Category Archives: Translation

Le Double Rimbaud by Victor Segalen Translated by Blandine Longre and Paul Stubbs (Black Herald Press)

Le Double Rimbaud by Victor Segalen Translated by Blandine Longre and Paul Stubbs (Black Herald Press)

Victor Segalen’s essay on Rimbaud, translated here for the first time into English, appeared in 1906 in the influential literary review Mercure de France. Segalen was an admirer of Rimbaud’s poetry and, like many others, perplexed by the poet’s abandonment of literature. In the essay he attempts to reconcile the poet Rimbaud with the trader/adventurer Rimbaud, taking issue as he does so with various theories being expounded at the time.

Segalen begins with an appreciation of Rimbaud’s verse. He’s dismissive of the early poems like ‘The Orphan’s New Year Gifts’, but praises the ‘beautiful pagan breath’ of ‘Sun and Flesh’ and the visionary qualities of ‘The Drunken Boat’, in which he says Rimbaud ‘foresees his future turmoil, his endless walks, his struggles…’ In the final line of ‘The Drunken Boat’ Segalen says ‘a frisson of the unknown is truly encompassed.’ This is, he believes, the mark of great poet, and many such lines, he asserts, can be harvested from Rimbaud’s work, ‘sparse as it is’. 

The more obscure prose poetry of Les Illuminations appeals less to Segalen, who notes that Rimbaud may never have intended these fragments for publication. He feels the images and references are too private, hence inaccessible to the reader beyond a general sense of beauty and harmony, with sudden shifts of imagery, which ‘shivers with sensitivity’. 

Segalen was a naval doctor, traveller, linguist, archaeologist, and poet, his interests and experience therefore overlapping with many of Rimbaud’s own preoccupations. He spent some time in Djibouti, allowing him the opportunity to interview local people who had known Rimbaud. The figure which emerges from these conversations is of ‘a tall, thin man’, ‘an amazing walker’ and ‘a man of astounding conversation’. But he finds no evidence of Rimbaud ever having discussed poetry, and the only writings these traders are aware of are Rimbaud’s submissions to the French Geographical Society. But the prospect of finding evidence of a continuing poetic interest among ‘men of business, caravaneers, consuls, etc.’ was always going to be a challenge, Segalen reflects. 

Rimbaud’s letters from Africa to his family and a few friends (published in 1899) are no more explicit, being full of practical matters, and complaints about the vicissitudes of daily life. The letters, Segalen says, give ‘no indication that Rimbaud still occupied himself with his prodigious childish games’ (jeux d’enfant in the original, ‘childhood games’ is perhaps a less judgmental way of rendering this). 

Had he wished to, the adult Rimbaud had opportunities to reconnect with his literary past. In February 1888 a former classmate , Paul Bourde, who was writing for Le Temps, alerted Rimbaud to the existence of a small circle of admirers in Paris who eagerly awaited his return. Rimbaud did not respond to this news. As Segalen says: ‘No hint that he might have taken into consideration the impact of his early writings has been found.’

Segalen reviews various theories, including the psychological notion of ‘split personality’, in an attempt to explain this divide between the poet and the trader/explorer. He dismisses pathological explanations as not fitting Rimbaud’s case. He turns instead to the concept of ‘Bovarysme’ (Bovarysm) developed by the philosopher and essayist Jules de Gautier. The idea derives from Flaubert’s novel and describes someone who values an aspect of their activity which is inferior at the expense of a more significant area of achievement. Gautier gives the example of the painter Ingres who considered his virtuosity as a musician to be more important than his painting. 

Segalen sees Rimbaud as an example of Bovarysm. Poetry came easily to the adolescent Rimbaud, he argues, and as a result he never fully appreciated the value of what he had produced. Later his energies became dissipated in a series of struggles with ‘the implacability of life’ in which the gains and setbacks of the trader seemed more real than his youthful poetic dreams. 

The final question Segalen considers is whether or not Rimbaud might one day have returned to poetry. Rimbaud’s first biographer, Paterne Berrichon (who married Rimbaud’s sister Isabelle after the poet’s death), believed that ‘poetry was part of his [Rimbaud’s] nature’ and that he could not possibly have ‘imposed silence on his voice’ indefinitely. Segalen rejects this ‘optimistic hypothesis’ and argues that to the end Rimbaud ‘persisted in despising his essential being’ and smothered his ‘poetical inspiration’. 

It is interesting to see Segalen, who was Rimbaud’s junior by 24 years, wrestling with questions which have occupied critics and biographers ever since. Rimbaud’s youthful poetic achievements involved much more work and dedication than Segalen was perhaps aware of. But Segalen’s acceptance of the fact of Rimbaud’s abandonment of poetry, writing only 15 years after the poet’s death, is honest and an important counter to the mythologising already begun by Berrichon and others. Segalen’s essay has not been available before in English and this parallel text edition will be of much interest to Rimbaud devotees. 

A final word on the translation. In the opening paragraph of the essay Segalen talks about the ‘two Rimbauds’ and their apparent irreconcilability. The last sentence of this paragraph reads: ‘Cela reste inquiétant de duplicité’, and in a later passage he refers to ‘la duplicité de son existence’. In both instances Longre and Stubbs translate ‘duplicité’ as ‘duplicily’. This is certainly one meaning of the French word, but another meaning is ‘doubleness’ and that I think is the sense intended here. Nowhere in the essay is Segalen suggesting any deceit or hypocrisy on the part of Rimbaud. So the first phrase should be translated as something like ‘There remains a disturbing sense of doubleness’, and the second ‘the doubleness of his existence’. 

Simon Collings 7th August 2024

Tears in the Fence 79 is out!

Tears in the Fence 79 is out!

Tears in the Fence 79 is now available at http://tearsinthefence.com/pay-it-forward and features poetry, prose poetry, translations, flash fiction and fiction by Sheila E. Murphy, Cindy Botha, Philip Gross, Eliza O’Toole, Jeremy Hooker, Lucy Ingrams, Penny Hope, Jane Ayers, David Sahner, Gerald Killingworth, Peter Robinson, Cathra Kelliher, Paul Brownsey, Tracy Turley, Danielle Hubbard, Jude Rosen, Aidan Semmens, Mélisande Fitzsimons, Massimo Fantuzzi, Jazmine Linklater, Sarah Frost, Maria Jastrzębska, Elizabeth Chadwick Pywell, Dylan Stallard, Huw Gwynn-Jones, Colin Campbell Robinson, Philip Rösel Baker, Xoái David, Alyson Hallett, Robin Thomas, Poonam Jain, Branko Čegec translated by Mehmed Begić, Mijenko Kovačoćek, Beth Davyson, Vik Shirley, Rachel Jeffcoat, Garry MacKenzie, Elaine Randell, Sarah Salway, Haley Jenkins, S. J. Literland, Simon Jenner and Janet Hancock.

The critical section consists of Editorial by David Caddy, Will Fleming on Maurice Scully, David Caddy on Poetic Space: some notes on home, Barbara Bridger on Maria Tsvetaeva, Jasmina Bolfek-Radovani in conversation with Branko Čegec, Simon Jenner on Basil Buntings Letters, Guy Russell on Max Jacob, Andrew Duncan on Gustav Sobin, Ric Hool on Norman Jope, Barbara Bridger on Louise Anne Buchler, Steve Spence on Lyndon Davies, Simon Jenner on Pratibha Castle, Elaine Randell on John Muckle, Jenny He on Jennifer Lee Tsai, Andrew Duncan on new Scottish poets, Claire Booker on Alan Price, Guy Russell on Kjell Espmark, translated by Robin Fulton Macpherson, Morag Kiziewicz’s Electric Blue, Notes on Contributors and David Caddy’s Afterword.

All The Eyes That I Have Opened by Franca Mancinelli translated by John Taylor (Black Square Editions)

All The Eyes That I Have Opened by Franca Mancinelli translated by John  Taylor (Black Square Editions)

There is a wonderful three-line poem at the start of Franca Mancinelli’s new book, an epigraph which acts as a possible explanation or prompt to the reader:

      cannot scatter itself
     puts itself back together at every turn
     like a flock flying onwards


This not only suggests that poetry is alive and in constant motion, but that even when poems and poem sequences appear fragmented or individual – like an individual bird within a group flying – the whole is what counts, is the sum of its parts. Mancinelli’s sequences of poems are murmurations of language, wheeling in constant flux across the sky/page; each word and line and page contributing to the whole.

In the past I have sometimes criticised Mancinelli’s work as too abstract, but the opening sequence here, ‘Jungle’, could not be more down-to-earth. The first half consists of diary-like entries from a refugee’s journey, then moves from raw prose-poetry to imagistic aphorisms:

     deaths are time’s beads
     we go through them like a string.

This literal toughness contrasted with more philosophical lyricism continues. There is brutal pruning, death, fire, desertion, abandonment and fleeing in response to cruelty and abuse; but there is also light and resistance to the darkness, a sense of physical and mental self that roots itself to the earth, to memory, to others and to language and writing. So even the fact that ‘there is a point when life overturns / becomes Morse code’ (and presumably not easy to read or understand) is countered in the next poem by an acceptance of nature:

     at the centre of mystery, the stamen
     of time. Petals grow
     and days. There is neither vase
     nor garden. Only
     the earth. The light. The rain.

Mancinelli’s poetry is accepting and limpid, sometimes bemused: ‘how I arrived here, I don’t know’ she states in ‘Diary of a Passage’, the final sequence in this book, which again begins in prose. This sequence, too is, is about transition, transfer, migrancy, travelling; it is unclear if the narrator is helping refugees or is one themselves. Either way, ‘You cannot lose or forget on this journey’, even if you ‘don’t know why I’m here.’

Nature and travel are only parts of the mythology Mancinelli constructs for herself. In addition to light & dark, the photographic darkroom is a place of retreat and calm, of contemplation, as are trees; although these, like human bodies, can be hurt or dismembered. Photography and light are, of course about seeing, and St Lucy’s eyes, like a budded twig, are held out to the reader on the front book cover, and the Saint herself is referenced, though not named, in a sequence called ‘December 13th’, her feast day. Even with her eyes gouged out, she notes that

     all the world’s strength
     can’t shift a ray of light

Mancinelli’s poetry seems rooted in this idea of continuation, metamorphosis and change. We should, she says, 

     expect to travel
     as sacred dust.

This new book which, its translator John Taylor notes, means ‘nearly all of Mancinelli’s writing to date has become available in English’ is her best yet. It’s tough acceptance, startling imagery, and the very human stories it alludes to, allow us to believe ‘in the sky. In the broken line of the horizon. Like a simple outline, a possible form of life.’

Rupert Loydell 14th December 2023

Monochords by Yannis Ritsos with Chiara Ambrosio Translated by Paul Merchant (Prototype)

Monochords by Yannis Ritsos with Chiara Ambrosio Translated by Paul Merchant (Prototype)

Yannis Ritsos was a prolific poet, who spent many years in prison or under house arrest because of his communist beliefs and opposition to Greece’s right-wing regimes. Monochords is a strange book amongst his work: 336 one-line poems written in a single month in 1979. I have a copy of the text already, but when several poems are presented on the page it’s difficult to allow them the mental space and room for understanding. 

This beautiful new edition corrects that: each page consists of a single poem accompanied by a small linocut from artist Chiara Ambrosio. She already knew the poems, indeed they had been a companion to her ‘for over a decade’, but when the pandemic and lockdown shut down, she set herself the task (‘I felt compelled,’ she says) to make an image for each monochord, one a day, reading and responding to the text, seeking ‘out resonances and emergences’.

They are more, much more, than illustrations though. They have become part of the poems, opening up what Ambrosio calls ‘text and image entwined in mysterious ways, creating often incendiary pairings, unlocking new, contemporary resonances within the text’. The artist describes her daily process as ‘akin to the tending of a garden’, but also ‘a dialogue with Ritsos’, her own ‘personal diary, and ‘a book of days’. It is this complex relationship, the entwining of poetic and visual lines which makes this volume so exciting. The past and present are mixed on the page: 1970s Greece, English translations from the Greek originals, lockdown London, the reader’s now, the timelessness of poetry and the imagination, and the way text can facilitate a kind of time travel:

     How gently time collapses into poetry.   (286)
                                                                                                                                                      
Sometimes Ritsos’ writing can be surreal, indeed the first book of his I came across – in a seaside shop in Greece, 1980 – seemed to present him as a juxtaposer of unconnected images and actions. In hindsight, having found other collections, most of this was due to the translations, not the original text, but there is no escaping the strangeness of some of Ritsos’ minimal poems:

     A naked man with an umbrella. Summer noon.   (72)


     At night, the sea with its ships enters my room.   (244)
         

Elsewhere, there are more straightforward moments: a ship departing the harbour whilst the poet remains on land, memories of ‘lost years’ triggered by ‘distant voices of children’, a red pebble hidden under a white one, rubbish on the stairs, all considered and given recognition or attention in retrospect:

     Much later you see what you saw.   (164)


Ritsos can be philosophical, too, about both the world and words themselves:

     I saw you and remembered poems.    (16)

     A word made fresh by repetition.     (17)
         

He also suggests poetry as a kind of ritual cleansing, a personal shedding and dismissal of, and moving on from, the past:

     I create lines to exorcise the evil that oppressed my country.  (203)
 
In addition to the images and texts of the poems themselves, the book contains several useful and informative texts. David Harsent, himself a translator and author of ‘versions’ of Ritsos introduces the writer himself, discusses the Greek derivation of ‘monochorda’, and then contextualises and discusses both Ritsos’ poems and Ambrosio’s images. The artist herself then describes the project, her working methods and relationship with the poems, which then follow. Gareth Evans’ ‘afterword’ is a wide-ranging essay which discusses re/presentation, materiality, the abuse of authority (and resistance to it), and contextualises the work in relation to film makers Sergei Parajanov and Andrei Tarkovsky, the author John Berger and several other writers, as well as myth and history.

The musician and author Thurston Moore, in his blurb, suggests that these monochords are ‘the essence of a thought, a sign, a glimmer’, the product of ‘singular moments and observations’, which Chiara Ambrosia has responded to in ‘a dance of suggestion’. This beautifully conceived, designed and produced book is the best form of collaboration, one where something new is produced whilst also retaining both the essence and specificity of the original. It is text and metatext, reinforcement, recognition and reconsideration of ideas, poetic gloss and development, commentary and continuation. As monochord 121 says:

     The distance between things keeps growing till they meet.


Rupert Loydell 7th June 2023

Tears in the Fence 77 is out!

Tears in the Fence 77 is out!

Tears in the Fence 77 is now available at http://tearsinthefence.com/pay-it-forward and features poetry, prose poetry, translations, creative non-fiction and fiction by Lucy Ingrams, Jane Wheeler, Eliza O’Toole,  Steve Spence, Peter Larkin, David Miller, Beth Davyson, Benjamin Larner, Louise Buchler, Isobel Williams, Glenn Hubbard, Hanne Bramness translated by Anna Reckin, Daniela Esposito, Simon Collings, Poonam Jain, Giles Goodland, Michael Farrell, Richard Foreman, Cole Swenson, Lesley Burt, Jeremy Hilton, Greg Bright, Alexandra Corrin-Tachibana, John Freeman, Caroline Maldonado, Rosemarie Corlett, Robert Hamberger, Alicia Byrne Keane , Olivia Tuck, Penny Hope, Mary Leader, Christine Knight, Ann Pelletier-Topping, Jennie E. Owen, Natalie Crick, Sian Astor-Lewis, Laura Mullen, Gwen Sayers, Kevin Higgins and Graham Mort.

The critical section consists of the Editorial by David Caddy, Letters to the Editor by Andrew Duncan, Tim Allen, Jeremy Hilton and David Pollard, Peter Larkin on Rewilding the Expressive: a Poetic Strategy, Andrew Duncan on Peter Finch, David Pollard on Patricia McCarthy, Simon Collings on Jasmina Bolfek-Radovani,  Ben Philipps on Veronica Forrest-Thomson, Olivia Tuck on Linda Collins, Will Fleming on Maurice Scully, Louise Buchler on Caitlin Stobie, Mark Wilson on Sandeep Parmar, Simon Collings on Stephen Watts, Martin Stannard on Julia Rose Lewis & Nathan Hyland Walker, Barbara Bridger on Alexandra Corrin-Tachibana, Claire Booker on David Pollard, Gisele Parnall on Paul Eric Howlett, Louise Buchler on Rebecca May Johnson, Simon Jenner on Steve Spence and Andrew Martin, Andrew Duncan on Philip Pacey, Mandy Pannett on Seán Street, Morag Kiziewicz’s  Electric Blue 12 and Notes On Contributors. 

Affordable Angst by Mercedes Cebrián Translated by Terence Dooley (Shearsman Books)

Affordable Angst by Mercedes Cebrián Translated by Terence Dooley (Shearsman Books)

This dual-language book selects from Mercedes Cebrián’s four collections published in Spain back to the mid-2000s. They’re poems about her nation and its changes since the end of Franco’s dictatorship. Healthcare, consumerism, globalisation, the EU, the hollowing of city centres, the Church, data access, relations with other countries… There’s even a poem called ‘Brexit’:

         […] no era
         un ir y venir, era la diferencia
         entre mutuo y recíproco. […]
         (It wasn’t a to-and-fro-ing,/ it was the difference/ between mutual
         and reciprocal)

Such big social subjects are treated with a surface cuteness that dissimulates a deeper (and darker) nexus. A poem about immigration links the arrival of kiwi-fruit to Spain with the arrival of Pakistani immigrants, and does so in a way that its phrase especies de otros mundos (‘otherworld species’) and its excursus about chimpanzee smiles indicating hostility can be read as deniable, provocative or seriously unsavoury. Poems about regret for the loss of colonies, complaints about paying tax, and irritation with people blaming Franco for everything can similarly sound whimsical, ironic or quietly nasty. Ambiguity is often the strategy of the politically timorous writer, but the malestar (‘discomfort/ malaise’, rather than ‘angst’) of the Spanish title seems to be the aim here. The few poems about relationships likewise have their emotions camouflaged under elaborate, comic but disturbing fantasies:

         En esta cantimplora que acarro
         llevo un marido líquido […]
         (I have a flask I carry round with me/ with a liquid husband in)

To these ends, the book’s most frequent stylistic devices are abrupt non-sequiturs in the manner of Ashbery, and ostensibly nonsensical declarations that match an abstract noun with a highly particular image in a way familiar from surrealism:

          Los temas escabrosas están en el azucarillo
          de este descafeinado.
          (All the unsavoury gossip is in the saccharine-packet/ for this decaf.)

Its favourite joke-tone, meanwhile, is a faux naiveté

         […] Panamá. ¿A quién se le ocurrió partirlo en dos?
         (Panama […] Who on earth split it down the middle?)

shored up with plentiful references to childhood and its soft toys, dolls and felt-tip pens:

         ¿Sirve el gesto de devolver el edding y a cambio no pagar
         los euros que Hacienda me demanda?
         (What if I handed in the Edding as a gesture,/ would that mean
         I didn’t have to pay the Revenue all those euros?)

Even so, this is an adroit poet, and the grim prophecies of ‘Población Flotante’ (‘Floating Population’) 

         El futuro ya está blanco
         y está hervido, en eso se parece
         a nuestra cena
         (The future is white now/ and processed, like our supper)

with its imageries of desertification (‘hervido’ above is strictly ‘boiled’) and missile attack seemed to me among several poems whose power to unsettle reached beyond the habitual gripes.

The bold translation makes many unexpected choices: ‘recycling centre’ for vertedero (landfill site); ‘to google’ for saber más (to know more). It embellishes (‘re-tweeted’ for decía (said)), advertises (agendas negras (black notebooks) become ‘Moleskine’ ones), tones down (‘continents’ and even ‘photos’ for the thrice-repeated razas (‘races’)) and plays freely with line lengths and syntax, always valuing stylishness before strict precision. Nonetheless it works well: for the intermediate hispanophone less obvious meanings are sometimes illuminated and the exuberance is entertaining, while the genetically-modified Cebrián served up to the monoglot can be read as entirely apt for the ironies elsewhere.

Guy Russell 29th January 2023

Aeneid Books VI -XII by Virgil translated by David Hadbawnik (Shearsman Books)

Aeneid Books VI -XII by Virgil translated by David Hadbawnik (Shearsman Books)

To Virgil, the second half of his epic of Roman imperial destiny and its human cost was the maius opus (‘greater work’). The long voyaging from fallen Troy is over. Aeneas has accepted his ineluctabile fatum, arrived in an Italy already thickly settled with both migrated and autochthonous peoples, and wants land to settle and found his city. There are moments of respite: feasting, aetiological storytelling, divine portents and the extended ekphrasis of Aeneas’ God-made shield. But mostly it’s war: siege, raid, council, treaty, mass funerals and constant one-on-one combat. 

The emotional power of this, the Aeneid’s Iliadic half, accumulates iteratively. The relentless and grisly scenes in which, over and over, a character is given a mini-biog only to ‘vomit thick gore’ or have ‘his face […] covered in hot brains’ a few lines later, becomes sickening as well as pitiable. The pity is reinforced by scenes of grieving loved ones wishing for death themselves, even while each killing inspires yet more vengeful bloodbaths. The poem famously ends with a maddened Aeneas’ refusal of mercy, and its last image of battlefield murder sends us back to the real world without consolation or excuse. 

This interesting new translation gives us an Aeneid that’s Americanized (‘mom’, ‘my ass’, ‘pledge allegiance to the flag’, &c.), film-friendly (‘Zoom in on Lavinia’), humorously anachronistic, hyper-dramatized (‘“Drop what you’re doing!” screams Vulcan.’) and considerably abridged. It bypasses several whole scenes and a massive chunk of Book VII, besides countless smaller details. Many battlefield deaths, notably, become mere name-lists, soft-pedalling the horror that’s the flipside of the epic concept of glory. 

The style is richly and sometimes brilliantly idiomatic. ‘Cum tandem tempore capto/ […] Arruns’ (lit: ‘when finally, having seized the moment, Arruns…’), for instance, becomes ‘This is the break Arruns has been waiting for.’ Indents, spacing and typography stand in for the elaborate soundplay, caesurae and positional emphases of the Latin hexameters:

          When he thinks        the enemy’s
                       close enough PALLAS
                                     moves first     hoping
                        for anything that might            improve
                        the odds […]

The word virtus (bravery, manliness) gets left untranslated, along with occasional other source terms, either to flag significance or for atmospherics. Classical buffs might miss the gratifications of Roman oratory: the most frequent rhetorical device here is cacamphaton (‘What the/   actual/    fuck,’ says Juno). ‘Tough’ is the favourite translation word – the warrior queen Camilla, for instance, is a ‘tough babe’.  

The colloquial parlance co-exists nonetheless with a traditional high-flown register (‘Why/ does fate urge you to unknown war’ &c.), which generates abrupt tonal changes. When Tarchon addresses his men: ‘Now O chosen guys’, the registral discord reaches parodic levels, and when we’re told Evander ‘spews forth’ his poignant farewell to his son, and then ‘blacks out’, it’s patently self-conscious flippancy rather than tonal lapse. This translator, recasting the Aeneid as part-comedy, part-Hollywood blockbuster, is propounding that we (or he) can’t take heroic epic seriously nowadays, and is willing to burlesque the horror and pity in order to subvert its martial vanities, while transposing it to genres more accessible to a contemporary audience. It’s undoubtedly a valid approach. The result feels like it was fun to write, is certainly more fun to read than twenty po-faced translations, and adds an innovative new ribbon to the rich braid of Virgilian studies. Just maybe don’t make it the only Aeneid you read.

Guy Russell 22nd November 2022

Trilce by César Vallejo Translated by Michael Smith & Valentino Gianuzzi (Shearsman Books)

Trilce by César Vallejo Translated by Michael Smith & Valentino Gianuzzi (Shearsman Books)

This very timely book marks a century from the first publication of Trilce in 1922. The cover boldly hails this as a ‘masterpiece’, of a significance in Latin and Spanish letters to match The Waste Land and The Cantos of Western Europe. I find that a bit strong and unsustainable, although Trilce breaks new ground, certainly looking a lot more experimental than it would now. In many ways it must be acknowledged its significant place, perhaps in that sense of The Cantos of being just a bit difficult to read, but one of those titles it would almost be irresponsible to overlook. Vallejo was an admirer of Ruben Dario; others find certain resonances not inconsistent with Whitman.

Much of Vallejo’s interest is that he breaks with tradition. He had a fondness for neologisms such as the chosen title, the most plausible reading of this is perhaps a combining of ‘triste’ (sad) and ‘dulce’ (sweet) from the Spanish. There is that sense that the book was likely ahead of its time, and in many ways has a style of diction comparable perhaps to US writing of the ‘50s and ‘60s, rather more so than with the highly effusive if not unchained Whitman.

It should be acknowledged that this is essentially a centennial reprint of a translation that was first done in 2005, and then included in a Complete Poems of 2012; accomplished by Irish poet Michael Smith and Peruvian Valentino Gianuzzi. Probably the most significant alternative take would be that of Clayton Eshleman.

In a very informative Introduction to the poems a number of substantive observations are made. We should note that by 1922 Vallejo was just 30. Vallejo was the youngest of 12 children, some of whom he was very close to. His relationships with women were also consequential, they ‘were not few’ (pxvii) including Otilia Villaneuva, the predominant affair, and Zoila Rosa Cuadra.

These factors and his mother’s death in 1918 had a decided bearing; equally Vallejo got involved in a public dispute involving his creative friends, and ended up in jail for 112 days. After release he was soon to leave Peru, with no going back, in 1923, when he left for Paris. There is some indication that ‘Trilce’s import was not immediately recognised and would only later emerge. Vallejo may very well be the finest of Peruvian poets, land of the Incas, although in the Pacific, Peru warred with Chile, a

hospitable place for poets, in which the latter tended to prevail.

The work eschews standard poetic forms, including rhyme, as Whitman did. The work consists of some 77 poems. There is the intimation of a strong ego, the ‘I’, but it is not especially introspective. The current book, helpfully, is bilingual, Spanish to the left.

I think comparing Vallejo to Eliot and Pound is a bit strong. There is not the guidance toward construction, nor that many highly memorable coinings or phrasing. But to Vallejo’s credit he has an air of difficulty and authenticity, some darker passages (one might compare the rather unlike Chilean Neruda) and an immersion in words. It might be suggested that levelling this text up against The Waste Land is not going to be very productive, whereas a comparison with other Latin poets, like Neruda, might be.

There is almost an unsparing quality, and Vallejo’s life was perhaps not at an altogether benign spot at the time. Here for instance is a stanza from poem XXVII;-

               The surge that knows not how it’s going,

            gives me fear, terror.

            Valiant memory, I won’t go on.

            Fair and sad skeleton, hiss, hiss.    (end p61)

Vallejo is unafraid of letting the darkness in, of examining it. He, creditably, does not seem to be going out of his way to please or placate the reader.

Vallejo, as Orrego remarked in his 1922 introduction (published for the first time here in translation) ‘strips his poetic expression of all hints of rhetoric’ (p202), such was its stylistic advance at the time. Vallejo took on convention, sometimes in ways that might have affected his work;- here is poem XLV;-

                  Let us always go out. Let us taste

            the stupendous song, the song uttered

            by the lower lips of desire. 

            O prodigious maidenhood.

            The saltless breeze goes by.   (p101)

I think there is little doubt that ‘Trilce’ amounts to being one of the most important Latin poems of the 20th Century. Yet he is that bit inimitable. The ego does come to be asserted, probably less so than in the prodigious Whitman, although it’s to cite American context, rather more out of the New American poets, and certainly very far off Language and conceptual poetry. I’m inclined to place him for Latin relevance alongside Neruda, Paz, Huidobro and Mistral and very likely Dario and perhaps de Rokha. Ironically Vallejo’s trailblazing innovations have by now seemed quite absorbed, used and recognised. But the book is a landmark and certainly essential to Latin poetry, rendered here in a very attentive and capable translation.

Clark Allison 5th November 2022

The Butterfly Cemetery: Selected Prose by Franca Mancinelli Translated by John Taylor (Bitter Oleander)

The Butterfly Cemetery: Selected Prose by Franca Mancinelli Translated by John Taylor (Bitter Oleander)

The Bitter Oleander Press have already published two books by Franca Mancinelli, a book of prose poetry and another of poetry, both translated into English by John Taylor, and this paperback of prose, poetic prose and poetics will only add to the evidence of Mancinelli as a major contemporary Italian writer.

The short prose which makes up the first section of the book is a surprising mix of the romantic, personal and gently shocking. Childhood memories and fairy stories turn into stories with corpses, frozen tears which form stalactites in the eyes, blood and portentous signs. Yet these are deftly written, engaging and lucid tales, written with an accomplishment and flair that does not linger on the darkness but works to produce worlds of magic and light, and of promise, even when things seem grim. Here’s the end of ‘Walls, Rubble’, a story of claustrophobia, paranoia and ‘not feeling at home’: ‘I believe this space will collapse: a cataclysm will fall on this apartment. I will live under the rubble in an air gap, until I reemerge, come back out free.’

If there’s a problem with this I might challenge the vague use of the word ‘free’, which is in sharp contrast to the physical and emotional realities Mancinelli uses elsewhere in this piece. It’s a problem I have later on in the book when she addresses the topic of poetry, but first there is a selection of what I take to be non-fiction pieces.

There are descriptive yet still personal responses to the hills, cities, the beach, Milan Central Station, along with a meditation on her given name Maria, which the author has deleted from her writing name. Physical description, memories, geography and the imaginary coalesce into vivid moments and portraits of place, with a final, lengthier piece, ‘Living in the Ideal City: Fragments in the Form of a Vision’, emerging from contemplation of an unsigned painting in the Ducal Palace of Urbino. Again, there are some vague phrases I would question, such as ‘unstitched by wide rips of emptiness’ as part of a response to having her backpack stolen at the station. The same story, early on, also uses the phrase ‘[t]he law was to go, to follow the train timetable, the platform’, which I wonder might work better as ‘the rule’ rather than the (I assume) literal translation of ‘law’?

As I get older I am more and more fascinated by how others write poetry, and their creative process. Mancinelli’s ideas are no exception, although at times I almost shouted aloud at some of her romantic notions of what poetry is! (I accept I tend to have a reductionist approach that starts from the notion of text and language as something to build, remix and collage with/from, rather than any initial desire of self-expression or shared emotion.)

Yet, we share many traits. I have never been taken for a traffic warden, but I too stop and make notes in the street (and elsewhere), just as Mancinelli does in ‘Keeping Watch’; and I like her down to earth summary here: ‘I am making a report, and delivering it.’ I also understand the confusion and sense of being lost as one composes, shapes and edits a poem, but I reject the idea that ‘poetry is a voice that passes through us’ or the idea that she has ‘caught something’, both of which seem like a refusal to take responsibility for what has been written. Neither, for me, is poetry rooted in my sense of bodily self or ‘a practice of daily salvation’; and I do not believe that ‘[i]t is the forceful truth of an experience that generates poetic language.’ I like it, however, when she writes of ‘broken sentences’, ‘fragments’, ‘disorientation’ and ‘other meanings’, although I do not believe poetry is anything to do with ‘salvation’ or ‘transcendence’: we experience and describe the world through language, and it is language we use to make poetry (and other writing) from. It’s good, however, to be challenged and engage with what other authors think.

Taylor, in an intriguing ‘Postface’, considers Mancinelli’s writing with regard to ‘dualities of flux and the search for stability, using ideas of home and homelessness, place/space and elsewhere, highlighting the biographical, the physical body and notions of a more spiritual or metaphysical self’, but also a more ‘existential dilemma’ and ‘ontological resonance’ dependent upon the invisible. He also unpicks the idea of the book’s title, quoting the author, who explains that it ‘is a place steeped in the memory of childhood, whose boundaries have blurred over time, and at the same time it is the space of writing […]’. The butterflies of childhood have long faded and turned to dust, but Mancinelli’s desire to make words live and fly again, informs her strange and original writing that evidence traces of both her and our being.

Rupert Loydell  7th September 2022

We Build A City by Kinga Toth translated by Sven Engleke & Kinga Toth (Knives Forks Spoons Press)

We Build A City by Kinga Toth translated by Sven Engleke & Kinga Toth (Knives Forks Spoons Press)

In We Build A City the Hungarian poet Kinga Toth reassembles, almost as an architect /builder, both language and genre: she is a ‘(sound) poet illustrator, translator, frontwoman, performer, songwriter’ who writes in Hungarian, German and English,  living now between Hungary and Germany. Her work has won several important prizes. This book was originally published in Germany in 2019 and has been co-translated by the poet herself into English: the edition is sleek and elegant with a grey industrial landscape as its cover, however the dominant image, a rounded breast-shaped silo, hints at the deep gender concerns raised within.

Originally a philologist, her work signals a deep fascination with language per se ,

and she is not afraid to mould and transform it , experimentally stress its materials to breaking-point in order to create  new structures. This is an ambitious collection: the poems and graphics are collective in their range, remind us of plans and maps of unrecognisable sites, slash vertically and horizontally, and imagine strange and provoking structural relationships between the (obliquely gendered female) body as metaphor for a city in both biomorphic and mechanistic terms. Toth regards the poet as part machine and language as self-generating: meaning is always fluid, elusive, and words run together as hybrids – ‘newdeed’, ‘foldstool’, ‘tormentbelts’. The effect is powerful and sometimes menacing. Here is the beginning of the poem ‘WOMAN’ :

            the woman is the container’s part

            on her head a yellow snapped helmet

            the channels crackle outside

            squirming as a maze

            not every one of them

            gets back inside the body

In a breakthrough poem ‘Ballerina’ from her collection All Machine, 2014, Toth evokes a rotating, robotic figure, a model dancer activated on the top of a music box by a key, and We Build A City would appear to explore this trope further. Poems here evoke the perplexing realities of being seen as a performer, a female receiver of the public gaze, while at the same time imagining ways in which linguistic imagery can evoke consciousness as a mechanistic system, partly human and partly human-made (as we all are to some extent now in the 21st century due to contemporary surgical and technological interventions within the body). Toth’s work also considers how bodies (and consciousness) are impacted by disability and illness. In contrast with the architectural project to create a perfected whole, this perhaps more compelling sub-text offers glimpses of the fragmented/broken, incomplete / unfinished in constant process. The graphics consist of images and patterns made from faded and sometimes smudged letters from vintage typewriter keys: there is a disjoint between the modern and the anachronistic but without any trace of nostalgia. By the end of the book, language as text disappears almost entirely and we have only smudged and disjointed single letters within these eerie diagrams. 

Pippa Little 31st August 2022