A review of Debrah Morkun's 'The Ida Pingala' and Aimee Herman's 'to go without blinking'
Debrah Morkun’s new book enacts commingling (“here is my torn dress made of semen”); is a non-monetary fiduciary — an ethical holding between the Ida Nadi (lunar Nadi, site of comfort, nurturing, said to control mental processes and to be the site of the “feminine” aspects of personality, represented by the color white (“the forest was open”)) and the Pingala Nadi (solar Nadi, stimulating, said to control vital somatic processes and oversee masculine aspects of personality, represented by the color red (“a virile member of the eternally repeated word”)).
This book is: “two ancient things combusting” … “sperm glass egg socket.”
Nadis are not nerves, they are channels; conduits. I often consider Nadis as elongated mini trenches. As veils removed from the vein for the sake of flow. Always to increase flow. If only, to increase flow toward pure desire. Morkun’s The Ida Pingala is a toward. A toward and a through. This toward and through is relevant in considerations and pursuits of Kundalini (coiled/corporeal energy), of which Morkun’s The Ida Pingala is interested.
Kundalini has an extremely compelling relation to the possibility of unlocking or inhabiting pure desire. This desire is not inherently in/of the genitals. It is located in the base of the human spine and needs to be cultivated toward the genitals. The Ida Pingala is a draw by libidinal amplitudes. It is by way of this libidinality that Morkun brings gender and sex (as elements capable of relation with each other and with other elements) into her book.
The content of this book moves in and out of many different types of relations (from “a glittery Honda Civic” to “the halls of saints”). Objects, individuals and sensations interact here. The Ida Pingala (without particular delineation of such movements) funnels and simultaneously switches as matter passes through it. Is this book a handbook for working with the eroses of the psyche from within embodied states?
The Ida Pingala’s cover is comprised of a dual statue: exhibiting both a stone woman and a stone phallus. Here, seeming opposites are brought in aspect-based relation to each other; are in an energetic cull toward uniting. And we, as readers, are swallowed up in this funneling and switching.
The work (with uniting) that Morkun engages here, is something that reveals Morkun’s genius re: torque-instigations of previously perceived oppositions. This book is a virtuous hunt for fusions (“motley firmament”), for strange exposures and disclosures that are revealed by way of unforeseen or odd conjunctions. Whole view focused on overlapping; on certain studded myopias as they are amalgamated.
It is true that as we move from one Nadi to the next (the sunset to the sunrise to the sunset) we can learn to exercise one and two together in personal ways. But, this takes time — takes effort. Takes embodying duration and focus in order to get to “a tradition of eternity … tradition of hoisting.”
Hoisting as a way to host well, a lingam made of petals. A largess, being needfully translated by pearls.
Aimee Herman’s to go without blinking is a particular and fierce calisthenics (a “smothering [of] loins”) being performed around a deeply intended apparatus. Herman states in the intro of the book: “this body of text practices trilingualism and contraction.” I would go so far as to say that the book also practices triangulating and contradiction. With these four activisms acting in combination, we as readers are able to experience tgwb as something that both haunts us and hinges us. I would not go so far as to say that we ever get a hug (or anything approximating it) in this book, but we do get a hinge, and as we move through it we find ourselves desperately swinging.
To move by choice through something of such “sacred disturbance,” as tgwb is, is important. I am saying that this book needs to be collaborated with; needs us to collaborate with it. There are various points (in the process of moving through) where we are seduced into staying. It is almost as if an under-voice says: “just keep reading,” and we do. We must. Herman recognizes that the deep sway of her workings (in twgb) are not nice or simple or pretty. They are violent and juicy (they need to be so). They are “slick back polynomial” driven by an accumulation of jolt-like parts. The aspects of this book perform like a sweaty “bravado of sprouts fondling soil.”
In tgwb we are barraged (I always mean that as a compliment) with gritty and edgy content (“She was persuaded to use her cunt as a cabinet” / “Gabriel from Chickopee tried to fuck the gay out of me and almost got away with it” / “I would tear out my cunt and give you mine just so you could fondle decontamination”) — so much pertinent information regarding identities, genders, aesthetics, wishes, body realities, artifice, suffering, etc. I feel like Herman has somehow gotten it all into this marvelous book!
If we are conscious as we go through metallurgical transformations, what remains? These poems. These poems whereby beauty is able to be an embodiment of disparate aspects: “She thinks of beautiful women, wearing her fingers, wrinkled, like an article of clothing” / “She just wanted to know what it would feel like to be feminine: pigment of wax” / “When the stick of honey is gone, one must turn toward the bitter.” Herman turns us. We are here and we are gathering this butter.
These scenic genital-details are anything but gentle; I can hear my own scream building wildly as I read them. I scream inside of me for the arousal I feel. I scream inside of me for the anger I feel. I scream inside of me for the altered-ness I feel. I am not sure if Herman was meaning to induce readers to such states, but by sharing her life and visions, these scars — it has become impossible that we not feel these things right along with her.
At its core, tgwb is much like the heartfelt narratives of Lidia Yuknavitch’s novels, but Herman’s pieces are schisms of a form slowly coming together. By body, by light, by night. No Aimee, you are not the “only one to notice the night.” Because you are showing it, sharing it by way of tgwb, I notice this night with you.
And yes, dear Aimee, when you die, I will play at your funeral. The song will be a full-handed violin melody reminiscent of the image of whole fruits inside of an enormous, ever elongating mouth: “washing [your psychic] mouth with fruit carcass” as a way to counteract all effects of the impositions you have encountered.
A review of Carol Watts's 'Occasionals'
When the occasion arises, or for a particular occasion, or perhaps once in a while, or in the case of Carol Watts’s Occasionals, poems written from September 2006 until September 2007, or not poems but a poem in rigorously regular “cuts,” sixty-eight altogether, divided into four equal segments: “autumncuts,” “wintercuts,” “springcuts,” and “summercuts.”
The opening cut/poem begins with the largest durational sentence:
So sit down with your green tea
as if this was your last day, leave
the ledgers unfinished and overdue,
and tell me what you take with you,
now, the sounds of instruments ringing
on pavements, a crow mulling over
trails of aeroplanes, everyone out
in the town, and sirens going. (“autumncuts” I)
The lines invoke Ezra Pound’s “And then went down to the ship,” but instead of setting keel to adventure on the sea, we are home, domestic, with “green tea” and “ledgers unfinished.” We are in a writer’s mind highly cognizant of the natural world, where “spiders hang / in mating season” and “Hydrangeas shoot pale green flowers.” Indeed the specific things in the occasional world are a part of the great delight a reader experiences in the poem. Specific, even in this first poem, in evocation of domestic, economic, personal, urban, aeronautic, and noisy domains. Yet all the things that invoke such a world are, as well, “words.”
replacement, by someone else, words.
Once into the poem, into its words and world, one finds not a simple definition or inhabitation of domestic and natural spaces, but a linguistic experience, akin to a Language poetry environment, except articulating not quite what one might expect of a language poem as, while the reality of the depicted world is constrained, it is also fully constructed and present, or at least its presence is fully indicated, fully gestured. And, as any painter knows, gesture carries a world of meaning.
Consider a passage from “springcuts” IV:
Memories, the warmth on green feathers
spreads, the cries. Of distant. Calling,
screeing of swifts, piling over. Sycamores,
so many green bunches of keys, floating.
Might unlock depth, is it now. That seasons
give way to density, will they. Flow,
as they did once. On another scale,
dropping. Wax, the way it cools, skin.
Rucking into something monumental later.
Divided by periods and commas, the representation of the real and of ideas remains fairly close to complete. The real is thus presented as something constructed, yet construction itself is called into question, and the markers we call punctuation also function simply as timing devices. Flow, that which we think of as continuous, stops and starts again. But not quite. “Of distant. Calling.” works as impediment to flow, yet also shows the partialness involved in memory. The whole and the fragment (the partial). Both are here. It is as though Watts has taken, from Louis Zukofsky, both “the” and “A,” and given us “this.” As the next cut, “springcuts” V has it, “In the nature of this.” The natural has a thisness about it, becomes a sign, lifted up.
Perhaps I am presenting Watts’s work as a philosophical idea, or even a demonstration of a poetic. And, while it might be that, it also contains the personal, which comes through in glimpses, inferences, double entendres.
You think you have it.
Taped, then it returns and you see. Your
self, approaching. Unconscious, a deer
in the undergrowth, or embarrassed at.
Meeting, didn’t you just come by the other.
Other way, she might say, you. Answer, yes.
Are you caught out by each. But time goes,
it does not unpick from. Skin is older,
ready to crepe up behind you. (“springcuts” VIII)
There occurs an urgent, sometimes joyous, sometimes startling physicality in Occasionals, with “cells bursting out of” (“springcuts” X), “vital heaving in city bodies” (“springcuts” XV). Yet if there occurs intense eroticism, it signals not just a personal experience, but the world as erotic embrace, as when “birds adapt, raid / brief tongue incursions. Sheltering, from. / Battery, then they dart in open. Dares, / how many. Sound, bound, soar more.” The erotic is, in this instance, a matter of language as well, so that, while the “tongue incursions” seem obvious, the climactic release powers through in “Sound, bound, soar more,” a culmination of openness and escape, linguistically speaking as well as literally soaring.
Toward the end of Occasionals Watts writes, “Life signs. It will be mayhem” (“summercuts” XVI). Rich life, in all its clarity, and all its messiness. Yet though rich and fulfilling, one always desires more. Fulfillment is momentary.
The way dancing spreads your
shoulders, is never enough. (“summercuts” XVII)
Finally, no matter the thisness of the world, there is an implication of something else. The poem ends,
Steam rises from the cup. Tell me who is.
Here, now. This. When my sheet is full.
Here and now, but when? Where? This, but what? “My sheet” is my list of duties, but also the cover to my bed, and a metaphor for my life.
I have seldom read a poetry so exact, yet so longing, expressive of what just might be, somewhere. So abundant, yet with such awareness of our partialness. A poetry that makes of its sentences an architecture that invokes, at the same time, brokenness and clarity. Robert Duncan writes, in “Apprehensions”:
is a building. The architecture of the sentence
personal details, portals
reverent and enchanting
construction from what lies at hand
for what rings true.
Occasionals rings true. Truth is beauty, or truth is an architecture of beauty.
A review of 'Between Words: Juan Gelman's Public Letter'
A review of recent works by Urayoán Noel
The author of several books of poetry and translation, Urayoán Noel brings a satirical voice and a contemporary urban consciousness to the traditional notion that the poet will entertain and enlighten. The results, in his hands, are a well-done weird. Inevitably, they’re also compelling, and then a penny drops, and they provoke.
Seen from one perspective, his 2010 collection Hi-Density Politics (Buffalo: BlazeVOX) represents a shift from Noel’s earlier work. Its greater emphasis on process and constraint yields a new experience on the formal level, particularly where Noel has used new technologies to produce his teeming metropolis on the page. Yet Hi-Density Politics offers all the more when considered as an extension of his previous books, published in 2005 and 2008. Noel’s playful takes on language, references to Puerto Rican culture, deep engagement of critical dialogues around island and Nuyorican poetry, and commitment to performance spring into relief. Taken collectively the books produce a historic meditation that collides with, and intensifies, the frenetic energies emphasizing the immediacy of urban life in Hi-Density Politics.
Published by Bilingual Review Press in 2005, Noel’s first book was Kool Logic / La Lógica Kool, featuring a title poem that demonstrates the “kool logic” of late capitalism. As the names of the publisher and book would suggest, this collection immediately drew attention to Noel’s skillful transitions across borders between English and Spanish. The poetry engages social scenarios shaped by contradiction, tempering its frankly pedagogical poses with punk and comic attitude. Here Noel displays his enjoyment in redeeming older poetic forms with absurd, yet pointed, contemporary vocabularies. An influential 2007 anthology of US Latino writing, The Wind Shifts: New Latino Poetry, picked up material from this book. There the selection emphasizes Noel’s interest in renovating traditional poetic forms with pop irreverence. Editor Francisco Aragón also suggested that Noel, who brings an unusual degree of double fluency to his bilingual work, may represent one future strain of US Latino writing: “a poetry where Spanish and English are on equal footing throughout.”
Noel’s second book, Boringkén (San Juan: Librería La Tertulia / Ediciones Callejón), follows through on that promise of a thickly bilingual writer who challenges both sides of the divide by refusing to keep his cross-cultural performances segregated. It also asserts a contemporary moment in collision with its own historical trajectory. This move potentially opens up the poems to a whole set of readers interested in hemispheric history, and in Puerto Rico in particular. The risk, of course, involves losing those who lack that exposure and don’t care to get it. I’m of the opinion that it’s worth learning something new to read this poetry — as one more way to access its many layers of intelligence — so I’ve included shards of context here.
Boringkén, the title of this 2008 book, refers to the term “Borinquen”: the name for Puerto Rico once used by indigenous peoples, as their word was transcribed into the Spanish language during colonization. The name is recorded quite early on through its use by Juan de Castellanos (1522–1607) in an epic poem about the Americas, prominent more for its great length and useful subject matter than artistic mastery. Another name recorded in this same epic poem is Urayoán, a cacique (Native chieftain) who carries out the experimental execution of Spaniard Diego de Salcedo in order to prove that Europeans are mere mortals, thus illustrating that the conquest of the Americas consists of acts that are human and not divine, which in turn signifies that indigenous peoples can put up resistance to them. The term “Borinquen” and the image of Urayoán have been recuperated in the contemporary period by new generations of activists and writers, so the cover of Noel’s book alone invokes five hundred years of history — poetry bursting with epic proportion.
Rather than solidifying the sense of epic inside the book, though, Noel dismantles it. He deconstructs his title, turning it into plays on “boring” and “ken,” on the ever-iconic Barbie and Ken, and all manner of puns and wacky sound-based riffs. The pleasure he takes in sound is reminiscent of Edwin Torres, and I’m also reminded of Torres’s interest in creating a “No-ricuan” world (which, among other things, might be paraphrased as the Zen inhabitation of Boricuan conceptual landscapes). Noel has collaborated with Torres on the performative interventions of Spanic Attack, further suggesting useful overlaps. Emphasizing the interest of performance, as in the earlier packaging of Kool Logic / La Lógica Kool, Boringkén comes with a companion CD that explores the use of audio and new media tools for drawing out performative elements lost on the page. These prefigure his performative uses of his newest book, on which I’ll expand later.
Another factor uniting Noel’s three books, which suggests links back to predecessors like William Carlos Williams, is the hemispheric vision he brings to his poetic explorations of American cities. It’s a longstanding convention in Latin America to refer to the “lettered city” of modern life. Noel, who takes a keen interest in handmade objects produced by international avant-garde movements and enjoys making collaborative art object-books, wants to know what poets have been doing in marginal zones, in the back alleys and little workshops of the symbolic city: talking about their favorite cult books, making chapbooks from recycled cardboard, collaborating with visual artists to produce small handmade editions. They produce these low-tech objects, seeking to keep the final product inexpensive, in the tradition of the little magazine. Still, their environment is complex: while making low-tech handmade editions, they’re increasingly likely to be interrupted by someone’s Blackberry or smart phone. Poised between the old and the new, these poets work in Mexico City, Mexico; Lima, Peru; and Buenos Aires, Argentina. And again, they are also in the USA: in New York, in San Juan. Noel brings the hemispheric scene back home to the nation, to the metropolis on its mainland and the urban life of the colonized island.
It may be tempting to call Noel “Nuyorican,” for a variety of reasons, one being that this term has made it into the US critical lexicon. However, it’s not strictly accurate. Noel was born in 1976 in Puerto Rico and lived out his formative years there, so New York is not the community of origin, meaning that the island must be asserted differently.
While Puerto Rico still evokes a sense of foreignness to many Americans, this foreignness is partly residual, the result of the island’s general invisibility in our history books. Given that this invisibility continues unabated in much of the country today — magisterial publisher W. W. Norton & Co. itself may now have come out with a giant US Latino literature anthology demonstrating texts and contexts, but this doesn’t mean that a majority of Americans yet understand Puerto Ricans and other US Latinos to be “really American” or include them as significant contributors to our national cultural frameworks — I’ll throw in a few essentials here. As one of the outcomes of the Spanish-American War (think 1898), the island came to be part of the United States, eventually becoming a commonwealth. All Puerto Ricans — and this includes people living on the island, as well as those who have moved around on the mainland — have been citizens of the United States since the passage of the Jones Act in 1917. Puerto Rico was never made a state, nor was it released to independence; instead it has been given creative titles, such as “free associated state.”
Thus I am writing, technically, about a thoroughly American writer, but one who happens to have been born in San Juan, Puerto Rico — an other American city, long left off the maps of the mainland and consequently out of our knowledge bases about “American culture.” While activists have explored platforms for independence and resisted the nation’s colonizing embrace, another facet of this problematic involves the reluctance of mainstream US culture to acknowledge that Puerto Ricans have a significant place (resistant or otherwise) in the nation’s history.
The ongoing between-state of Puerto Ricans — sort of in and sort of out of nationhood, inhabiting a state of statelessness, one part US and one part Latin America — has given rise to diverse artistic reflections, some from the island and others from the mainland. Poet Victor Hernández Cruz writes in “Airoplain,”
They can keep Puerto Rico just give us
the guava of independence depending on no bodies tortures dreams
of the past or future within the present State no State ever of things
Urayoán Noel, a careful reader of work from and about the island, observes that in these lines, “Cruz jettisons the return to the native island and imagines in its place a utopia of the stateless.”
Noel builds on this vision to explore the state of statelessness in each of his books. Sometimes he pauses to mark its political contours; more consistently, however, he uses poetry to move through artistic and linguistic veins opened by the political register. The concept of utopia that he credits to Hernández Cruz sets up the possibility of a fertile space, one which by definition can only ever be imaginary. As far as Noel is concerned, this Puerto Rico of the mind simply begs to be explored by the bohemian Rican, adapting Ginsberg’s attitudes to his own field of vision.
Noel’s second book, the one entitled Boringkén, opens with a suggestive quotation. It is a line from Luis Muñoz Marín (famous as the architect of modern Puerto Rican society): “I have lost you in a fog of perfect words.” In the larger context of Noel’s work, this recycled admission appears to be addressed to the island itself. The nation’s loss then allows (and requires) it to be configured and reconfigured through the imagination.
The term “Nuyorican” is useful for tracing the lineage of Noel’s poetics — not because Noel claims this identity for himself, but because he responds directly and extensively to the Nuyorican literary tradition. The word combines “New York” with “Rican” to indicate people living in the metropolis of the mainland United States, marking out a diasporic positionality. As critic Maria Damon emphasizes, the term Nuyorican is “understood to contain multitudes”: Puerto Ricans have a historically rich mix of ethnic identities on the island, reflecting the complexities and discontents of hemispheric history, even before immersion into the diaspora’s cities. Afro-Caribbean identity, for example, has an important if historically contested place in island life. Anthropologist Jorge Duany emphasizes another form of complexity: where migrations to the mainland are concerned, Puerto Ricans have been less likely to carry out permanent and one-way moves than to pursue comings and goings, a fluctuation. These complexities have been productive for literary culture. In the last half of the twentieth century, as is now well known, Nuyorican poets created a dynamic cultural movement, organized that now-famous poet’s café in New York to support art as a community, and gained national recognition for US Latino/a poetry after publishing their first anthologies in the 1970s.
Noel is the member of a new island-raised generation: one that has begun to take those Nuyorican writers of the late twentieth century seriously as precursors. Not all island readers initially embraced diasporic culture, nor do they today. Noel credits an unusually progressive professor at the University of Puerto Rico with seeing the value of Nuyorican contributions earlier than most island readers and exposing his generation to them in an open-minded way. Today Noel is extending his professor’s classroom gesture by completing a scholarly book about Nuyorican poetics. His gestures may still seem radical in an island context where “diaspora” remains a vexed term. Duany does use the word, writing in 2002 that “as Puerto Ricans move back and forth between the two countries, territorially grounded definitions of national identity become less relevant, while transnational identities acquire greater prominence.” But the hybridity of mainland Puerto Ricans was still often perceived as a threat in cultural circles on the island in the new century: “Many local scholars and creative writers deride Puerto Ricans in the diaspora because they cannot speak Spanish well or conduct themselves in a proper Puerto Rican fashion.”
Noel takes the fluidity of Puerto Rican populations as a point of great interest. In his creative writing, he riffs off the diasporic texts and performances from his position as a Puerto Rican writer raised on the island and now living in New York, though in a significantly different way and moment than the Nuyorican writers he highlights. Noel was based in New York for many years as an adult and now moves back and forth between Albany, where he works, and the Bronx, which feels like more of a home and creative base.
Whereas Ginsberg looms as an important precursor to Noel’s poetry, then, so does the inimitable Pedro Pietri (1944–2004). Now one of the most famous of Nuyorican writers, Pietri invented a memorable performance persona. He called himself The Reverend and transported his writings in an old suitcase labeled “Coffin for Rent.” Pietri generated his own imaginary Puerto Ricos: for example, he collaborated with artist Adál Maldonado to elaborate “El Puerto Rican Embassy,” a satirical, interdisciplinary project dedicated to “a sovereign state of mind,” complete with its own passport. Clearly commenting on the paradoxical location of the island as a proto-nation at once colonized and stateless, El Puerto Rican Embassy is also its own answer of sorts to the ongoing questions that Duany raises in his more recent meditations on the fluidity of Puerto Rican life: “What is the meaning of Puerto Rican identity? Where is it located? How is it articulated and represented? […] How can a people define themselves as a nation without striving for a sovereign state?”
Noel revisits Pietri’s most famous poem, “Puerto Rican Obituary,” in his 2008 collection. Pietri’s work is a classic originating doubly, once in its performative incarnation during the Young Lords’ establishment of the People’s Church in New York and once on paper via Pietri’s book (of the same title) in 1973. It features four emblematic characters: Juan, Milagros, Olga and Miguel. In Pietri’s poem these working-class figures compete with each other for status and die dissatisfied with their lot in life. Pietri urges them to break out of a mindset he sees as politically ineffective and build a new, more independent and historical consciousness, one that requires renegotiating their relations to the island. By touching down on this historic poem, Noel asks questions about what it means to be living in the language environment of our new millennium, a fascination that comes to unite many poems in Hi-Density Politics.
His riff on Pietri’s English-language poem is bilingual in a particular way: it employs more Spanish than Pietri’s famous poem and appears in an edition published in Puerto Rico, both indications of Noel’s precise spaces of engagement. Thus his poem citing Pietri, “Down with Boringkén,” embodies the voyage of Pietri’s legacy to the island on two levels, via language and site of publication. I give this excerpt from the first (Spanish-dominant) half of Noel’s poem alongside an unpublished translation that he rendered himself:
A ver si a Juan y Miguel
A ver si Olga y Milagros
A ver si Manuel
A ver si el Boringkén dócil
Let’s see if Juan and Miguel
Let’s see if Olga and Milagros
Let’s see if Manuel
Let’s see if the docile Boringken
This critical question about what today’s economy means for the conditions of everyday life is one of many rewarding pairings that becomes visible if we read Noel’s books as a step-by-step poetic interrogation of life on the island and the mainland.
More specifically, it’s clear from the above excerpt from “Down with Boringkén” that Noel was dwelling on the notion that “Puerto Ricans in the United States are caught up in a process of ‘transition.’” It’s a point articulated decades ago by sociologist Juan Flores and fellow scholars, who explored relations between literature and society as they sought to create respect for the cultural work done by Nuyorican writers. Noel’s poem pauses on their statement, “We must ask, transition to what,” treating this idea (originally published in an article in a 1981 issue of Daedalus) as one still pressing for writers in the new century (212). His poems from Boringkén and other books also respond to their identification, in the conclusion to the same 1981 article, of a “backdrop of persistent inequality and commercialist distortion” confronted by Puerto Rico’s diasporic writers (213). Even as one may open up to visions of a greater fluidity, these tensions endure.
Another dynamic layer of Noel’s earlier books that will continue into Hi-Density Politics emerges around his adept uses of performance. His use of rhyme can be ironic or ridiculous on the page while also setting the stage for a delivery that wakes up the room, particularly if delivered with hip-waggling to a Casio-keyboard soundtrack. Hi-Density Politics is, like his earlier books, imagined in relation to performance, but in experimental ways that may not be immediately obvious to readers from the page alone.
Reviewer Rebecca Mablango-Mayor calls Noel “the next in a generation of beat poets and performance artists willing to take themselves and their work as seriously and as unseriously as possible.” Pursuing the question of how humor can enhance performance, she found that in the 1990s, while he was in New York, Noel decided that “rock language, with its sense of disposableness and immediacy, could deflate the grand gestures of formal poetry and provide a moral voice to his poetry.” I would add that Noel’s self-designated “bohemian” side opens out into many kinds of experimentation into how the body of the performer can do its thing. It is a physical parallel to his scholarly research into how diverse Nuyorican poets have done theirs. Working with a band, he has tapped into punk and other urban, counter-cultural styles. As this turn suggests, he rejects some aspects of mass culture in favor of resistant takes — for example, he embraces low-budget approaches and refuses to conform to the boundaries of television-friendly artistic styles.
His 2010 collection may in some ways seem more critical of established Nuyorican poetry conventions than anything else, perhaps even striking at the initial parameters through which the broader framework of “Latinidad” has gained ground in US literary publishing in recent decades. Expectations that the poet’s task is to “represent” a group identity, whether such ideas may exist in conscious or unconscious ways for audiences, are registered and critiqued. In the first poem of Hi-Density Politics Noel’s persona claims to be “rocking the identity cutout,” a phrasing that sounds ironic, ambivalent at best, about stagnant performances of identity (“HI THEN *salutation+,” 67). This “cutout” line may perhaps be read as a disclaimer, informed by the sort of concerns about commercialist distortions previously noted by Flores et al. The same poem makes reference to juggling loyalties and suggests that art can become opposed to community, then asks whether poetry itself becomes the community (58, 59, 60).
To some degree, then, Noel risks breaching sensitive boundaries around the relation between identity, imagined community, and the success of art forms he hopes not to re-inhabit, such as more commercialized and institutionalized variants of slam and spoken word circuits, and the pages of anthologies as framed in prior decades. He also writes from a semi-outsider position that does not take acceptance into a putatively Nuyorican world for granted or aim to become its next representative face. Like Boringkén, that is, Hi-Density Politics dangles the option of epic before us, then sets about happily dismantling and repurposing any components of which epic might have been composed.
However, dwelling on signs of ambivalence and breach alone could also cause Noel’s poetry to appear overly dismissive of other poets or assertions of Latino traditions, in my representation. In fact I think it would be a naïve misreading to over-emphasize signs of disaffiliation in the critiques posed by Hi-Density Politics, especially if we overlook the plethora of signs of engagement (visible through Noel’s criticism, representing commitments of many years, as well as his poetry). This book may be critical and indeed, avant, but it is so in a particular and conscious way that treats ethnic canons, working-class expression, community activism, performative poetries, and the artistic possibilities of historical knowledge with respect.
So the question becomes: how is it significant that his persona’s 2010 salutation — a sort of manifesto encoded in terza rima — throws down the following critical challenge?
You can keep the poem that anoints —
That represents — that narrates or “gives” voice —
Find the voice that poems — that disjoints!
(“HI THEN [salutation],” 37–39)
This figure prods the audience to inhabit spaces of contrast, seeking not stasis and certainty but sites of negotiation and provisional balance between positions — and sites of risk, where dismantling must be part of the process.
Noel’s ongoing attention to the number three in Hi-Density Politics suggests a link to third spaces: places neither here nor there, therefore somewhere else and escaping oppositions. One poem, for example, thematizes that number three about as emphatically as it could be done: it consists of 333 numbered phrases, each containing three terms. A third space may be a site not captured as a state, offering the disembodied pleasures and “sovereignties” of utopia. It merges into the many possibilities offered by the city of Hi-Density Politics, which as Sueyeun Juliette Lee observes, is both actual and virtual, “a space of hybrid possibility and discursive play.” Liberating as this map may be, the city as technological space is not freed of history in its changing present, but sutured to it.
The challenge to terms of representation appears again later in the book, with emphasis on the now:
give it up for the bodies of the moment!
the unrepresentative ones
the cropped and crappy, crip and queer,
flopped and failing, flailing, hopeful ones
the ones that make the night what it is, our blessed ruin
(“hi-din sites [body slam]” III, 67–72)
The determination to be provisional and unrepresentative links Noel into avant-garde circles embracing the marginal and the small. At the same time it returns him to diasporic literary concerns about interrogating one’s position with regard to multiple locations, among them markets and their historical bases, as well as the island perpetually “on the move” (Duany’s central metaphor). Noel, it seems, has a deep interest in the ways all of us are necessarily complicit in the circuits we inhabit; at the same time he is not exempting himself from the responsibility of developing a critical vision, even if it is necessarily developed (like that of another canonical Caribbean writer, José Martí) during residence inside the belly of the beast.
Writing processes he designed for the new collection explore the impact of new technologies on the movements of language. His emphasis on circuitry in the poems suggests to me that it’s worth pausing to review the circuits he elects to inhabit with recent projects. Noel invites his audience to join him on his symbolic tour of the hemispheric Americas experience. Recently he has participated in the cartonera movement that connects San Juan to Mexico City, Lima, Buenos Aires and more. As a translator, he has brought recent work by Edwin Torres into Puerto Rico in a spunky, bright green cardboard edition produced by Atarraya Cartonera. Atarraya’s website includes photographs of the making of cartoneras, as well as links to other organizations producing these low-budget interventions around the Americas. With Hi-Density Politics Noel also joined the ranks of poets allied with Buffalo’s BlazeVox Books, linking its rust belt sensibilities into the hemispheric circuit where he carries out his experiments in process and constraint.
One poem in the new book emerged out of the question, “How does an English-only voice recognition application on a Blackberry interpret phrases spoken to it in Spanish?” Noel took the rich, complex Spanish of poems from César Vallejo’s Trilce, read them into his Blackberry, and wrote down the English phrases the Blackberry “heard.” The writing by Vallejo (Peru, 1892–1938) is resonant, somber, lovely, all the more so when it breaks with aspects of formal syntax. Because sound recognition software is programmed to engage phrases widely used in today’s computing environments, Vallejo’s words reappear in absurd and fragmented terms.
These fragments constitute Noel’s poem, entitled “trill set.” Its transformations of Vallejo are striking for their sheer play of sound, and striking all over again for their brief and funny glimpses into tensions driving the circulation of English in technological environments. Noel’s poem replicates Vallejo’s layout, as illustrated by these two short excerpts:
Gallos cancionan escarbando en vano.
Boca del claro día que conjuga.
era era era era.
(Vallejo, II / 5–8)
Dido scans the owner is co-bundle in buying
oh and I will be ethical to
a data in data and data
(Noel, II / 5–8)
La creada voz rebélase y no quiere
ser malla, ni amor.
Los novios sean novios en eternidad.
Pues no deis 1, que resonará al infinito.
(Vallejo, V / 11–14)
Lack and add levels said no kidding.
Saddam might do to him what
you know Ríos sentinel US entered me that
Westor Amazon that I think you need to
(Noel, V / 11–14)
Who could say that this homophonic, apparently nonsensical “translation” by the Blackberry has not caught some tangible history in its nets?
When Noel then turns his printed version of “trill set” into a score for a performance, two readers can produce a multifaceted experience. One plays a sort of straight man, inhabiting the sounds and spirit of Vallejo’s originals. The other provides the absurd and engaging contrast regarding “global sound” as produced through the Blackberry’s limited perspective. Having played the Vallejo role partnered with Noel’s (non)global Blackberry voice in a February 2011 reading, I can testify that it draws engaged laughter from an audience — and the person attempting to voice Vallejo’s original Spanish while keeping a straight face takes a bath in cognitive dissonance. The results are energizing.
Afterwards listeners shared reactions with me. Most said they found the presentation of this poem unexpectedly funny and laughed with everyone else at the time. (One of my students added that Noel’s performance persona is that of “an Energizer bunny”: he hops around, winding everyone up.) A common reflection that followed was that Noel’s work on the page really does function as a script for performance. Several people then went further to reflect on the relationships this poem illustrated between English and Spanish, as those are shaped today by the communicative devices and applications with increasing influence in everyday life. These listeners said, ultimately, that “trill set” isn’t funny, not at all: its very awkwardness represents the grace of an effective provocation.
By contrast to the live performance, the poem-score’s initial appearance on the page of Hi-Density Politics — like other entries in this particular book of experimentations — could be largely opaque to a reader. Noel’s explanation of the writing process, which he provides in an “Acknowledgements and Notes” section at the beginning of the book, is helpful. Even with insight into his processes, though, Noel has written a challenging text. His inventiveness with language surfaces quite clearly — Rodrigo Toscano is right to refer to this book as “furiously cute” in his blurb. But what of other layers of meaning on the page, so often required to seduce audiences into a second and third reading? In Hi-Density Politics he flirts with moments of unmeaning and unperformability, especially for audiences who can’t see a live performance bring the page to life, or for those who do not find a poem written in threes fascinating. It’s likely to be even more challenging for those who haven’t read much Puerto Rican or Nuyorican writing and will thus miss his rapid spinouts into context and traditions.
Yet from these scores he draws performances that can be comprehended on several levels at once, contradictory as the audience’s experience of language can be. Better said: Noel has a rare gift for using poetry to perform contradictory states in language.
Some of his themes should be recognizable, if via fragments, to any contemporary reader who uses the Internet or reflects on economics. With a little more effort — say, by looking up the link about Guánica that Noel offers in his process notes — one can see that his pleasurable language gaming ties into historical issues at stake in this book.
Noel composed his poem “guánica” by recording comments into his Blackberry while sitting on the beach at this location. Columbus is thought to have landed at Guánica with Spanish ships in 1493, emblematic of European trajectories of conquest in the Americas. US ships followed, landing at Guánica in 1898, a date marking the rapid rise to power of the United States in the Caribbean. These ship-emblems thus point to a key stage in the development of the schizophrenic roles played today by the United States in relation to Puerto Rico and Cuba. (These two islands, if opposed via national frameworks today, were once portrayed by another poet, Lola Rodríguez de Tió [1843–1924], as the “two wings” of the same Caribbean bird.)
Noel delivers his historic vision with emphasis on extreme immediacy, folding long and short scopes of time into each other. Each subsection of “guánica” opens with documentation of the precise minute in which he spoke into his Blackberry. His words were constrained by the one-minute span of its recording capabilities:
then the Americans
and i can see for Miles (57–71)
Meaning, like the island itself, shifts in and out of sight. Through this very cycle of contradictions (meaning/unmeaning; appearance/disappearance; historicity/immediacy), the poems pull history to surface: that is, like the texts, history manifests on the horizon of the page in the form of a process.
History as poetic process bears echoes of many voices. In the above excerpt from “Guánica,” the last line has at least two reference points. Noel notes that Nelson Appleton Miles commanded US forces that landed in Puerto Rico during the Spanish-American war. Meanwhile, generations with a whole other cultural literacy will recognize in the same line Noel’s reference to a hit song from the Who, “I can see for miles.”
Who can see what, and what do we choose to see? A critique inciting us to confront inequalities of global vision from the inside, Noel’s vivid and layered Hi-Density Politics invites us to give our own fine retro-pop dismissal to a long stupid history: to a specifically literary stupid history: to that archival vision in which US Latino and island poetries, and the sophisticated issues they engage, were so long ago and far away! as! if! invisible. The book proposes that an ongoing shift in optics move not only toward greater visibility, but toward a visibility in living color and motion: one complex enough to sustain debates and multiple positionalities within and across communities, while remaining open to sites and bodies as yet unimagined. This challenge to the audience to operate in post-invisibility modes, while dodging traps of stasis and violence that can accompany visibility, may be the highest-density element of Noel’s utopian poetics.
Noel advertises the point that his hi-density politics make for difficulty up front. His salutation/manifesto, welcoming the reader to his own personal city on the page, scans across a spectrum of thorny images and tensions. The debates he draws into the body of the poem fulfill the promise that the book’s terrain will be constituted as an irreverent, dynamic urban space, one that does not want to be fully apprehended.
In keeping with his overall insistence on inhabiting spaces of contradiction, the salutation closes with a sober turn into natural cycles. The poem’s final image follows the rotation of day into night:
The poem as a difficult relating
(A city, a polis, and its tics) —
As urgent as the day — an urgent fading.
It’s an elegant, surprisingly holistic advertencia, at once a notice and a warning about shifting ground: the nature of the writing to come.
Author’s note: In addition to the publications cited below, I would like to thank T. Urayoán Noel for answering many questions I asked him during his visit to Illinois State University on February 23–24, 2011. His replies, as well as a class session he led, influenced my remarks situating his work. He also translated the excerpt from “Down with Boringkén,” cited here, at my request.
2. Francisco Aragón, Ray González, María Meléndez, Urayoán Noel, and Lidia Torres, “Restless music and ticking bombs: Five poems of Victor Hernández Cruz, interpreted,” the Poetry Foundation.
5. For a brief, useful overview addressing related issues in earlier decades, see Edna Acosta-Belén’s article, “Beyond Island Boundaries: Ethnicity, Gender, and Cultural Revitalization in Nuyorican Literature,” Callaloo 15, no. 4 (Autumn 1992): 979–998.
6. The Café and other Nuyorican projects opened their doors to writers of diverse backgrounds. When speaking of the range of cultural work these projects have accomplished as a whole, and over time, Noel acknowledges both ethnic and cultural variants on Nuyorican identification.
8. See images here; quotation is taken from Pietri’s 1994 Manifesto.
10. See a video of Pietri performing the poem here.
12. Rebecca Mablango-Mayor, Review: “KOOL LOGIC: LA LOGICA KOOL by URAYOAN NOEL,” May 22, 2007.
13. Sueyeun Juliette Lee, Review: “Hi-Density Politics: Urayoán Noel,” The Constant Critic, March 14, 2011.
A review of two recent books by René Char
“It’s not going so good with me recently,” wrote William Carlos Williams to his friend Fred Miller on January 9, 1953. “What with [the] injury to my right flipper and the trouble they have cooked up for me over the Library of Congress job I’m in a bad way.” He was not exaggerating. Williams was at the nadir of his life. Retired from medicine, convalescing after a particularly bad stroke, and redbaited out of his sinecure at the Library of Congress, his troubles must have seemed endless. Usually so sanguine, Williams’s poems from the period reflect this gloom. In The Desert Music of 1954 we read the apostrophe, “To a Dog Lying Injured in the Street”:
It is myself,
not the poor beast lying there
yelping with pain
that brings me to myself with a start —
as at the explosion
of a bomb, a bomb that has laid
all the world waste.
Gone are the debonair pooches of Paterson peeing on trees and mating in the park. “I can do nothing,” writes Williams — preparing us for a long plaint about his impotence — but then, lifting his head, he turns the sentence around:
but sing about it
and so I am assuaged
from my pain.
Song, or poetry brings Williams consolation. As in the famous lines from “Asphodel, That Greeny Flower” — “It is difficult / to get the news from poems / yet men die miserably every day / for lack / of what is found there” — Williams discovers here the medicine which he practiced all his life. Doctor though he may be, however, Williams’s treatment in this case is not self-administered. “I think,” he says,
of the poetry
of René Char
and all he must have seen
that has brought him
to speak only of
of daffodils and tulips
whose roots they water,
even to the free-flowing river
that laves the rootlets
of those sweet-scented flowers
that people the
The surprising if fitting Virgil to Williams’s Dante is the French poet René Char. I say fitting, because unlike Ezra Pound (who might also have come to mind in this dark hour), Char was a poet who suffered in the Second World War, fighting for the resistance, and yet made it through — pace Adorno — still writing lyric poetry and retaining an unimpeachable dignity and ethical rectitude. What better model for how to fight back, and to hold on to the things of this world with poetry? It is René Char who raises us above the lot of animals.
The cries of a dying dog
are to be blotted out
as best I can.
you are a poet who believes
in the power of beauty
to right all wrongs.
I believe it also.
With invention and courage
we shall surpass
the pitiful dumb beasts … 
Rousing sentiments indeed. And a fine recommendation for those of us encountering Char for the first time through Williams — as I myself was introduced to this French poet.
For a long time, this was, in fact, all I knew about René Char, never being quite zealous or miserable enough to look him up in the library. This changed when I saw two new translations of Char’s (predominantly) later poetry on the review shelf for Jacket2. The first was The Brittle Age and Returning Upland translated by Gustaf Sobin (Counterpath Press, 2009), and had, beside an accolade from Maurice Blanchot, the same quotation from Williams that I have just cited on the back cover. The second was Stone Lyre: Poems of René Char translated by Nancy Naomi Carlson (Tupelo Press, 2010). Both looked refreshingly short, came at a price that I was glad I didn’t have to pay, and had black and grey covers reminiscent of nothing more than funeral invitations. The perfect opportunity to see whether Doc. Williams’s poetic sensibility hadn’t failed him along with his body. And, although I didn’t feel all that much like an injured dog, also of finding out whether Char could still have some therapeutic effect in our day and age.
In this I was not disappointed. Char’s lines cheer you up — which is strange to say, since many of his poems are (my impression from the covers did not lie) about death. Witness the following example from the 1965 collection L’Âge Cassant (The Brittle Age) and its accompanying translation by Gustaf Sobin:
Sois consolé. En mourant, tu rends tout ce qui t’a été prêté, ton amour, tes amis. Jusqu’à ce froid vivant tant de fois recueilli.
Be consoled. In dying you return everything that you were lent, your love, your friends. Even that living coldness, harvested over and over.
Feeling better? Here’s another:
L’homme: l’air qu’il respire, un jour l’aspire; la terre prend les restes.
Man: the air that he inhales one day inhales him; the earth takes the remainders.
At times The Brittle Age is like a collection of Heraclitean, fatalistic sighs, let slip looking at the stars after a good French dinner with plenty of red wine. Short as they are, they fill one with a kind of somber yearning. It is a yearning which rather than being morbid reminds you of the simple fact that you’re alive:
J’ai de naissance la respiration agressive.
I’ve had, since birth, an aggressive breathing.
What Char wants to say with his “aggressive breathing” is anyone’s guess, but “respiration agressive” gives us a good sense of its sound: a fact which makes me grateful that this work is presented in parallel text. Without the French version here on the verso, to justify — to give the mot juste — to the English recto, we would be floundering in the dark.
That is not to say of course, that Gustaf Sobin’s translations are anything but true. Sobin, who describes himself in the translator’s preface as Char’s “all too grateful protégé,” displays an archeologist’s sensitivity and understanding towards the textures of the original work. There is no ostentation here, his English renditions are delicate and faithful — one trusts them completely. It is humility, however, that also makes these translations subordinate to their French masters. One hears the French version through the English one — often if only because of the odd word order. They wouldn’t stand alone nearly so well. But then, when I come to think of it, neither would the French versions. What is great about this edition of The Brittle Age is that, as presented here, reading the book becomes an act of stereopsis. A single line has a whole page on each side. One is always engaged in the translation back and forth: a codependency or dialogue is set up, which results in a hybrid text. This process slows the reader, makes one think about what Char was saying, think of other possibilities in English, and eventually achieve a much stronger sense of the poem than one would otherwise. It is a text which I believe to be far richer than the experience of reading the work monolingually.
The second half of the Sobin collection is taken up by Char’s 1966 book, Retour Amont, translated here as Returning Upland. These slightly longer poems are less easy to read side by side in two languages, and I found them to be less exciting as a result. Part of the problem is that where, with the haiku-like lyrics of the Brittle Age, the ambiguity is checked by disarming simplicity, here, Char’s possible meanings keep multiplying. Consider for instance the first stanza of “Pause au Chateau Cloaque”:
Le passé retarderait l’éclosion du présent si nos souvenirs érodés n’y sommeillaient sans cesse. Nous nous retournons sur l’un tandis que l’autre marque un élan avant de se jeter sur nous.
The past would delay the present’s unfolding if our eroded memories hadn’t slept there ceaselessly. We turn about on one while the other, before thrusting onto us, takes mark.
While it is easy to see why a collection of poems like the Brittle Age might have appealed to William Carlos Williams, had he been alive to read it, this poem — with its Eliotian echoes and its postsurrealist play with subjectivity brings us to the other side of Char’s vision. It is a reflective poetry, of ideas not only in things, but in words, abstractions, the grey area between questions and half-thought answers. “Against the extensive density of a poisoned somnambulism, would the spirit’s disgust be coded escape; would it, later on, be revolt?” asks Char in the same poem. (Ummm … let me think … yes? no? maybe?) How do we deal with such a question without reducing it to something else? Wallace Stevens or George Oppen, perhaps would be appropriate comparisons, but Char’s philosophical density seems at once more allusive than Stevens’s and more elusive than Oppen’s. He grasps at things and feelings which we have no way of classifying in ordinary speech, things which he isn’t sure of himself, using words as a way of reaching into the unknown.
This other Char is the one that stands out in Nancy Naomi Carlson’s selection, Stone Lyre: Poems of René Char. Unlike Sobin, Carlson does not stick with Char’s own arrangement of poems, but picks her way through his later career mixing and matching to create a fresh display. Thus Stone Lyre begins with “Invitation” from the 1962 work La Parole en archipel before going back to a few poems from Le Marteau sans Maître (1934) and ending with “Courbet: Les Casseurs de cailloux” from the 1983 collection Dehors la nuit est gouvernée. This rearrangement allows for specific themes to come to the fore — death, time, women, trees, rivers, countryside, night — giving a sense of Char’s full range which is difficult to grasp in the Sobin collection. It also, however, precludes both the biographical satisfaction of chronological development (poems leading from juvenilia up to the author’s laden last words), and the bibliographical satisfaction of having read a work as it appeared in a given time.
Like Sobin, Carlson presents Char's poems in parallel, so that a similar stereoptic reading is possible with each of the individual works. This too, however, highlights a key difference between the translations. Unlike Sobin's position of “protégé,” Calson presents herself in her translator’s introduction as much more of an English mouthpiece for Char’s French, focusing specifically on cadence rather than purely on semantics. “To preserve the rhythm of the French,” writes Carlson, “I tried to end each line with English words that stressed the last syllable or were mono-syllabic.” This ambitious Frenchifying of English results in several brilliant renditions, where the gutter of the book is almost like the wall of a cave, returning an echo of the same sound in a different language. Here is Carlson’s own example of her method, from the poem “Vers l’arbre-frère aux jours comptés” (“To Brother-Tree of Numbered Days”):
Harpe brève des mélèzes,
Sur l’éperon de mousse et de dalles en germe
— Façade des forêts où casse le nuage —
Contrepoint du vide auquel je crois.
Larch tree’s brief harp
On the spur of moss and flagstones in seed
— Forest’s façade where clouds break apart —
Counterpoint paired to the void in which I believe.
For all Carlson’s technical virtuosity this method also, however, at times, gives Char a slightly peculiar character in English, smacking of Gerald Manley Hopkins. And very occasionally the predominance of stressed syllables seems supererogatory to the semantics, as in the first line of the poem “Le Loriot” (“The Oriole”):
Le loriot entra dans la capitale de l’aube.
L’épée de son chant ferma le lit triste:
Tout à jamais prit fin.
The oriole breached dawn’s capital town.
The sword of his song closed the cheerless bed,
All forever came to an end.
Carlson’s method serves her well in the last two lines of this poem, but the word “town” seems extraneous to me, and I can’t help thinking it would have been a better poem without this added stressed syllable.
The paratext of Stone Lyre: Poems of René Char is also very different from that of The Brittle Age and Returning Upland. The Sobin translations are marketed as resolutely local, and intimate. Fidelity to the source is the key. There is an appendix of possible variants at the end, beside also a glossary of place names. And in her preface Mary Ann Caws stresses that “the poetry was, after all, in the names of dwellings like ours and his, and places: le Mont Ventoux, le Thor, Sénaque, Gordes, Buis-les Baronnies, Mérindol,” before going on to talk of tiny hill cottages in the Vaucluse, of Citroën 2CVs and “simple relationships.” One gets the impression here of a bucolic poet, spending his days by the banks of Sorgue, fishing for inspiration among the reeds. In contrast, Carlson’s collection arrives with a more ambitious and political paratext, seeking to place Char in a broader historical context. On the backcover Cole Swenson reminds us that he was an antinuclear activist, and of his wartime resistance fighting — an emphasis repeated by Ilya Kaminsky in her foreword and again by Carlson in her introduction. This Char should be of international significance, and we expect poems with global referents. Yet, when we come to look for them in the poems, we may well be disappointed. Can Char’s references to fig trees really be related to war or nuclear power? I think not. A fig is a fig is a figuier.
One’s first impressions of these two books, then, are belied by the poems themselves, which fit neither the purely local emplacement of the one, nor the activist ethics of the other. Indeed, what emerges in the end from a comparative reading, is — perhaps surprisingly considering the differences in selection, methodology of translation, and presentation — a single poet whose idiosyncratic style eludes all the nets. Consider the one poem which appears in both collections: “Devancier”:
J’ai reconnu dans un rocher la mort fugée et mensurable, le lit ouvert de ses petits comparses sous la retraite d’un figuier. Nul signe de tailleur: chaque matin de la terre ouvrait ses ailes au bas des marches de la nuit.
Sans redite, allégé de la peur de hommes, je creuse dans l’air ma tombe et mon retour.
In a rock I recognized death, fugued and measurable, the open bed of its little accomplices beneath the shelter of a fig tree. Not a sign of a carver; at the base of night’s stairway each morning of earth opened its wings.
Without repeating, freed of the fear of men, I dig in the air my tomb and my return.
(The Brittle Age and Returning Upland, 107)
I have recognized death — fugal and measured — inside a rock, and the open bed of its little assistants beneath the shade of a fig tree. No sign of the one who cuts stone; each of earth’s mornings would open its wings at the foot of night’s steps.
Without refrain, freed of mortal dread, I dig in the air my grave and my return.
(Stone Lyre, 97)
Judge for yourself, gentle reader, which you feel to be the better translation. They are different. There are merits to both. What interests me, is the way in which, despite the difficulty of the poem (it’s not clear what René Char is talking about), Char’s voice still sounds through in both, remaining despite the semantic, rhythmic and linguistic barriers and despite the different choices made by the translators. No theory of who Char was, or what Char wanted to say can quite correspond to this sense that Char himself is still there saying it — making himself available for us to listen to. Char, it seems, is truly buried in this poem as its own ancestor, returning through his translations — a revenant — to speak to us. I understand now, why William Carlos Williams felt that Char was such a support: at bottom there is René Char and his poetry. He is irreducible. Char remains.