snails and          tiny          starfish,      are ambling to escape from.

Sara: I saw that you have a new book on amazon; “Ten Years of Moons and Mists”. Is there a special theme running through this book?

Prabhu: Thanks for asking, this was an anthology of poems I collected and published (with illustrations by my wife Tamaswati Ghosh (who is also an avid photographer and artist) during a break in the summer of 2012. It was a culmination of a decade’s journey, and as such was very important for me, as it allowed me to collate, summarize and set aside the work from that period and then move on to newer ideas, themes and projects.

The over-fifty poems in this book chronicle the journey of my growth and self-discovery through my twenties, and are organized into three sections, ‘Love’, ‘Despair’ and ‘Light’. In a way the title foreshadows this, the moon standing for both love and light, and mist for the many challenging times when these are blocked from our vision. Each section starts with a piece which I thought would capture the essence of the mood best, after which poems are presented in the chronological order in which they were first written. This I hoped would allow readers to relate to and locate the changes
taking place through my journey over the decade. This book records some of my first love poems, disappointments at difficult moments, ruminations and visions.

Sara: There are many love poems in your book that particularly appeal to me, such as “At the Altar of Love“; also “Accept in Return” and “Unusual Gift”. How much has love influenced your poetry over the years?

Prabhu: I would say, very strongly indeed. There was, in my poetic journey, a time when I wanted to make my poems more grounded in everyday experience and widen their breadth and appeal. Ultimately I discovered – and perhaps most poets do too – that I had to mine my own experience and distil something of that into my verse – this is what Neruda and Tagore did. As the great American realist artist Edward Hopper observed, ‘Great art is the outward expression of an inner life in the artist, and this inner life will result in his personal vision of the world’ [see ‘Statement’, 1953, Reality journal]. Unless an emotion experienced is real, and makes an impact on the inner life of the poet, it cannot be captured and conveyed perfectly enough. And love is an emotion we all experience – that’s how I began to consciously write love poems; but then I also discovered, there are many shades of love, and not just a monotone of mush. I wanted to capture this and took notes as I went along.

And thus the poems in the collection came about: there are here, some of my favourite romantic poems – quoting, for example, from “At long last”:

…It rained as we sat down under the shelter of tall, loving, wise trees,
The drizzle still managing to get us from the sides:
We shrunk our clothes for warmth, but
You still held your hand out for me to see what fate had in store for you.
Unknown to me, she had slipped past into my heart and whispered from there,
And I wanted to say, ‘fate says you are mine’. …

As are some feisty pieces, quoting for example, from ‘I know you are angry’:

…There is mellow love.
There is also a searing love, fierce like red clouds
In the black winter evening sky…

Some dark, wistful ruminations, for example, from the poem ‘Does it matter?’:

You die every day, like this: you choose a life of slow
death: through long nights, you burn away
like the slowly fading lamp
mourning some sombre memory,
does it matter to know, you love me?…

Then, there’s mystical love too, for example from ‘the Lamp of hope’:

…I have adorned the insides of this my small hut,

With flowers of best fragrance: this day, like on
So many past ones, I plucked ’em finest, from
Love’s labour, in the garden of life; longing for Kanha:
When will he come drive this unreal light away? …

And of course, plenty of lyrical poetry, for example, from ‘She has no name’:

…I became one with fallen leaves and rustled in wind
on lonely summer afternoons when death visits life
I became the mynah and sang back to the cuckoo
with crickets and allied insects for chorus
on tired evenings, mad in their unquenchable quest
I became birds that dart to the setting sun…

Sara: I enjoyed reading your poem “St Paul’s Cathedral”. You write of it with great warmth. Did you spend a lot of time exploring national monuments while you were living in London?

Prabhu: Yes, in general, I admired the way Britain has tried to preserve her heritage. Every listed monument or site is well-kept, visitor-friendly and welcoming, and resources and information are shared in dedicated online pages. I visited sites in London many times over: British Museum (and also the Science and Natural History museums), Trafalgar Square, V&A, Royal Albert Hall, the Tower of London and London Bridge and the other bridges over Thames. Often there is some bit of Indian history connected to many of these places and that was also of much interest to me – for example, among the Royal Jewels displayed at the Tower of London is the Koh-i-noor, a diamond that was originally mined in Hyderabad. I would always cast a brooding glance at the column dedicated to Admiral Nelson at Trafalgar Square when passing by on a bus or walking, as this is connected to Waterloo and Napoleon Bonaparte (who is looked at somewhat favourably in some Indian historical traditions).

Whenever I had friends or family visiting – and someone or the other was always visiting London for the first time – I would insist on taking the open-top bus tour together with the brief journey by motorboat at Embankment. Madame Tussaud’s and the London Eye were particular favourites, along with Buckingham and Princess Diana’s palaces. In addition to these, I loved the Hyde Park and the Serpentine Lake, as they were just a small walk from Imperial (where I studied), and which I frequented almost daily for quiet musings.

England and London have influenced my poetry deeply, and the London Eye, Hyde Park and Gunnersbury Park (at Ealing) and Thames at the Embankment are themes that I often revisit in a symbolic sense in my verse. Here are some examples: From ‘Where the Lee bends’, inspired by memories of a walk by the Thames:

…landing now by the memory lane:
by the Thames, holding a palmful by the bank,
saying, this river is named after you:
she has a dimpled smile;…

From ‘Hidden doors’ written after viewing ‘Hortus Conclusus’ by Peter Zumthor at the Serpentine Gallery in Hyde Park, London

Behind the apparent hues of violet and pink
And many shades of green:
Magical doors to distant places in happier times;
I jumped in and leapt out as a child…

From “At long last”, inspired by a memorable incident at the Gunnersbury park:

…The shades of white which the birds that accompanied us
As we walked past that pond by the temple to the Deity of Love
On that serene mid-October Sunday morning sported;
It rained as we sat down under the shelter of tall, loving, wise trees…

From ‘Takeoff’, a surrealist poem based on many visits to the London Eye:

…Giant eye of the fair: the same phantasm
emerging, enlarging, dimming, receding;
Hall of dreams in a castle of darkness:
waves of events playing out again and
in smoke and shadows amid resounding…

I visited the National Arts Gallery at Trafalgar Square often and enjoyed learning about the history of art and art movements. Tate Modern at Southbank was another venue that I liked to visit, and there I learned much about modern art movements, and also at the Serpentine Gallery in Hyde Park. A visit to Tate Modern prompted me to create my first art-poem exploring the theme of concept-art (quoting from ‘Modern Art’):

Half-a-commode….
salvaged from
construction-site debris, in an enclosure;

Corrugated tin…
inverted containers,
shop-floor seats, hollow from the inside;…

Outside of London, Windsor was one of my favourite places to visit, and along with it being the seat of the Royal Family, the Castle was also of great interest to me as there are, on display there, some relics of Indian kings, including those of Tipu Sultan of Serigapatnam. I’d visited other places of historical interest such as Dover Castle associated with the D-Day landings and medieval Cathedrals and Castles at many English towns and cities such as Cambridge, York, Derby, etc. Visits to the Roman complex at Bath, the Stonehenge and viewing a copy of the Magna Carta at the Salisbury Cathedral were memorable experiences too.

Sara: In the section of the book called “Despair”, your poems are more wistfully reflective than self-pitying; which I like. In “Late Summer Evening”, for example, you write of the landscape around you, as well as your own emotions. Were some of these sadder poems difficult to write, in terms of emotions you felt at the time?

Prabhu: Indeed, some of them were very difficult to write. Often, poems were just lines recording the raw emotions of the time, picked and pruned into verse much later. Others arose by way of reflection on events of the past – maybe I’m given to morose self-reflection somewhat like the evening sky in London! – but it was important for me to record the moments. I used to keep a journal for many years recording happenings of the day, every day.

Sara: Do you feel that poetry can sometimes be therapeutic, in exorcising the demons of sorrow and despair? Or can it sometimes intensify negative feelings as you read it back to yourself?

Prabhu: Absolutely! To me the poems were a record of an inner journey. In some meditative practices we are encouraged to reflect on the events of the day every night and think of how to improve ourselves. To me, this poetic reflection has similar purposes and effects.

Almost always, putting down the feelings in word at the experiential moment helps to assuage and soothe the heart. And revisiting them later has a cathartic effect. In fact re- examining old maudlin verse also helps gain an objective view of emotions, for example when you record something like this: (from my poem, ‘On the shores of my inner life’)

On the shores of my inner life I kneel
Unable to stand anymore, unable to stand
Waves of remorse, boisterous seams,
Hit harder each time

…and as you look back years later, you wonder how you were this much of a wreck back then! This too is a form of healing – realizing the transitory nature of emotions. As they say, we have to be able to see that both pleasure and pain are emotions, and in the ontological sense, they are on equal footing, as experiences imposed on the experiencer. Pain affects us deeply, because we don’t want to experience this emotion – we are naturally conditioned to avoid this – but it is indeed a natural process to experience it in life as are other emotions. Coming to terms with, re-examining, expressing and reviewing such emotions is certainly therapeutic.

Sara: Have you ever made, or thought of making poetry videos, perhaps reciting in the background of a film of a landscape, or speaking to web cam at home?

Prabhu: Actually so far, I have not explored performance poetry. I’m still camera-shy and worry about proper punctuation, intonation and recitation. Having said that, I have, in recent years, seen poetry performances by you and other poets on the PLT network; and that is inspiring. The poet may be the person best placed to read out her work as she is aware of the emotional journey the words have taken. Pauses and punctuations acquire more meaning when recited directly by the creator of a work.

Sara: Finally Prabhu, what are your ambitions for the future, in terms of writing?

Prabhu: Thanks for asking this, I guess answering this question will also help me in sifting and organizing my plans and goals for myself. In the immediate sense I would like to further hone my skills in poetical and literary techniques that can convey a more enjoyable, dramatic and tangible experience to the reader. Feeling, imagination, inspiration and ekphrasis are perhaps very important parts of this process. For instance, I would like to create more works such as this ekphrastic piece I wrote just recently (from ‘Ekphrasis on a Monet’) using a poetic interpretation of the Surrealist Montage method:

                    boatman       Purple haze
      contemplative pouring
      the sky as lone
            rides the horizon.
        islanding
      into the lake,

Going forward, I want to complete some of my pending writing projects – I’ve been working on my first fictional novella and also collecting poems for further volumes of poetry. I dream of melding poetic and prose styles of description within the framework of magical realism. ‘Moons and Mists’ also, perhaps, require a revision and a second edition is due and I hope to release it on other platforms such as Lulu – a print edition would be wonderful too!

In the longer term, I wish to emerge as an authentic voice of the people in the way that Tagore and Neruda were, and be able to create poetry that people can relate to and is meaningful to their lives. In a sense this is also very challenging today, as the world has become very different – life runs at breakneck pace, and there is hardly any time to parse and digest ideas, memes and concepts. I identify myself as a poet first more than as a story teller, but I am often told, even by friends, ‘I’m not into that (poetry)’. Also, today the world is in strife, with violence and extremism on the rise, but we don’t have answers. Ideologies and creeds have failed and people are searching for meaning.

I want to take stirring, dramatic and lyrical poetry with meaning to the people, but wonder how I could do this in an era of instant consumption and vanishing attention spans! Maybe all poets of this generation face this challenge and perhaps we have to use creative routes to achieve this. Visual and performance poetry, lyrics for songs and popular music (some of the best loved songs are also great poems) could be an important channel. Perhaps, gaining a name in prose writing can help in appealing to people’s interest in the author’s other writings such as poetry. Perhaps, minimalist poetry in styles such as the Japanese Haiku and Tanka have a better chance of gaining access to the distracted mind and planting a seed for further discovery. Let me end this conversation with a Haiku I wrote recently:


In autumn’s decay,
beauty, constant companion,
and in springs of hope.

Sara: Thanks very much for the interview, Prabhu.

Prabhu: Thanks, indeed, for speaking to me and giving me this wonderful opportunity to share my thoughts and work! I’m very grateful to you and PLT, and I express my appreciation for the invaluable service you are doing to the cause of poets and poetry through your journal!

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Series. Poems by Andres Fisher Translated from Spanish by Robin Ouzman Hislop

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CASTILLA X

i.
Grandes segadoras trabajan en los campos mientras aviones cruzan el cielo, lentamente, sobre ellos.

ii.
Las mismas montañas se alzan en lontananza sin embargo otros vehículos ruedan por los caminos.

iii.
Donde antes fue la bestia, hoy es el motor mientras el hombre es el mismo que siembra, cosecha y muere.
 
 
CASTILE X
 
i.
Large harvesters crop the fields as aeroplanes slowly cross the skies above them.

ii.
The same mountains rise in the distance even though other vehicles run the roads.

iii.
Where it was the beast before, now it’s the engine, whereas man, who sows, reaps and dies,
remains the same.
 
 
CASTILLA XI
 
i.
Campos de amapolas en los llanos de Castilla.

ii.
Como islas rojas en medio de la marea verde que los circunda.

iii.
Primavera muy lluviosa. Resplandece el llano en el trigo y los cultivos.

iv.
En las flores silvestres, que siguen creciendo junto a los castillos.
 
 
CASTILE XI
 
i.
Poppy fields on the plains of Castile.

ii.
Like red islands surrounded by a green tide.

iii.
A very rainy spring. The plains glisten through the wheat and crops.

iv.
As well as the wild flowers, that still grow beside the castles.
 
 
CASTILLA XII (*)
 
i.
Aun se siembra el trigo en los márgenes de la gran ciudad.

ii.
Que refulge y palpita, confundiendo sus luces con las del ocaso.

iii.
Ya no es la mano del hombre la que siega el trigo.

iv.
Que sin embargo sigue creciendo, enhiesto, en dirección al cielo.
____
A José Viñals, in memoriam.
 
 
CASTILE XII (*)
 
i.
Wheat is still sown on the outskirts of the big city.

ii.
Gleaming and palpitating it mixes its lights with dusk’s.

iii.
Now it’s no longer the hand of man that harvests the wheat.

iv.
That nevertheless still grows straight towards the sky.
_________
(*) To José Viñals, in memoriam
 
***
 
CASTILLA XIV
 
i.
Día nublado en el verano de Castilla:

ii.
inusual como los aviones, de los que ahora solo existe el sonido.

iii.
Gentes van y vienen por las plazas de los pueblos:

iv.
que languidecen o reviven, según desde donde se los mire.

CASTILE XIV.

i.
A cloudy day in the summer of Castile:

ii.
as unusual as the aeroplanes, whose sounds now only exist.

iii.
People come and go through the squares in the small towns:

iv.
that wilt or revive according to the point they’re observed from.
 
 
CASTILLA XV
 
i.
Aun pastan ovejas en los prados de Castilla.

ii.
Y en los campos de rastrojos, ya en la meseta o circundados por colinas.

iii.
Suenan los mismos cencerros que los castillos han oído desde nacer.

iv.
Que oyeron antes las ruinas romanas, hoy circundadas por los nuevos molinos de metal.
 
 
CASTILE XV

i.
Sheep still graze on the pastures of Castile.

ii.
And in the bundle stacked fields, whether on the flatlands or the surrounding hills.

iii.
The same sheep-bells heard by the castles ever since their birth still sound.

iv.
Heard before the Romans and their ruins now surrounded by new steel mills.
 
 
CASTILLA XVI
 
i.
La disciplina del cereal y del olivo dotando de su rigor a los campos de Castilla.

ii.
Las sierras no formando mares sino alzándose como cuchillos que dividen las llanuras.
 
 
CASTILE XVI
 
i.
The discipline of the cereal and the olive tree endowing the fields of Castile, its rigour.

ii.
Ridges not forming seas but rising like knives dividing the plains.
 
***
 
CASTILLA XIX
 
i.
Es invierno y nieva en las sierras de Castilla.

ii.
El manto blanco, sin embargo, no llega a cubrir el pardo que domina en el paisaje.

iii.
En el llano, no obstante, las cepas son apenas vestigios en la superficie de una gruesa capa blanca.

iv.
Y en la autopista, los quitanieves trabajan a destajo para abrir un solo carril.
 
 
CASTILE XIX
 
i.
It’s winter and it snows on the sierras of Castile.

ii.
It’s white shroud, however, fails to cover the grey that dominates the landscape.

iii.
On the plains though, stumps of vine remain as vestiges capped in a thick white .

iv.
And on the motorway, snow ploughs work without respite merely to open a single lane.
 
 
LOS POEMAS DEL HIELO IV
 
i.
Aun existe el ocaso en los espejos retrovisores.

ii.
Delante, la luna se alza sobre un cielo azul oscuro.

iii.
Es el mismo vehículo el que rueda por la autopista y la carretera comarcal.

iv.
Y el que conduce, a bordo del coche y de sí mismo.
 
 
THE ICE POEMS IV
 
i.
Dusk still exists in the rear view mirrors.

ii.
Moon is rising on a dark blue sky ahead.

iii.
It’s the same vehicle that rides the motorway and the byway.

iv.
As is the driver who boards both car and himself.
 
 
VARIACIONES SOBRE UN POEMA SIN TITULO DE DAMSI FIGUEROA.
 
i.
Tres toros blancos corrían por tu sueño.

ii.
Golpeaban tu mejilla con arena.

iii.
Florecían cardos en una pradera amarilla que llegaba hasta el mar.
 
 
VARIATIONS ON AN UNTITLED POEM OF DAMSI FIGUEROA
 
i.
Three white bulls ran through your dream.

ii.
Beating your cheek with sand.

iii.
Thistle bloomed in a yellow prairie ending in the sea.
 
 
AEROPUERTO
 
i.
Se incendia el cielo en los ventanales del aeropuerto.

ii.
Mientras, aviones van y vienen apareciendo y desapareciendo entre las nubes.

iii.
Autobuses, furgonetas y pequeños tractores bullen en las pistas.

iv.
Mientras, los viajeros caminan y desaparecen al entrar en las pasarelas.
 
 
AIRPORT
 
i.
Sky burns in the airport windows.

ii.
Meanwhile, planes go back and forth appearing and disappearing amidst the clouds.

iii.
Buses, trucks and small tractors bustle in the tracks.

iv.
Meanwhile, travellers walk and disappear entering the ramps.
 
 
AEROPUERTO I
 
i.
Cae la noche en los ventanales del aeropuerto.

ii.
Ahora los aviones son puntos luminosos en un cielo negro y uniforme.

iii.
Gentes y vehículos mantienen su actividad cíclica e interminable.

iv.
Mientras, los altavoces emiten mensajes no siempre comprensibles.
 
 
AIRPORT I
 
i.
Night falls in the airport windows.

ii.
Planes now are luminous spots in a dark and motionless sky.

iii.
People and vehicles maintain their cyclical and endless routine.

iv.
Meanwhile, speakers deliver not always understandable messages.
 
 
***
THE PICKAXE AND THE WORM (*)
 
The pickaxe can cut the worm but chooses not to do it, putting him gently aside.
 
(*) Almost from William Blake
 
***
 
 
Escenas. Scenes.
 
i.
Un hombre solitario, camina en línea recta mientras un incendio, a sus espaldas, calcina su presente;

su presente que se elonga, calcinado, mientras los pasos se repiten, rítmicamente, ajenos a toda sensación térmica o corporal.

i.
A solitary man proceeds in a straight line whilst a fire behind him burns to ashes his present,

a present that as it stretches is burnt to ashes, whilst his steps rhythmically repeat themselves, detached from any thermal or corporal sensation.

ii.
Una mujer, a lo lejos, realiza el trayecto mas lento entre el horizonte y las nubes de sus ojos;

nubes a medio camino entre el horizonte y la bruma, cerebral, que impregna de amarillo el espacio entre el horizonte y sus propios ojos.

ii.
A woman in the distance travels a slower trajectory between the horizon and the clouds in her eyes,

clouds halfway between the horizon and the cerebral haze which impregnates yellow space between the horizon and her own eyes.

iii.
La visión de un gato, absorto, tenso en la potencia que lo habita:

que dibuja una ventana en cada muro; que convierte en hipotenusa cada movimiento del gato, tenso, absorto en la visión de su propio movimiento.

A Juan Luis Martínez.

iii.
The cat’s vision, absorbed, tense in the power that inhabits him:

a vision that draws a window on each wall; and that turns into hypotenuse each movement of the cat, tense, absorbed in the vision of its own movement.

To Juan Luis Martinez.

iv.
Un automóvil, abandonado, viaja sin pausa por una larga carretera;

una costanera interminable por la que el automóvil vaga, ensimismado, con dos soles sobre el horizonte como testigos oculares.

iv.
An automobile, abandoned, travels non stop the long motorway:

an endless esplanade, where the automobile roams engrossed with two suns on the horizon as ocular witnesses.
 
 
Escenas 1 Scenes 1
 
i.
Un hombre, a la distancia, pareciera caminar en círculos mientras a su espalda, las huellas dibujan un trazado ortogonal:

trazado que se extiende, circular, mientras sus pasos se alejan, ajenos a toda intención geométrica o lineal.

i.
A man, in the distance, would seem to walk in circles, whilst at his back his tracks draw an orthogonal sketch:

a sketch that extends circularly as his steps walk away, oblivious to any geometrical or linear intention.

ii.
Una mujer, entre la bruma, pareciera dibujar el horizonte con sus pasos sobre la arena:

trayecto lineal, hipnótico, donde los ojos son un recuerdo borroso que tiñe de amarillo cuanto existe en la memoria.

ii.
A woman amidst the mist would seem to draw the horizon as if with her steps on the sand:

a hypnotic linear trajectory, where the eyes are a blurred memory tinting in a yellow haze all what can be remembered.

iii.
Un gato, absorto, se solaza con la visión de su propio movimiento.

desplazamiento lineal que elimina muros, obstáculos, oxidando en su fuerza cuanto se interpone entre el gato y su visión.

iii.
Absorbed, a cat takes pleasure in the vision of its own movements:

a linear displacement that eliminates walls and obstacles, oxidising in its strength,
all that stands between the cat and its vision.

iv.
Un barco, a la deriva, se deja adormecer por la trama rítmica de la marea:

secuencia de olas a medio camino entre la costanera y el horizonte, entre los que el barco agota sus posibilidades de existir.

iv.
Lulled by the rhythmic weavings of the tide, a boat drifts drowsily:

wave sequences, midway between the esplanade and the horizon, where the boat exhausts its possibilities to exist.
 
 
Escenas 2 Scenes. 2
 
i.
Un hombre, bajo la lluvia, camina sin detenerse hasta que el agua, gota a gota, moja su mirada:

mirada húmeda que ve cargado de amarillo el espeso cielo gris del centro del invierno

i.
In the rain a man walks non stop until the water drop by drop wets his gaze:

a wet gaze that sees charged by yellow the dense grey sky of the winter’s core.

ii.
Una mujer, bajo el cielo del invierno, no detiene sus pasos que la acercan a las nubes:

sucesión de nubes grises entre las que la mujer se detiene, con sus pies sobre la arena

ii.
A winter’s sky doesn’t stop a woman’s footsteps beneath bringing her closer to the clouds:

a succession of grey clouds that stay between the woman with her feet on the sand.

iii.
Un árbol, desnudo en el invierno, enseña al viento su estructura:

a un geómetra, que encuentra en ella el sentido de la vida.

iii.
Stripped by winter, a tree shows the wind its structure:

to a geometrician, who finds in it the meaning of life.

iv.
Las luces de su arboladura son los únicos puntos visibles de un barco, entre la niebla de la bahía:

luces que se confunden con las del tendido eléctrico de la ciudad, apenas unos metros mas arriba.

iv.
Rigging lights are the only visible points of a ship in the fog of a bay:

lights which get confused with a city’s electric lights suspended just a few meters above.
 
 
Escenas 3. Scenes. 3
 
i.
Un rostro, desvaneciéndose, aun conserva rasgos que lo vinculan a la especie:

pertenencia laxa, cuya disolución a la luz de la tarde pone en jaque a la especie, que lo ignora, embotada en su rutina.

A Foucault

i.
A fading face still retains traits that link it to its specie:

a lax belonging, whose late afternoon dissolution checkmates the specie, which, dulled by routine, it’s unaware of.

To Foucault

ii.
Los anos del hombre desintegrándose, espasmódicamente, mientras sus huellas se acercan a los dominios del arquetipo;

territorio geométrico, sin edad, que encanta la consciencia y troquela los anos del hombre.

ii.
The years of man disintegrate in spasms as his footsteps approach the domain of the archetype;

in an ageless geometrical territory delighting consciousness and indenting the years of man.

iii.
Una calle dando tumbos, ebria, entra en el vértigo de un viaje circular:

que desorienta a las puertas, psicoactivándolas, haciendo lineal el trayecto de pajeros y peces que deambulan por la calle, delirante, en el cenit del periplo

iii.
A street staggers along inebriated entering the vertigo of a circular journey:

disorientating, psychoactivating doorways, turning lineal the trajectories of birds and fish that roam the street deliriously in the zenith of the trip.

iv.
Un espejo, al fondo de un pasillo, es desbordado por los destellos de una imagen triangular;

triangulo equilátero, evanescente, que entrega su identidad al espejo aferrándose, difusamente, a un vago anhelo de eternidad.

A Borges

iv.
A mirror at the end of a corridor is overwhelmed by the glimmers of a triangular image;

an evanescent equilateral triangle surrendering its identity to the mirror clutching dimly a vague desire for eternity.

To Borges
 
 
LOS POEMAS DEL HIELO. THE ICE POEMS.
 
i.
El cielo solo existe en los espejos retrovisores. Delante, el asfalto se extiende sin fin aparente troquelado por el ritmo hipnótico del trazado discontinuo.

El sol es un detalle. Solo uno más para el que rueda por el asfalto mientras el cielo sigue existiendo únicamente en el cristal de los espejos.

i.
The sky only exists in the rear view mirrors. Ahead, the asphalt extends without apparent end indented by the hypnotic rhythm of the continual broken road lines.

The sun is a mere detail to he who rolls on the asphalt as the sky goes on existing only in the glass of the mirrors.

ii.
La carretera solo existe en la retina del viajero. Fuera, rueda y asfalto son una unidad que constituye en sí misma el movimiento.

El ojo reconoce apenas borrosas señales de ruta mientras la retina vaga por otros campos. Por otros áreas de la conciencia en movimiento.

ii.
The motorway only exists in the retina of the traveller; outside wheel and asphalt are a unit, which constitutes itself as the motion.

The eye recognises only blurred route signs, as the retina wanders in other fields, other areas of consciousness in motion.

iii.
El silencio sincopado del habitáculo de un coche define la existencia del conductor, cuya presencia otorga sentido a la maquina.

Un sentido que se entremezcla con el trazado discontinuo, con el sol que incide sobre el y con el conductor, definido entre el silencio y la sincopa.

iii.
The syncopated silence of the car’s compartment defines the existence of the driver, whose presence gives sense to the machine.

A sense that blends the continual broken road lines, the sun on them and the driver defined by silence and syncopation.

iv.
La mirada del conductor de un vehículo que rueda. Su extensión en un área delimitada por el horizonte y el trazado discontinuo.

Por el sol al fondo. Vórtice que define la existencia del conductor, de su mirada y la del vehículo que rueda.

iv.
The driver’s sight in a rolling vehicle, its range on the area marked by the horizon and the continual broken road lines;

by the sun, afar, a vortex that defines the driver’s existence, his sight and the rolling vehicle.

v.
El asfalto de la carretera como requisito necesario del movimiento. Su existencia
pétrea definiendo a un individuo.

Sujeto que viaja, insomne, consciente de deber su existencia al movimiento engendrado por la interacción del asfalto y de la rueda.

v.
The asphalt of a motorway being a necessary requirement for motion, whose stony surface defines an individual.

A sleepless subject, who travels aware it owes its existence to the motion engendered by the interaction of asphalt and wheel.

vi.
El movimiento de un vehículo solo existe entre el trazado discontinuo y el sol, que define la presencia de lo visible.

Movimiento materializado en la consciencia a través de la retina, en le que el sol troquela cuanto tiene posibilidad de existir.

vi.
The motion of a vehicle only exists between the continual broken lines and the sun defining the presence of what is visible.

A motion materialised in consciousness through the retina, in which the sun impresses all possibilities of existence.

vii.
La noción de un conductor y de una máquina. De su desplazamiento sobre el asfalto blando de una carretera.

Incisión de una marca en el asfalto. Huella que definirá la presencia de conductor, maquina, asfalto y carretera.

vii.
The concept of a driver and a machine. Their motion over the soft asphalt of the motorway.

Incision of a mark in the asphalt. A trace that will define the presence of the driver, machine, asphalt and motorway.

viii.
La mirada de un sujeto en movimiento sobre la luz, que materializa la presencia de lo real.

La conciencia del conductor que debe su existencia al movimiento y al sol: atravesado en el horizonte por el trazado discontinuo.

viii.
A subject’s sight in motion on light materialises the presence of the real.

The driver’s consciousness, which owes its existence to motion and the sun: crossed on the horizon by the continual broken road lines
 
 
VARIACIONES SOBRE FRAGMENTOS DE LA HISTORIA VERADERA DE LA CONQUISTA DE NUEVA ESPAñA, DE BERNAL DIAZ DEL CASTILLO
 
VARIATIONS ON FRAGMENTS OF THE TRUE HISTORY OF THE CONQUEST OF NEW SPAIN BY BERNAL DIAZ DEL CASTILLO.

i.
Tanta vara y piedra y flecha nos arrojaban, señor, que todo el suelo estaba cubierto de ellas y aun el cielo oscurecían cuando peleábamos de día.

Y derrocaban nuestras murallas, señor, y aunque arremetiéramos reciamente matando treinta o cuarenta de ellos en cada embestida, tan enteros y con mas vigor que al principio acometían.

i.
So many spears, rocks and arrows they hurled at us, my liege, that the ground was covered and even the sky darkened by them as we fought throughout the day.

They knocked down our walls, my liege and though we retaliated stoutly killing thirty or forty at each onslaught, yet as a whole they stormed us with even more vigour than before.

ii.
Sesentiseis de los nuestros nos tomaron en aquel desbarate, señor, y nos herían a todos, tanto a los de a caballo como a los de pie.

Y veíamos como los subían a lo alto del gran templo para sacrificarlos, señor, y los ponían sobre unas piedras delgadas y con grandes navajones de pedernal, les aserraban los pechos y le sacaban los corazones bullentes para ofrecerlos a sus dioses, que allí tenían

ii.
Sixty six of us, they took from that disaster, my liege, both those on horseback and those on foot.

And we saw how they climbed to the top of their great temple to slaughter them, my liege, to lay them on thin stone slabs and with great flint shards sever their breast to draw forth their pulsing hearts as an offering to the Gods they had there.

iii.
Desde lo alto del templo, señor, hacían sonar un gran tambor que se oía en dos leguas, que tenia el sonido mas triste, como instrumento de los demonios:

Y venían muchos escuadrones a echarnos mano y cerraban con nosotros tan reciamente que no aprovechaban estocadas ni cuchilladas; ballestas ni escopetas y daban en nosotros, señor, llenos de heridas y corriéndonos la sangre.

iii.
From the top of the temple, my liege they made a great drum roll you could hear from two leagues, it had a most sad sound, as though an instrument of demons:

they came in many squads closing us in at hand so that neither neither slash nor thrust, shotgun nor crossbow was of avail, and so they struck us, my liege, full of wounds and running in our own blood.
 
***
 
andres fisher
 

Andres Fisher was born in Washington DC in 1963. At an early age he moved to Chile where he was raised. In 1990 he moved to Madrid, Spain, where he got his PhD and started publishing poetry and related work. Since 2004 he’s back in the US where he teaches at Appalachian State University, Boone, NC, and he still spends 2 or 3 months a year in Madrid. His last book of poetry is Series, collected poetry 1995-2010 (Ed. Amargord. Col. Transatlántica, 2010). In 2009 appeared his bilingual anthology of Haroldo de Campo’s poetry, Hambre de Forma (Ed. 27 letras, Madrid) and in 2010 Caballo en el Umbral, anthology of Jose Viñals’ poetry done collaboratively with Benito del Pliego (Ed. Regional de Extremadura, Mérida). In 2013 appeared Entremilenios (Ed. Amargord. Col. Transatlántica), a translation into Spanish of Haroldo de Campo’s posthumous book. Also in 2013 was released Círculo de Hueso, translations into Spanish of the poetry of Lew Welch (Varasek eds.) done with Benito del Pliego and recently in 2014, they have published Objetos y Retratos. Geografía, translations into Spanish of a sample of Gertrude Stein’s poetry (Ed. Amargord. Col. Transatlántica)

 
***
 
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop (UK) Co-editor of the 12 year running on line monthly poetry journal Poetry Life and Times. (See its Wikipedia entry at Poetry_Life_and_Times). He has made many appearances over the last years in the quarterly journals Canadian Zen Haiku, including In the Spotlight Winter 2010 & Sonnetto Poesia. Previously published in international magazines, recent publications include Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review, Appalachian University N Carolina, Post Hoc installed at Bank Street Arts Centre, Sheffield (UK), Uroborus Journal, 2011-2012 (Sheffield, UK), The Poetic Bond II & 111, available at http://www.thepoeticbond.com/ and Phoenix Rising from the Ashes a recently published Anthology of Sonnets: The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes. He has recently completed a volume of poetry, The World at Large, for future publication. He is currently resident in Spain engaged in poetry translation projects.robin@artvilla.com and you can also visit Face Book site at PoetryLifeTimes

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Conformal Mapping.Poem.Sonnet.Vera Rich(1936-2009)

by

 

 

I cannot come to you without a sleep,

And travelling through sleep, I cannot know

If through one firm continuum I go.

Night is an involution which may keep

 Strange secrets, map our plane from sphere to sphere,

 And though we travel post-stage, can we swear

 Nights in strange inns preserve invariant “there”

 And “thither”? One brief day embeds our “near”.

 So, meeting, can we claim a mundane path

 Maps me to you in spatial translation?

 Rise with the dawn – however swift we run,

 Time draws its radius around each hearth,

 And hence we meet, sped by night’s transformation

 Where children dream gold lands beyond the sun.

 

***

Vera Rich(1936-2009)

Educated at St Hilda’s College, Oxford and at Bedford College, London, Vera Rich, a respected science journalist and a tireless campaigner for human rights, was a fine poet. Her wits were quick, her memory prodigious and she had a wonderful sense of humour.

During the 1960’s she had three books of her own poems published, and founded the poetry magazine, Manifold. This ran with some success for 28 issues before publication was suspended in 1968, when Vera became Eastern European correspondent for the science magazine, Nature.

Once asked to translate some Ukrainian poems, she learned the language to do so. For the next three decades, she travelled extensively in eastern Europe, becoming the foremost translator of both Ukrainian and Belarusian poetry into English. She reported on the activities of dissident Soviet scientists, the Chernobyl disaster, psychiatric abuse and AIDS in the Soviet Union. Her anthology of Belarusian poetry, Like Water, Like Fire, published by UNESCO, was subsequently withdrawn under pressure from the Soviet Union.

Manifold, which she revived in 1998, regularly published foreign-language poetry with parallel text in Engtlish and, occasionally. foreign poetry untranslated. In 2006 Vera travelled to the Ukraine to receive the Ivan Franko Award for her 40 years service to the translation of Ukrainian poetry. While on a visit to the Ivan Franko Homestead she gave an emotional reading of Shevchenko’s poem “Testament”. On her next visit in 2007, she wore her medal, the Order of Princess Olha, which had been presented to her at the Ukrainian Embassy in London. Vera could fairly be described as a Ukrainian patriot, an unusual distinction for an Englishwoman.

In 2006 Vera underwent treatment for breast cancer. But she always insisted her illness was an inconvenient obstacle to her work. On 18 December 2009, her doctor advised her to go into hospital, but even then Vera gave priority to her translations. On 20 December, 2009, she died peacefully in her bed. She will be greatly missed, not least for her kindness and the support she gave to so many. Alan Flowers (UK)

 ***

This sonnet and bibliography is pre-published with the permission of the Editor-in-chief from:

Richard Vallance, editor-in-chief. The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: Anthology of sonnets of the early third millennium = Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendres : Anthologie de sonnets au début du troisième millénaire. Friesen Presse, Victoria, B.C., Canada. © 2013. approx. 240 pp. ISBN Hardcover: 978-1-4602-1700-9 Price: $28.00 Paperback: 978-1-4602-1701-6 Price: $18.00 e-Book: 978-1-4602-1702-3 Price: TBA

300 sonnets & ghazals in English, French, Spanish, German, Chinese & Persian.

30 sonnets in this anthology are to be pre-published by our permission in Poetry Life & Times (UK) which has exclusive sole rights prior to the publication of the anthology itself. Readers may also contact Richard Vallance, Editor-in-Chief, at: vallance22@gmx.com for further information.http://vallance22.hpage.com/

 

 

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