Julio Cortázar

This Argentinian writer is famous for his intricately schemed short stories and renowned novel “Rayuela” (Hopscotch). The idea behind the latter is gorgeous in itself, the execution even better. Part of Cortázar’s own introduction reads as follows :

“A su manera este libro es muchos libros, pero sobre todo es dos libros. El primer libro se deja leer en la forma corriente, y termina en el capítulo 56…el segundo libro se deja leer empezando por el capitulo 73 y siguiendo el orden que se indica al pie de cada capítulo…71, 1, 2, 116, etc”.

“In its own way this book is many books. However, above all, it’s two books. The first one can be read like normal and finishes at the end of Chapter 56…the second one can be read by starting with Chapter 73 and following the order that’s indicated at the foot of each chapter…71, 1, 2, 116, etc”.

The game of hopscotch isn’t just technical virtuosity for its own sake – Cortázar’s challenging of our expectations goes much further. I can’t recommend this novel enough.

Nevertheless, my favourite Cortázar book isn’t a novel or a collection of short stories. It’s his collected poems (Salvo El Crepúsculo), tough to find even in Spain. He’s virtually unknown as a poet, but his skill is immense. Cortázar’s poetry is scattered with terrific turns of phrase, but is also held together by an original vision that juxtaposes everyday and abstract elements:

“…esa comida recalentada, la memoria…”

“…el pozo herido
de una sola cabeza en una almohada…”

And here’s my betrayal of his original versión:

“…memory, that reheated dish…”

“…the wounded well
of a single head on a pillow…”

Wonderful stuff - this is poetry that accompanies me all the time.

"Traduttore, tradittore" or “Translator, traitor”

This Italian saying might sound provocative until we undress the ramifications.

In spite of my background as a linguist, I’ve never enjoyed translating as a literary pursuit. It’s an excellent exercise in understanding how languages work, interact and misunderstand each other, but the impossibility of success frustrates my creativity rather than igniting it. For example, the cadences and connotations of English cannot exist in Spanish (and vice versa).

I’m far keener on using the original as a point of departure for my tangents, but then this is also what I do when reading poetry in English. On second thoughts, perhaps I too am a translator and traitor at once, but in my own language, from one poem to another, from reader to writer and on to further readers, just as all poets are.

The Last Place On Earth

Having previously mentioned poets whose attraction has faded for me, I should also mention that the opposite can also happen, as in the case of Peter Sansom.

I had always admired aspects of his earlier work, but with reservations. None remain since the 2006 publication of The Last Place On Earth. Words work harder to earn their place, while this sense of tightening also applies to the poems’ musicality. Humdrum events can sing and develop ramifications; Peter Sansom has mastered the art of getting them to do so, as in the opening lines of Ironing:

“I like it best when there’s time to see myself
though the drizzle of a weekday morning…”

Simple, mundane, yet already hinting at far more beyond as the poem advances.

I get the impression that Sansom is no longer bothered about nodding towards one poetic reference point or another. Techniques now don’t get in the way – they’ve been fully absorbed into his unified yet varied voice. The Last Place On Earth is an excellent example of how the portrayal of everyday events need not lack ambition. In fact, few poets are capable of rising to the challenge of meeting life head-on and then leaping beyond it without sounded trite or forced.

Peter’s Sansom’s achievement is thus considerable and undervalued. I’m convinced that The Last Place On Earth is a key book in contemporary British poetry. Get hold of a copy if you can!

And as for Paul...

Following on from my previous post about the development in Douglas Dunn’s work and the difficulties thus posed for me as a reader, I’ve been wondering about other poets who also seem to have taken a similar journey. By this I mean that their work has evolved towards greater mastery and density of technique, more poems within poems, an ever-increasing enjoyment of erudition and a waning appeal to my personal tastes.

I thought and think that Paul Farley’s The Boy From The Chemist Is Here To See You is one of the most outstanding first collections I’ve read. I love its distinctive set of voices, colloquial verbal gymnastics and playful connection with the reader. A vast majority of its poems have stayed with me since 1998, which is always an excellent sign.

I bought Farley’s next book, The Ice Age, as soon as it came out, read and reread it over the following few weeks. Without knowing quite why at first, I realised the poems just weren’t hitting home. Right now, off the cuff, I can’t dredge up any of its pieces without opening the book and refreshing my memory.

The same goes for Tramp in Flames, Farley’s third collection. I admire both later books in technical terms, perhaps even more so than Farley’s debut, but I’ve stopped enjoying them as much and connect with fewer and fewer poems. Something of a blow, bearing in mind that this is why I read!

It’s easy to speculate about what’s happened. As therapists would have it, both of us must probably share our guilt! The fact is that the three collections have grown in length – from 48 to 54 to 72 pages - as has their density. Since The Boy From The Chemist Is Her To See You, Farley’s life has grown further away from Art College and Liverpool, moving more into the world of workshops, academia and readings, etc.

Farley’s still young enough to surprise us with new directions. I’ll be straight out to purchase his next collection, because I still believe he’s one of the most idiosyncratic and inventive poets writing in the U.K. today. It’s just I’m not sure how much longer we’re going to last together…

Douglas and me

I dipped into my set of Douglas Dunn books once more yesterday and was reminded how much I admire a great deal of his poetry.

No matter how often I re-read him, Terry Street still stands out alongside Elegies, despite the occasional wobbles in voice that characterise so many first collections. My battered copy was printed before I was born and apparently cost more new (60p) than I paid for it second-hand, which lends it extra kudos. I particularly relish the tension involved in Dunn’s self-imposed ambivalent status as an outsider living on Terry Street. His detached observations are juxtaposed with sharp notes of personal engagement, as in “Incident in the Shop”:

“…I feel the draughts on her legs,
The nip of cheap detergent on her hands…”

Memorable lines, not Kitchen Sink, nor derivative Larkin.

Dunn’s later collections certainly contain excellent work, but his writing also seems to revel more and more in its own ever-improving standards, entering into a dialogue with itself. An exception is inevitably the outstanding Elegies, where the dialogue is of course with Dunn’s memories of Lesley. Immediacy is regained, now combined with consistently dazzling skill, studded with turns of phrase that have been with me ever since I first read them eight years ago…

“…these days of grief
before the grief..”

“…The clinic of “sympathy” and dinners…”

“…the muddle of lost tenses…”

Plus numerous others I could mention.

Since Elegies, I’ve tried and failed to engage with Dunn’s writing. I admire its excellence but cannot warm to it, as in this example from the collection Northlight…

"…Time lets its scientific minutes drop
On the Australian emptiness, a brown
Rugged geology where clocks are baked
In God’s kiln…"

Virtuosity that leaves me cold.

The aim of this post isn’t to bash the way Dunn has developed as a writer, rather to point out that the relationship between a poet and his reader can mirror that of a couple who grow apart as their tastes change. No matter what I may think of the latest work, I treasure Terry Street and Elegies, which says as much about me as it does about Douglas Dunn.

One final point – Dunn’s choice of work from Terry Street to be included in his Selected very much reflects his developing ideas. I thoroughly recommend the original collection and original running order.

English in Spanish, Spanish in English

After his excellent reading in Zafra few years ago, I was lucky enough to share a few tapas with Antonio Gamoneda, whose unique body of work I’ll describe in more detail in a later post.

We ended up discussing his collection, Blues Castellano, a remarkable attempt at using the tools of The Blues in Spanish verse. Our conversation then ended up at Borges’ door – I’ve always felt specifically English cadences, structures and devices permeated all Borges’ work, especially his prose. Bear in mind that his childhood reading included authors such as Chesteron, while he collaborated with his translator on the English-language versions of his work.

Gamoneda’s Blues Castellano is an intensely Spanish re-interpretation of the form, as he uses it to engage with personal and social melancholy brought about by the darkest period in Spain’s recent history; Borges, meanwhile, linguistically spooks me – at times I feel I’m reading Spanish in English or English in Spanish, both languages playfully enriching each other, such is his knowledge of the cultures and connotations involved.

True Life Stories

Circumstances took me into W.H. Smiths the other week (my son’s urgent need for Thomas the Tank Engine books!). Glances along the shelves provided a brutal reminder that a poetry section doesn’t exist there (in the Chichester branch, at least), although “True Life Stories” seems to be growing at an alarming rate.

And there was me thinking poetry was also a genre that excels at bite-sized morsels of Faction.