tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12345339Mon, 06 Jul 2026 21:44:54 +0000A Burning Patience"And, in the dawn, armed with a burning patience, we shall enter the splendid cities."
-- Arthur Rimbaudnoreply@blogger.com (Lyle Daggett)Blogger185125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12345339.post-761058708015002636Tue, 17 May 2016 22:01:00 +00002016-05-17T17:01:02.227-05:00I'm still here<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Just posting here to let anyone know (whoever is still dropping by from time to time) that I still haven't disappeared, I've just been spending time away from the computer and the internet for a while.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I plan to be back, possibly fairly soon. We'll see how life goes.</span>2016/05/im-still-here.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Lyle Daggett)4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12345339.post-6158304580925427991Sun, 05 Apr 2015 15:35:00 +00002015-04-05T10:35:49.597-05:00AWP in Minneapolis, and recommended reading<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Again I've been away from this blog longer than I'd intended. Much busy with writing, and reading, and life in general.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I'll be attending the annual AWP conference this year, this coming week here in Minneapolis.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Some general information for anyone not familiar with Minneapolis: most of the conference events will be at the Minneapolis convention center, at the southern edge of downtown. The weather here this time of year can be highly variable. The forecasts I've seen are saying high temps in the 50's, and lows in the 30's. Either rain or snow are possible this time of year. (This past week it got warm, up to 83 degrees one day, though that's not in the forecast for this coming week.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Most of the buildings in downtown Minneapolis are connected by enclosed overhead walkways (known locally as "skyways") at the second floor level of the buildings, which can be a big help if the weather turns nasty. The skyways are mostly open from early morning through early evening, though it varies somewhat. If you Google "minneapolis skyway" that should give a bunch of links to maps of the skyway system. The convention center is also connected to the skyways. A lot of the (relatively) cheaper places to eat are in the skyway/second floor level of the office buildings.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">You can get from the airport to downtown Minneapolis by the light rail train. Train fair is $2.25 during morning and evening rush hours, and $1.75 during non-rush hour times and all day on weekends. There are ticket machines on the station platforms. (At the airport, last I knew, the ticket machines are at the top of the escalator before you go down to the train station.) * If you're staying at any of the "official" AWP hotels downtown, or any other hotels nearby, you'll probably want to get off at the Nicollet Mall station downtown, and walk south.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">*</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Some of the AWP events I plan to check out are include:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">On Thursday, a 10:30 panel on "Robert Bly and the Minnesota Writers Publishing House," and a Tribute event (at 3:00) for poets Joy Harjo and Linda Hogan (both Harjo and Hogan are listed among the panel members); also, an offsite event, a Red Dragonfly Press Social and Reading, at 6:00 p.m. at the Gamut Gallery, 1006 Marquette Avenue (across the street from the Hilton hotel);</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">On Friday, a panel on "James Wright in Minneapolis", at 1:30;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">On Saturday, "Writing into the World: Memoir, History and Private Life," a panel at 12:00 featuring poet Carolyn Forche among others; "Tribute to Tom McGrath," at 1:30, with panelists Mike Hazard, John Bradley, Michael Dennis Browne, and Ray Gonzales; a Robert Bly tribute event at 3:00; an at 8:00 p.m. a reading and conversation with Carolyn Forche and Kevin Young.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The above are the highest-priority events for me; there are others I may also try to get to if I have the stamina and concentration. Plus there's the bookfair...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">*</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">There are several poets and books of poems I've been trying to get to, to write about here. I've been slow and delinquent in this. Two I want to mention in particular that I highly hope to get to, and that I highly recommend:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><em>Lavando la Dirty Laundry</em> by Natalia Trevino (should be a tilde over the <em>n</em> in her last name), published 2014 by <a href=" Empire Press</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">And <em>Continuous Performance</em> by Maggie Jaffe, a selected poems from her body of work, published 2014 by <a href=" Dragonfly Press</a>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">*</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Anyway I'm still here. Hoping to get back here shortly and say some more.</span>2015/04/awp-in-minneapolis-and-recommended.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Lyle Daggett)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12345339.post-1054593386662749517Sun, 28 Dec 2014 03:18:00 +00002014-12-27T21:18:38.929-06:00Petrified Time<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This past fall I read <em>Petrified Time</em> by <strong>Yannis Ritsos</strong>, translated by Martin McKinsey and Scott King, published in 2014 by <a href=" Dragonfly Press</a>. This is one of the strongest translations of Ritsos that I've read, and one of the books of poems published this past year that spoke to me most powerfully. (The book includes the original Greek along with the English translations.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Yannis Ritsos spent periods of his life on various prison islands in Greece for his left-wing political activites, imprisoned for left-wing political activities along with many other members of the left-wing resistance. The poems in <em>Petrified Time</em> come from a period of roughly four years of imprisonment in the late 1940's and early 1950's, including a year in the particularly brutal prison on Makronisos. The poems evoke a deeply rooted endurance, a love and embrace of the hearts and lives of the vast majority of the people of the world, in quiet stubborn defiance of all efforts to crush the fires of life.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">From the poem "Things We Know":</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">A sun of stone went with us</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">scorching the desert wind and thorns.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The afternoon hung from the sea's selvage</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">like a bare yellow bulb in some deep forest of memory.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">We had no time for such things -- but even so</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">now and then we'd look up, and there on our blankets</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">with the dirt, the oil stains and the olive pits</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">a few willow leaves, a few pine needles remained. [...]</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">[...] Yet we knew that off at the great crossroads</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">was a city lit by a thousand colored lights</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">where people greet you with the simple nod of the forehead --</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">we recognize them by their hands</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">by the way they cut their bread</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">by the shadows they cast on the dinner table</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">as every voice grows sleepy in their eyes</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">and a lonely star makes a cross on their pillow.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">We know them by the strife that furrows their brow</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">but more than that -- when the night sky deepens overhead</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">we know them by their poised, conspiratorial manner</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">as they slip their heart like an illegal leaflet</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">under the world's closed door.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Much of the poetry of Yannis Ritsos has been translated into English during the past half century; too often, translators blur or miss entirely the political weight his poems carry. (I've written about Ritsos previously in this blog, <a href="2005/05/translating-yannis-ritsos.html">here</a>.) Ritsos was a Communist, and remained one to the end of his life; he remained fully committed to the promise (not yet realized) of remaking the world in the name and interests of the billions of us who daily make and build the world with our hands and feet and minds and voices and hearts. One of the things I especially like about McKinsey and King's translation of <em>Petrified Time</em> is that the political intent of the poems if not obscured overlooked.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Comrades, they forced us to remain silent.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">We had no chance to give voice to our song.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">As usual, the afternoon fills with dust,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">dust from the traffic of mothers in black dresses</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">returning from Averoff Prison or Hadzikosta Hospital</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">or the Department of Transfers,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">grieving mothers in black dresses,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">with their hearts wrapped in handkerchiefs</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">like crusts of dry bread, bread so hard Death can't chew it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Comrades, they are forcing us to remain silent.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">They are forcing away our sun.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">They don't want us to give voice to our song --</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">the one that begins simply, with strength and bitterness:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Workers of the world, unite!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">At night, when an illicit moon rises above the horizon without a word,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The shadow from a gigantic crutch is etched onto the rocks of Makronisos.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"We could make this crutch into a ladder,"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Vangelis suggests, leaning toward Petros' ear,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">as if giving voice to the first line of our future song.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Comrades, it's getting late. It's very late.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">We must give voice to our song.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">(From the poem "Duty".)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">In the daily struggle of living in the world, hope and fatigue come and go. Some days it's a little easier to face the first morning light than other days; some evenings the gathering dark weighs heavier than other nights. In his poems Ritsos and the others imprisoned with him persist and endure, but at no time is he fully outside of the experience. During the days and nights on an island of rock and wind and relentless sun, amid tents sloping toward the sea, surrounded by arms soldiers and barbwire, at no time does he in any way soften or romanticize what is hard and difficult and oppressive.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">A crumb of death in our pockets -- we go unshaven.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Where is there a stalk of wheat to bend on its knees to heaven?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Night is slow to fall. The shadows can't hide the hardness of the rock.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The dead man's canteen is swallowed up in the sand.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The moon anchored on another shore,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">rocked to and fro by the calm's little finger.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">But what shore? and what calm?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Our thirst was great</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">as we sweated all day at the stone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Beneath our thirst</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">lay the roots of the world.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">(From the poem "The Roots of the World".)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">This is a book of poems about remaining alive and thriving in spite of crushing work and crushing monotony. This is a book of poems about continuing to seek possibilities when none offer themselves, or when possibility itself seems to be held incommunicado behind arms guard and barbwire. Yannis Ritsos published over a hundred books during his lifetime -- poetry, essays, drama, autobiography, translations of other poets into Greek. Certain images recur throughout the whole body of his work, in perpetual variation -- sun and sea and stone and wind, moon and movements in the night, long days and nights of watching and waiting and making ready. Behind the ever-present imagery are the years on the prison isles, the sea viewed through barbwire, the sun on the bare backs of forced labor, a group of prisoners taken away to be shot.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">One month, two months... then many more.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">We measured them by hauling both stones and fears on our shoulders,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">by tapping a hooked finger along the side of the clay pitcher</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">to hear the sound of water</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">just as we listen for the voice of our wife behind a door,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">just as our wife listens for the voices of even the smallest of stars,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">just as the stars listen for the bleating of flocks at dusk. [...]</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">[...] If only we were less thirsty, it wouldn't occupy our minds,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">if only there was one tree on the hillside or at the top of the island,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">if only there was a handful of shade, and less bitterness, and less injustice.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">We've forgotten the shape of a tree -- is it, perhaps,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">like a large banner of water?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">or like a "Thank you" that someone said to you in the past?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">or like a lover's hand searching for your hand?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">In the future, we'll plant thousands of trees.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">(From the poem "Noon".)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In the aftermath of the Second World War, a civil war ensued in Greece, between the populist and labor-oriented political movements of the political left and the right-wing political movements of corporate capitalism and the military; Greece wasn't the only place in the world where this was going on during those years. The business class and military prevailed, in part due to economic and military backing they received from the U.S. government and allies of the U.S. This is some of the wider background to how Yannis Ritsos and thousands of others were sent to prison on islands of rock hammered daily by the sun.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">*</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I hadn't intended to let six months pass since my last post in this blog. To any of may have come by looking for anything new during this time, my thanks -- I haven't gone away, just had a few months submerged in the various things of life. I'm still here and will keep posting things in this blog as I'm able to. I don't plan to let six months go again until the next blogpost.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Winter solstice in the northern hemisphere; here in Minneapolis, it's dark when I leave for work in the morning, and dark when I get home in the evening. By the end of January the daylight will have advanced enough so that there will be at least a glow of light in the west, on clear evenings anyway, as I'm getting home in the evening.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Poetry is everywhere. There is nowhere on earth that it doesn't belong.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">*</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I'll finish with a few more lines by Yannis Ritsos from <em>Petrified Time</em>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The days come and go. The rock never changes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Sometimes a ship sails past, or a cloud --</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">leaving behind it a scrap of shade, a little window</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">onto a memory of trees.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Nothing ever changes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Neither heart nor rock changes. [...]</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">[...] Evening folds up its red banner.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Once again we will sleep with a stone between our teeth,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">with the sea's breathing at the back of our ears.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Brothers, whatever comes now</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">will find us with our bundles slung over our shoulders,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">and in those bundles, all of our hearts</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">turning our pledge to Democracy over in our minds</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">the way we twist our finger in the buttonhold of a friend's jacket</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">not because we have nothing to say</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">but because of all the love we feel for him -- and so it is:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">when we love we cannot speak,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">we toy with a branch of wild olive,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">scratch a name in the dirt,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">and it's always the same, and we'll always be ready,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">and it's always the name of Freedom.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">(From the poem "Ready".)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span>2014/12/petrified-time.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Lyle Daggett)3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12345339.post-5971357421675026671Wed, 02 Jul 2014 04:08:00 +00002014-07-01T23:08:00.855-05:00Savage Coast<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've been away from this blog longer than I'd intended to be -- I've been caught up in daily life stuff again, and doing much reading in "spare time." One of the books I read this past spring, and really liked, is <em>Savage Coast</em> by <strong>Muriel Rukeyser</strong> (2013, <a href=" Feminist Press at the City University of New York</a>).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><em>Savage Coast</em> is a novel based on Rukeyser's experiences in northeastern Spain (Barcelona and the Catalonia region in general) for a few days at the time of the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War in July, 1936. The Spanish Civil War is a large subject; during the years the war took place, roughly July 1936 through early 1939, it became a gravity point for the international political Left, as volunteers from many countries joined the International Brigades and travelled to Spain, and entered full and brutal military war against Fascist armies (led by upper-ranking officers of Spain's military) who were trying to overthrow the elected government.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Rukeyser's novel gives a deeply close-up and personal account, full of remarkable detail, sometimes almost random, sometimes carefully observed and chosen. The overall arc of the story moves from chaos and isolation and vague gestures to sharp vision and collective movement and clarity of purpose. It is a radically political novel, clearly and intentionally, both in the intimately personal-is-political sense and in the public activist communal sense.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Rukeyser travelled to Spain in July 1936 to write and report about an alternative People's Olympics that had been organized in Spain, as a protest and defiance against the "official" summer Olympics that were taking place that year in Germany (and were being used as a propaganda device by the Nazi government there). The lead character in the novel, named Helen, is loosely based on Rukeyser herself, and a number of the other major characters are based on real people who also were there, though Rukeyser says in a short note at the front of the book, "None of the persons are imaginary, but none are represented at all photographically; for any scenes or words in the least part identifiable, innumerable liberties and distortions may be traced."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">In the first half of the book the story action takes place mostly on a train after it has entered northeastern Spain; much of the time is spent at a small village where the train has halted because war has broken out further south, and because of a general labor strike in much of the country as a protest against the attempted Fascist counter-revolution. The people do what people do: the passengers on the train try to find information, food, places to sleep, in the village and in whatever small supplies they have with them on the train; the people in the town cope with the sudden influx of visitors as best they're able. Here's a brief passage from early in the book, to give a little flavor of Rukeyser's writing:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">All the passengers in third were filling the aisle now, crowding out the open windows, talking to the groups whose heads could be seen, banked thick against the sides of the train, standing on both sides of the station platform. Helen pushed back through the swarming cars, through the holiday knots, laughter, gossip. An arm reached out and seized her wrist. Igt was the tight-skinned Hungarian, the manager.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Have you heard the rumors?" he shouted, over the laughter and talk. "All sorts of rumors, already. The English are saying that the Communists have bombed the tracks and that we can't go farther; and I heard the Frenchman say that the engineer has gone on strike, and won't move the train until he gets some kind of extravagant promise." He fanned himself with the straw hat. "But come in and meet our team anyway." The Hungarians were standing, politeness and warmth ran around the compartment. The fine-faced printer was introduced. "It looks like something real," he said. "But obviously nobody knows that. You probably ought to find the other Americans."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"I know one of them," said Helen. "I wish you'd go down and reassure her. She's on her way to the bullfights, and she turned into jelly when they searched the train."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"They were absolute correct to search the train," the printer answered. They destroyed some snapshots we were taking, too. Last spring, they said, the Fascists caught a lot of photographs of armed civilians, and anyone whose face was clear got his. They're not taking any chances."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"But if you've been talking with them --" Helen cried, her face darkening with excitement. "What do they say is happening?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"They only said that," the printer told her. He was a young student, from his look, his earnest clear glance, but the marks about his mouth and his darkened, blunt fingers showed how long he had spent at work; he looked straightforward at Helen now, obviously telling all he knew. "They were ordered to go through the train; for all they knew, the girl said, it's just an examination, and we'll go right on through to Barcelona."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">As I read the book, I kept thinking of the word "cinematic" to describe the shifts in scene, the dialogue that often seems carefully written and offhand at the same time, the changes in view from long shot to close-up to angular glance to clear simple frame, again both carefully set up and almost randomly occurring.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Muriel Rukeyser was in Spain for a few days. During that time, she met a man from Germany, Otto Boch, a runner who had come to Spain for the Olympics. They became lovers. Boch stayed, and joined the anti-Fascist International Brigades, and was killed in the civil war. One of the characters in <em>Savage Coast</em> is a German runner based on Boch, and in novel he and Rukeyser's character Helen become lovers. Some years later, in the late 1940's after the Spanish Civil War and the Second World War, Rukeyser dedicated her poem cycle <em>Elegies</em> to Otto Boch.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In the second half of the novel, Helen and her several traveling companions find a way to Barcelona, a city bright and joyous with popular insurgence; the city shows marks of recent fighting, and there is still danger from Fascist snipers and abductors. The days become filled with large public gatherings, official ceremonies, following rumors and threads of news reports, as the weight of the mounting events of the larger world grows ever greater. And mingled with this, the realization by the many visitors that they'll need to decide, and soon, whether to leave for home or to stay and join the coming storm.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Here's another passage from the book; the scene takes place on the first morning after Helen and others from the train have arrived in Barcelona:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Helen went immediate to the window, hauled up the venetian blind, and stood in the broad panel of sunlight the struck across the room. The gunfire continued. Facing her, a curved wall of arches surprised her, thrown block-long and receding; it took her a second to recognize the tiers and galleries of the arena, the slim pillars which were so perfect for snipers. Her eye ran over the shaded colonnade with animal speed: she had become vigilant, it gave her a tremendous sense of health and freshness to wake without fear and speculate on concealed rifles.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The angle of the Olympic cut down across her view to the right, and she could see nothing but a boarded up café, a filling station, and the radiator and front wheels of the overturned car. But to the left lay the new city, ruled square, block after block of new apartment houses patched white with flags of truce. Behind them stood the high fortress on its strip of cliff, cutting the mountain range abruptly to an end.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Olive and Peter were lying awake in bed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"That was the seven o'clock bell, wasn't it?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"That was the beginning of the shooting," laughed Olive. Correct response, thought Helen. She came over to the window in Helen's room. "They said something about leaving the blinds drawn."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"I don't know," Helen said slowly. "I don't mind an open window on a street, so much, today."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"I think I'm finished with all that too. Peter and I were walking to dinner when we missed you; Peter had just said something about the truck-ride and fear when a car came up. The driver asked us to get in, and we didn't think anything of it. There was a guard with a submachine gun; everything seemed proper until they started driving and took us miles through the country, or park -- darkness, anyway. They didn't say a word to us. Then we began to remember things -- we hadn't noticed the initials on the car, fascists can drive cars too, we didn't speak Catalan, the car had only one door -- all of those things."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"It's a big park," Helen said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"A goddamned big park. But it may have cured me."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">They hung out the window. At the filling station, cars and trucks were already lined up, C.N.T and U.G.T cars for the most part, and the proprietor and two assistants were supplying them, lifting the dripping nozzle out of one tank and dropping it into the next without bothering to check the stream of gas.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"They're going to run short of cars," Helen remarked under the grinding of gears as they rushed down the street."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"The state's requisitioning cars from dealers," said Peter, from bed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"There was a Ford sign on the road."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Helen knew she would always have this first morning of complete confidence. Peter and Olive had it too, she saw, reading their faces. One more lie to hold against the books! she reflected; the foolish irrelevant stories of people's characters changing like wind which shifts.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">She had wanted a life for herself, and found she was unequipped; and adjusting her wants, cared to be a person prepared for that life. I want greatness, she thought, the rich faces of the living. All the tenseness stood in the way, and see how it removes! One morning, and the fear of death is replaced.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Rukeyser wrote <em>Savage Coast </em>immediately after her return from Spain in 1936. Early reactions from at least one reader of the manuscript, and one potential publisher, were strongly negative -- likely reacting against the left-leaning politics of the novel, as much as against the courage and joy and audacity of a woman making a strong clear statement -- and she put the novel away among her papers, and it remained mostly unknown, and unpublished, during her lifetime and for several decades after that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The edition published by The Feminist Press has been edited with skill and sensitivity by Rowena Kennedy-Epstein, and includes an Introduction by Kennedy-Epstein and useful endnotes. Over the years Rukeyser wrote several journalistic articles about her days in Spain in 1936, and the Feminist Press edition includes one of these at the end of the book, "We Came for the Games: A Memoir of the People's Olympics, Barcelona, 1936," originally published in <em>Esquire</em> magazine in October 1974.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The Feminist Press has also published a booklet of several other short pieces by Muriel Rukeyser, <em><a href=", 1936" and Selections from the Spanish Civil War Archive</a></em>, Series 2, Number 6, published in the Lost and Found series of the CUNY Center for the Humanties, Spring 2011. Both articles help highlight how closely Rukeyser held to the essential facts of the events that occurred during her days in Spain, including many critical details of dialogue, descriptions of buildings and people and public places, and so on. The "Barcelona, 1936" pamplet includes, among other things, an image of a hand-drawn map of the small town where the train waited for a few days.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I'll finish here with one further passage from near the end of the novel; the scene is a large public gathering in Barcelona, in which speakers recount the difficult previous days and the hard time of struggle that waits ahead. This section of the novel includes interspersed lists of names of people in Spain who had died during the previous days of fighting.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">They could not be seen, they could not yet be heard; it was the cry advancing with them, its front advancing as their front rank came up, that made them known: a great female animal cry, victorious wail of spectators, the city acclaim of those on the edge and sympathetic, who still have throats to cheer, while those silent fighters pass between their lines.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">And now the "Internationale" sprang up, strange, in foreign inflections, as the Norwegians began to sing, changing the wordfall, the sound, almost the song itself.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The Dutch, and the Hungarians; picked it up, unfamiliar, only the form carrying it through, the marching tune.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The French were missing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">But it reached the crowd of Belgians, the song came nearer, the great crying welcome to the army came, mixing, until the chorus became a crying greet:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"C'est la lutte finale,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Groupon-nous, et demain,"</span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">...El directive de la C.N.T. Francisco Acaso, Eduardo Gorgot, José Biota, Javier Noguera, Alejandro Prodonis y Fuentes, Concepción Canet y Alcaráz, Vicente Vásquez, Salvador Guerrero, José González y Valencia, Enrique Arnau y Erude, Julián Gil y González...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"L'Internationale..."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Here! The first line of set faces, brackets of arms set in perpetual fist, red bands about the head, straight stony foreheads dark.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Sera le genre humain..."</span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">In a high sung note, praising, crying, speeding an army of unarmed men, who walked rope-soled, blankets slung at the shoulder, their women with them, a few, among them, a few, running beside in the blaze, past the shining confiscated roadsters, the homemade armored cars, the lines of spectators, and the Olympic lines who backed them, singing the unique song, finally arriving to the double English version, the English and Americans singing, welcoming, as the army passed; an army, not in the pathetic small battalions of the night before, but rounded up, strong in numbers, unshakeable, but barely clothed, barely helmeted, barely armed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">They passed for minutes, the lines of soldiers, passing to a new phase of war. The city was strong now in its own defense; in a day, eferything would be running once more, the city would be held; but these were going to be the outer front. Almost exhausted by the internal battle, with the strenuous look of purity on their faces, they must be renewed to the next front.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">They must be renewed. They must be enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">*</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I've written about Muriel Rukeyser previously in this blog, <a href="2007/01/all-shimmering-names.html">here</a>, and <a href="2014/03/muriel-rukeysers-elegies.html">here</a>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">There's a great deal of information and general background on the internet about the Spanish Civil War, with varying reliability. A good place to start is the website of the <strong>Abraham Lincoln Brigade Archive</strong>, <a href=";. The Lincoln Brigade was the name taken by many of the volunteers from the United States who went to Spain to join the international struggle against the Fascist military invasion. The Lincoln Brigade website includes history, educational materials, current upcoming events related to study of the Spanish Civil War, links to other online sources, and other material.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span>2014/07/savage-coast.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Lyle Daggett)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12345339.post-9135190768110206370Wed, 16 Apr 2014 02:03:00 +00002014-04-15T21:03:19.840-05:00A few paragraphs from John Berger<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here are a few paragraphs from the British Marxist art critic <strong>John Berger</strong>, from his essay "A Professional Secret," in his <em>Selected Essays</em> published 2001 by Vintage Books. Berger talks here primarily about some of his encounters with paintings, visual art; his comments surely are relevant to poetry writing and other creative work as well.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I've read much of John Berger's writing over the years, mostly his art criticism and other essays, also his novel <em>From A to X</em>, which I loved. I often go to his writing when I need to clear my mind, sharpen my critical thought, step back and get some perspective on things. I've learned a great deal from Berger's work, about looking at art and looking at the world.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In his essay "A Professional Secret," originally published in 1987, Berger begins by talking about a painting by Hans Holbein he wants to go and see in Switzerland (he's lived for many years in the foothills of the French Alps). He arrives in Berne, discovers the Holbein painting is in a different city in Switzerland, so he and his companion go and visit an art museum in Berne.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">He talks a little about painted Christian images of violence and brutality (depictions of Christian martyrs, the crucifixion, etc.) -- the contradictory nature of such images, such subject matter painted so beautifully -- and then he asks: "how can the brutal be made visibly acceptable?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Berger continues:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The question begins with the Renaissance. In medieval art the suffering of the body was subservient to the live of the soul. And this was an article of faith which the spectator brought with him to the image; the life of the soul did not have to be demonstrated in the image itself. A lot of medieval art is grotesque -- that is to say a reminder of the worthlessness of everything physical. Renaissance art idealizes the body and reduces the body to gesture. (A similar reduction occurs in Westerns: see John Wayne or Gary Cooper.) [...]</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">At the beginning of the nineteenth century Goya, because of his unflinching approach to horror and brutality, was the first modern artist. Yes those who look at his etchings would never choose to look at the mutilated corpses they depict with such fidelity. So we are forced back to the same question, which one might formulate differently: how does catharsis work in visual art, if it does?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Berger then says, in effect, that catharsis doesn't work in art: "Paintings don't offer catharsis. They offer something similar, but different."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Berger mentions several paintings in the museum, from the late nineteenth century and the twentieth century: Courbet, Monet, Braque, Klee, Rothko.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Quoting Berger again:</span><b