Emergencies Crown Their Own Kings

"Keep your cabins; you do assist the storm."  Boatswain, The Tempest

*********

ANARCHY

Ever reviled, accursed, ne'er understood,
Thou art the grisly terror of our age.
"Wreck of all order," cry the multitude,
"Art thou, & war & murder's endless rage."
O, let them cry. To them that ne'er have striven
The truth that lies behind a word to find,
To them the word's right meaning was not given.
They shall continue blind among the blind.
But thou, O word, so clear, so strong, so true,
Thou sayest all which I for goal have taken.
I give thee to the future! Thine secure
When each at least unto himself shall waken.
Comes it in sunshine? In the tempest's thrill?
I cannot tell - but it the earth shall see!
I am an Anarchist! Wherefore I will
Not rule, & also ruled I will not be!


— John Henry Mackay

*********

The opening scene of The Tempest--the shipwreck--is like an overture throughout which we catch echoes, like distant thunder, of the themes that dominated the historical and tragic music dramas of Shakespeare's earlier periods. It is an extraordinary epitome. "What cares these roarers for the name of king?" Into that question--or exclamation, if you will--the disdainful Boatswain condenses not only King Lear but all that Shakespeare ever said on he subject of worldly place and power. Here are a group of "great ones"--from king down--up against it. "The king and prince at prayers!" The mingled surprise, humor, and consternation in those words of old Gonzalo says it all. When kings and princes are reduced to prayer, then indeed is the day of doom near. The roaring Boatswain...is the one man who shines in this crisis, his combined cheerfulness, energy, resourcefulness, and contempt being just the brew needed in the situation. Even the master of the boat relies on him to carry ship, mariners, passengers, and master himself through on his lone shoulders. Emergencies crown their own kings. As the Bastard needed no title in King John, so this man can stand on his own feet. Nature hands him the command and everybody of any account concurs. "Keep your cabins; you do assist the storm," he orders his royal passengers. There is a symbolic diagnosis of war in eight words, with a prescription for peace thrown in.

--Harold Goddard, The Meaning of Shakespeare

Slim Shady Salmon

On September 20, 2013 I posted a poem of mine I called "Perspective." Strangely, for my poems (or any posts), I got six "pluses" from Google Plus users (two were probably my own). I assure you, a real rarity.

analogous of minded me
supposition of a maker

if this then that
be salmon-fin

or salmon-red
white upon a spawn

outbreak of bounds
to wingless burst of air

antagonist of course
interdict of bear

an agonist of accidents
coincident intention

I was told that there was no way "in" to the poem by a few readers. Noted, but I'm not one to really know what to do to open the right door. So...

Later I cut four lines, called it "A Law," and inserted it into a series of poems I called "Fold."

A Law


if this then that
be salmon-fin

or salmon-red
white upon a spawn

a breaking bounds
by wingless burst of air:

antagonist of course
interdict of bear.

Today, I got my last issue of The Boston Review in the mail (Jan/Feb 2014). In it was the the following poem by Henk Rossouw called "Sonnet for My Son."

The way to see the invisible salmon is to cook it at once,
on lowered heat, in a cast-iron pan glossy with the fat

of earlier salmon that cannot be seen. When the salmon is ready
it is cerise. This is supper, and also supposition--

no-one has caught the invisible salmon but the invisible
bear, nine hundred pounds of desire, who hibernates

in the double bed. The bear is not an idea. Since when
was desire a good idea? The bear is a Kodiak instance, stolen

from the time stream that slips around the airfoil
of the present, an aerodynamic hump in the double bed, scion

of a long-crested line of airborne bears, who fishes
and whoops asleep, invisible paw dangling over a colander

full of water, rife with coho, sockeye, Chinook, chum,
swirling and transparent as the night is at night time.

Of course this poem is not like my poem. But I would like to suggest that this poem interprets my poem and makes it into something that seems more personal (it is for "my son" after all)--that perhaps it opens a door to the reader where "Perspective" offers a few locks.

But, noting that, I'm not exactly sure that my poem doesn't more accurately interpret Rossouw's poem. In any event, I find this poem more perplexing than my own.

Perhaps if we combine "A Law" with "Out of Many Mouths" it makes more sense.

inimitable voice
are you listening

we hear you everywhere
it turns out you have a following

in others who speak to be heard
they hear through you

blown as you are
out of a twirl

though you walk
above gardens

in a twinkle

though you balance
so keenly

on an edge
a peak

cut

to bear
one interpretation

if this then that
be salmon-fin

or salmon-red
white upon a spawn

a breaking bounds
by wingless burst of air

antagonist of course
interdict of bear

Through the Blue Evenings

A post taken from "A Test of Translation: Rimbaud," published in the first issue of Montemora (1975), a literary journal founded and edited by Eliot Weinberger (this issue co-edited with Geoffrey O'Brien).

The point made by Montemora (the "test") comes with the last translation offered.  I am not using the Montemora translations prior to the key and final translation, but just what I found readily online.

So, the original:


Sensation
by Arthur Rimbaud

Par les soirs bleus d'été, j'irai dans les sentiers,
Picoté par les blés, fouler l'herbe menue :
Rêveur, j'en sentirai la fraîcheur à mes pieds.
Je laisserai le vent baigner ma tête nue.

Je ne parlerai pas, je ne penserai rien :
Mais l'amour infini me montera dans l'âme,
Et j'irai loin, bien loin, comme un bohémien,
Par la Nature, -- heureux comme avec une femme.

***


Sensation
(translated by Joshua Mehigan)

Blue summer evenings, pricked by stalks of wheat,
I’ll walk the paths, crush short grass where I tread:
Dreaming, I’ll feel its coolness on my feet.
And I shall let the wind bathe my bare head.

No words, no thoughts: but in my soul will grow
A boundless love, and, like a Romany,
Far, very far, through woods and fields, I’ll go,---
Happy as if a woman walked with me.

***

Sensation
(translated by A. S. Kline)


Through the blue summer days, I shall travel all the ways,
Pricked by the ears of maize, trampling the dew:
A dreamer, I will gaze, as underfoot the coolness plays.
I’ll let the evening breeze drench my head anew.

I shall say – not a thing: I shall think – not a thing:
But an infinite love will swell in my soul,
And far off I shall go, a bohemian,
Through Nature – as happy, as if I had a girl.

***

Sensation
(translated by Wyatt Mason)


 Through blue summer nights I will pass along paths,
 Pricked by wheat, trampling short grass:
 Dreaming, I will feel coolness underfoot,
 Will let breezes bathe my bare head.

 Not a word, not a thought:
 Boundless love will surge through my soul,
 And I will wander far away, a vagabond
 In Nature - as happily as with a woman.

***

Sensation
(translated by Cindy Kodak)

Through the blue evenings of summer I will go into the path,
through the prickly wheat, crushing the tiny grass.
I'm in a dream.  I feel the freshness on my feet;
I will let the wind bathe my head.

I will not speak, I will consider nothing
But endless love will climb up into my soul,
And I will go far, very far, one free man,
Through Nature, will be happy with one woman.

(Cindy Kodak lives in Rochester, N.Y., and is nine years old.  She neither speaks French nor consults existing translations: she is merely given the French text and a paperback dictionary.  Moreover, many of her classmates--"average" public school fourth-graders--are also currently translating by this method. Their teacher, Mrs. Fleming, knows no French.)

Ozymandias (first draft)

From Sulfur, V. 33, Into the Past

To Catch the Common Ear

"Once upon a time I was a poet, not a very industrious one, not at all an influential, unread and unheard of, yet good enough in a small way to interest my friends whose names have gradually become familiar: Pound and Zukofsky first, Carlos Williams, Hugh MacDiarmid...Few indeed, but enough to make me feel my work was not wasted." Basil Bunting