February 25, 2012 § 2 Comments

‘Real poets’.  A term used by, among many others, my old friend Joan Firth.  Despite publishing work in magazines and so forth, Joan never thought of herself in this way.  This is probably to do with the way society likes to label people in a way which privileges things like income; or, perhaps more subtly, by what they produce.  If it’s getting people from A to B, they might be a bus driver; if it’s a pile of poetry books (perfect bound and available from good bookshops), they are ‘real poets’.  Despite the complexities of our lives, then, the question ‘What do you do?’ still seems to be reducable to this idea of production.

If we were to ask instead, ‘What do you spend your time doing?’ I wonder whether we might describe ourselves in a different way.  Joan was many things: woman, mother, wife, grandmother, retired teacher, citizen, painter, storyteller, student, embroiderer, volunteer, poet, cook… and on.  Certainly, a great deal of her time was spent on poetry: reading and thinking about it as well as producing it.

Both of these approaches brings me to the subject of what we might call the ‘day job’.  As the vast majority of poets don’t earn anything like a living from the poetry they produce, they have to do something else.  Discussion of what poets do to earn a crust and the ways in which this affects the writing process isn’t new: there’s something on the Poetry Society website at the moment (to which I can add that aside from working in a bank, TS Eliot also did some teaching for my organisation, the WEA, at one time).  However, as opportunities to earn money out of producing poetry (or encouraging others to do so) have become possible – whether as teachers, or poets-in-residence – it might be worth revisiting the idea.

Among poets I know, a number do teach, and some have done residencies; others have day jobs which have nothing to do with writing.  They work for the council, sell insurance, manage or work on projects, bake bread.  I know a novelist who makes guitars out of petrol cans.  A lot of this might be pretty soul-destroying stuff (I like making bread, but I don’t do it on the night-shift): but is it better to have a job which involves writing, or one which doesn’t?  Does supporting others’ writing development stifle (or at least get in the way) of our own writing?  Or does it inspire us, or offer new ways into our work?  And on the other hand, does the monotony, or stress, of spreadsheets / timesheets / deadlines / e-mails from HR / motorway journeys make our creative time all the more crucial?


Beginning Translation

February 13, 2012 § 3 Comments

Last year I attempted some translation for the first time.  Having read Lorca in English and conscious of a gap between what I was reading and the wrought experience of what he referred to as ‘deep song’ (Cante Jondo), I worked to understand the original.  My Spanish is okay, but not good enough for me as a reader to experience the poems at the moment of reading them.  What I gained in the sounds and rhythms of Spanish singing to me, I lost in the labour of translation (of words and phrases, but also of the culturally defined symbolism and metaphor that gives Lorca’s poetry its depth and richness).

Over several weeks in the summer, therefore, I tried to get inside the poetry through translation.  That is, I managed to translate three short poems from the Poema del Cante Jondo.  It was a liberating and worthwhile process.  I quickly found that close adherence to the original made little sense, in that the music went flat and the pictures blurred, or disappeared altogether.  So I took a step back and began working as a poet, using both the Spanish sounds and the English ones they made, and assembling a poetry which in its production brought me closer to understanding the source work.  As a result, the process also rekindled something of the sound of the original.

Here is one of the poems (I can’t add accents using this template, so apologies), with a literal translation and then my own reworking:

Topico Nocturno

En la casa se defienden
de las estrellas.
La noche se derrumba.
Dentro hay una nina muerta
con una rosa encarnada
oculta en la cabellera.
Seis ruisenores la lloran
En la reja.

Las gentes van suspirando
con las guitarras abiertas.

Night theme

In the house they defend themselves
from the stars.
The night is collapsed.
Within there is a dead girl
with a dark red rose
hidden in her hair.
Six nightingales weep
at the window bars.

The people go whispering
with their guitars open.


In the house they hide
from the stars.
The night is in ruins.
In the house a dead child lies,
a dark rose clustered in her hair.

Six nightingales weep for her
at the window bars.
The men are sighing the truth
with their guitars.

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