María José Giménez writes of stories contained in histories, of how words fold into other words, of how meaning emerges along the creases. She writes about crossings of language, asks What happens when we engage more closely with other/others' words?, and the question carries me to a history where the words of others required particularly close attention.
Angel Hair was born in the “backseat of a car [as we were] driving from Bennington to New York,” Warsh says in his introductory essay to the Angel Hair feature in Jacket. Waldman and Warsh were driving with Georges Guy, a French professor at Bennington, and once they'd made the decision to publish Angel Hair, Guy offered them his and Kenneth Koch's translation of Pierre Reverdy's poem, “Fires Smouldering Under Winter.” The Reverdy poem begins the first issue, and the line, “Could it be enough to speak a word in this abyss,” perfectly captures the gesture of launching a literary magazine.
A friend who knows about these things once told me about the existence of a German word, Fernweh, which she translates to mean: feeling homesick for places you've never been. Reverso renders it as wanderlust, but my friend explains the word conveys not so much a lustful craving for travel as a sense of sadness and loss in staying put. A closer approximation might be distance-sickness, filled with all the ache, yearning, and nostalgia that homesickness might evoke, only for far-off places rather than the familiar.
In the course of expanding & revising Technicians of the Sacred, still in progress, my attention landed on the following – one of the opening poems in the original book – which had appeared there in a shorter version of my own devising. Nearly fifty years later my new strategy is to give it in Pliny Earle Goddard’s full 1909 version (more than twice the earlier length in Technicians), & I would add even more, if I ever felt free to do so. The additional quote from Gertrude Stein, not in the original edition, nails it even more firmly in place, for now as well as for then.
[In the course of expanding & revising Technicians of the Sacred, still in progress, my attention landed on the following – one of the opening poems in the original book – which had appeared there in a shorter version of my own devising. Nearly fifty years later my new strategy is to give it in Pliny Earle Goddard’s full 1909 version (more than twice the earlier length in Technicians), & I would add even more, if I ever felt free to do so. The additional quote from Gertrude Stein, not in the original edition, nails
A few days ago, Peter Stallybrass pointed me toward the digital edition of Francis Daniel Pastorius (1651-1719) work, His Hive, Melliotrophium Alvear or, Rusca Apium, Begun Anno Do[mi]ni or, in the year of Christian Account 1696. This work is a compendium of various kinds of "found" lore, a sort of precursor to Walter Benjamin's Arcades project --
Pastorius' commonplace book, usually referred to as the Beehive manuscript (from Pastorius' prologue, p. 1), is a compendium and alphabetical digest of knowledge including inscriptions, epitaphs, proverbs, poetry, Biblical citations, theological citations, quotations, a list of books he read or knew, copies of letters, and notes on science, useful herbs and other plants.
The Beehive is a foundational work of American poetics, even if few American poets know it. Key, as Peter pointed out to me, is the alphabetical index, the third volume, which enables a reader to find items scattered through the work, which consists of three volume of about 1000 pages. Certainly the index makes for a stellar, uncanny, found poem, more resonant for contemporary readers than Pastorius's own poetry.
Curious excavations: María José Giménez on poetry, translation, & other crucial cross-sections
María José Giménez writes of stories contained in histories, of how words fold into other words, of how meaning emerges along the creases. She writes about crossings of language, asks What happens when we engage more closely with other/others' words?, and the question carries me to a history where the words of others required particularly close attention.
'A little slice of poetry turf'
Angel Hair archive, continued
Angel Hair was born in the “backseat of a car [as we were] driving from Bennington to New York,” Warsh says in his introductory essay to the Angel Hair feature in Jacket. Waldman and Warsh were driving with Georges Guy, a French professor at Bennington, and once they'd made the decision to publish Angel Hair, Guy offered them his and Kenneth Koch's translation of Pierre Reverdy's poem, “Fires Smouldering Under Winter.” The Reverdy poem begins the first issue, and the line, “Could it be enough to speak a word in this abyss,” perfectly captures the gesture of launching a literary magazine.
Strange homesicknesses: Audrey Hall translates Sara Gallardo
A friend who knows about these things once told me about the existence of a German word, Fernweh, which she translates to mean: feeling homesick for places you've never been. Reverso renders it as wanderlust, but my friend explains the word conveys not so much a lustful craving for travel as a sense of sadness and loss in staying put. A closer approximation might be distance-sickness, filled with all the ache, yearning, and nostalgia that homesickness might evoke, only for far-off places rather than the familiar.
From 'Technicians of the Sacred Expanded': 'Genesis One' (Cahto)
In the course of expanding & revising Technicians of the Sacred, still in progress, my attention landed on the following – one of the opening poems in the original book – which had appeared there in a shorter version of my own devising. Nearly fifty years later my new strategy is to give it in Pliny Earle Goddard’s full 1909 version (more than twice the earlier length in Technicians), & I would add even more, if I ever felt free to do so. The additional quote from Gertrude Stein, not in the original edition, nails it even more firmly in place, for now as well as for then.
[In the course of expanding & revising Technicians of the Sacred, still in progress, my attention landed on the following – one of the opening poems in the original book – which had appeared there in a shorter version of my own devising. Nearly fifty years later my new strategy is to give it in Pliny Earle Goddard’s full 1909 version (more than twice the earlier length in Technicians), & I would add even more, if I ever felt free to do so. The additional quote from Gertrude Stein, not in the original edition, nails
Pastorius's 'Beehive'
A few days ago, Peter Stallybrass pointed me toward the digital edition of Francis Daniel Pastorius (1651-1719) work, His Hive, Melliotrophium Alvear or, Rusca Apium, Begun Anno Do[mi]ni or, in the year of Christian Account 1696. This work is a compendium of various kinds of "found" lore, a sort of precursor to Walter Benjamin's Arcades project --
Pastorius' commonplace book, usually referred to as the Beehive manuscript (from Pastorius' prologue, p. 1), is a compendium and alphabetical digest of knowledge including inscriptions, epitaphs, proverbs, poetry, Biblical citations, theological citations, quotations, a list of books he read or knew, copies of letters, and notes on science, useful herbs and other plants.
The Beehive is a foundational work of American poetics, even if few American poets know it. Key, as Peter pointed out to me, is the alphabetical index, the third volume, which enables a reader to find items scattered through the work, which consists of three volume of about 1000 pages. Certainly the index makes for a stellar, uncanny, found poem, more resonant for contemporary readers than Pastorius's own poetry.