Poetry Friday from Spain: Federico Garcia Lorca

Arbol in Espana - Tree in Spain

Well, it's Friday in Girona, Spain, even if my laptop computer thinks it's still Thursday! I'm traveling through Spain with my husband (Happy Retirement, Nando!) for the whole month of March and reading the poetry of Federico Garcia Lorca. Here's a haunting poem for Poetry Friday titled Arbole, Arbole (Tree, Tree) accompanied by a photo I took yesterday of a weeping willow tree near the lovely Monasterio de Sant Pere des Galligants (the monastery of Saint Peter of the Cock's Crow) in Girona . Original Spanish follows the translated version.

Arbole, Arbole

Tree, tree
dry and green.

The girl with the pretty face
is out picking olives.
The wind, playboy of towers,
grabs her around the waist.
Four riders passed by
on Andalusian ponies,
with blue and green jackets
and big, dark capes.
"Come to Cordoba, muchacha."
The girl won't listen to them.
Three young bullfighters passed,
slender in the waist,
with jackets the color of oranges
and swords of ancient silver.
"Come to Sevilla, muchacha."
The girl won't listen to them.
When the afternoon had turned
dark brown, with scattered light,
a young man passed by, wearing
roses and myrtle of the moon.
"Come to Granada, muchacha."
And the girl won't listen to him.
The girl with the pretty face
keeps on picking olives
with the grey arm of the wind
wrapped around her waist.
Tree, tree
dry and green.


(Translated by William Logan)

Original Spanish

Arbolé, arbolé,
seco y verde.

La niña del bello rostro
está cogiendo aceituna.
El viento, galán de torres,
la prende por la cintura.
Pasaron cuatro jinetes
sobre jacas andaluzas,
con trajes de azul y verde,
con largas capas oscuras.
"Vente a Córdoba, muchacha."
La niña no los escucha.
Pasaron tres torerillos
delgaditos de cintura,
con trajes color naranja
y espadas de plata antigua.
"Vente a Córdoba, muchacha."
La niña no los escucha.
Cuando la tarde se puso
morada, con lux difusa,
pasó un joven que llevaba
rosas y mirtos de luna.
"Vente a Granada, muchacha."
Y la niña no lo escucha.
La niña del bello rostro
sigue cogiendo aceituna,
con el brazo gris del viento
ceñido por la cintura.
Arbolé, arbolé.
Seco y verdé.  

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If you read through the Spanish carefully, even if you don't speak the language, you can see how much more musical the original is ( aceituna, cintura, andaluzas, oscuras, muchacha, escucha....) I'd like to say the translation gives us the essence, but is the essence the meaning? Or is the essence the music? Or - hardest of all, and strangest of all, and what I believe - is the essence (that is, the least reducible condition) the combination of sense with sound? To me, the effect of that combination is what poetry is all about, and that's why translations almost always fail if they do not take into account the effect of the words on the body. The translator here, William Logan, captures moments like that when he gives us phrases like "myrtles of the moon." If you're looking for a book about the translation of poetry, one of the best around is Reading Rilke by William Gass.


The Poetry Friday Round-Up is happening today over at Lix Garton Scanlon's blog, Liz in Ink. Head over there to see what other people are posting!  

Alley in Girona, Spain

Garcia Lorca in New York

Origami Fish by Won Park

Just look at how strange and beautiful this is...something about it being made of dollar bills pleases me. Maybe because it's not nature but it's also not commerce - it's in between God-made and man-made.

Origami Fish by Won Park

And here's a haiku by Basho to go with it:

Under cherry-trees:

the soup, salad, fish and all . . .

Seasoned with petals

Question: What's for Dinner? Answer: Everything!

What's for dinner?

Well, I guess that depends on who you're asking....

The frog thinks the mosquito's for dinner. But watch out, Frog! 

"Hauth's funny, eloquent poems celebrate the often-grisly realities of the food chain." 

(Publisher's Weekly)

What's for dinner? Sounds like a pretty straightforward question, right? Pizza, spaghetti, fried chicken, tacos, pot roast...add a tortilla or a piece of bread, rice, some vegetables or salad, some dessert and there you have it - dinner.

But what if you asked Mother Nature - what does she cook up for her kids?

In Katherine B. Hauth's wonderful new book of poems, WHAT'S FOR DINNER: QUIRKY, SQUIRMY POEMS FROM THE ANIMAL WORLD (published by Charlesbridge)  Mother Nature definitely cooks up a feast.

There are snakes for hawks, carrion for vultures, mayflies for swallows, worms for turtles, blood for mosquitoes, roadkill for ants...WHAT'S FOR DINNER offers up a whopping 29 poems that tell us about animals and their appetites. In case that sounds dry or dusty, think again - non-fiction has changed!  These poems don't just deliver the facts - they are energetic and funny:

The Nose Knows 

 

The scent 

of fallen fig seeds

calls a rat to feed.

Rat's aroma 

brings a boa

to its furry prey. 

Rat gets a hug today.

Getting boys to read poetry isn't an easy task, once the idea is planted that Poetry with a capital P is flowery and emotional. But give boys poetry like this, with a little muscle and a little slug-slime and they'll (pardon the pun) eat it up. You can find some poop, some pee, some bugs eating the algae off a sloth's back, some wasp eggs hatching out from inside a caterpillar, some stink, some worms and germs.... These messy things aren't purely the domain of boys, but it would be foolish to ignore the appeal of the gross factor here.  Besides, it doesn't overwhelm - it's just part of the natural order of things. And I love to see a book come along that an "I-Hate-Books" kind of  boy will enjoy. Remember what the writer Lorrie Moore said -  "Teachers I meet everywhere are always asking, 'How can we get boys to read?' And the answer is, simply, book by book." Well, this is one of those books.

The poems are full of wonderful humor ("Finding food is not a joke./ Living things must eat or croak")  as are the illustrations. Take, for example, the above-mentioned caterpillar, about to burst: 

I just love the expression on that bug-eyed caterpillar's face at the Decisive Moment! And I think kids will, too.

Another poem I particularly like is "Food Chain"-

Food Chain 

Painted lady butterfly    whiptail lizard    garter snake

now reside     one inside     the other

all inside

the road runner.

Look at the control of sound there, with the meter (trochaic) handled deftly, and rhyme (reside/inside and other/roadrunner) present but not at the expense of sense. If you think that's easy, in 17 words, just give it a try! Hauth certainly knows how to use the tools in the poetry toolbox.

Sure, a child can learn about who eats what, but Hauth is the kind of poet who knows information is not poetry, so she stirs the pot a bit and comes up with just the right blend of images, sounds and ideas for her poems - that's a winning trifecta. In addition to the poems, Hauth has included a few pages of explanatory notes at the end that focus on unfamiliar vocabulary (such as predators, scavengers, parasites, symbiosis) as well as addressing the web-of-life issues in each poem individually. A list of suggested books for further reading wraps things up.

This is a wonderful book for both learning and laughs. I'll venture one last pun and say it's delicious. I mean, any book whose title includes both "quirky" and "squirmy" is my kind of book. And I love to see non-fiction that blurs the boundaries between different genres. Joyce Sidman's recent poetry collections such as Ubiquitous and Butterfly Eyes come to mind, but their tone is more serious. Here is non-fiction/poetry to fill a child with both wonder and laughter.  

You can see a video interview of poet Katherine Hauth made by fellow New-Mexican writer Uma Krishnaswami over at Uma's wonderful blog, Writing with a Broken Tusk.

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The Poetry Friday round-up today is being hosted by Doraine Bennett over at Dori Reads.  Head over there to see what other people are posting. 

Poetry Friday - Another Double Abecedarian

Aren't some of these upside down??  The N, the S, even the Z.

I'm just going to continue the fun I've been having lately with restrictive forms, whether or not people want to call these experiments "poems" (see comment from last Friday.) Maybe I'm not sure what a real "poem" is. I'm not sure many poets would be willing to tackle that definition. But these experiments/poems end up having a life of their own, and I just love watching them wriggle. Or, as someone else might say, they "have legs" even if they don't always have heads or arms or a torso.

If you know me, you know the drill with double abecedarians: the first word of each line starts with the next letter in the alphabet - first with A, then B, then C, etc. The last words do the reverse - they end with z in the first line, then y, then x, etc. Here, I get a bit alphabetty explaining the hardest letters of the form within the form itself, but I do manage a one-word line following the rules. That's always a triumphant moment in a double abecedarian.

Don't worry whether or not it's a "poem." Just enjoy.

Double Abecedarian

Alphabet poems doubled aren't E-Z.
Basically, you have to go A to Z, B to Y,
C to X, etc. And you hit that X,
Don't forget, coming and going. That's raw.
End a line with a V? Do anyEnglish words  end with V?
Figure our next what ends with U. Ugh. I mean U-
Gh. Some letters are just
Headaches.
I guess for
Jugular-vein, you've got the final Q.
Kills me every time, trip-trap
Little goats, the big troll is singing, O!
Meanwhile, the easy ones like D and N--
nice, numerous, dull, dim.
On the other hand, I love every opening vowel:
Plump a-e-o's, i's thin, u's thick.
Quick now, jump over the Q. Find a DJ or a raj
Ready to help you solve the mini-
Situation with the final J. Then look for a bush
That burns, and see if you can find a dog
Under the table. By the time you get to a final F,
Very late in the game, you'll have committed the
Worst possible mistakes & gone mental, you'll have had
X slap you down twice, you'll go to bed with that ABC
Yacking away inside your head, you'll be ruined, you'll be gob-
Zacked. Gob-sacked? Gob-smacked? As in l-m-n-oh-oh, oh. Mama!

The Poetry Friday round-up today is being hosted by Elaine Magliaro over at The Wild Rose Reader (Thanks, Elaine!) Head over there to see what other people are posting.  

Poetry Friday - A VCFA Poetry Challenge!

Summaries of the rest of the Vermont College of Fine Arts' Winter Residency will have to wait until I've recovered fully from the relentless pace on campus for ten days - "Ouch" and "Yikes" and "OMG" come to mind. Brilliant but tyrannical schedule we follow in the Writing for Children program. 

For now, since it's Poetry Friday, I'll post the results of a quick "poetry challenge" I issued - the results are from some brave students who took on the restrictions & rules & simply engaged in the fun of it. Here is the challenge I issued:

Choose a vowel and write a poem using only that vowel throughout, along with any consonants you like. If you choose "a," for example, no other vowel but "a" may appear in the poem. Since I read several of my own "counting songs" during the Faculty Reading, I told students there would be extra points for doing the same (numerals were acceptable as 1,2,3, etc. but not as one, two, three....unless the written number had only the chosen vowel.)

I got samples of every vowel other than "a." Interesting. 

Some of the poems were turned in to me a little sheepishly, with no names on them. People do get shy! Some are serious, some are playful. Some manage to follow the rules, but...let's see...how to say this? The sense suffers? Some take the idea of "counting" a bit loosely. But that's okay - quality varies, but good-sportsmanship was in plentiful supply. In that spirit I am posting everything submitted to me, and if I've forgotten who put the poem into my hands (as I said, the pace was "Yikes") please forgive me. I've put "by Anonymous" on all unsigned poems. And please forgive also if some of the very creative formatting doesn't hold. I'll try to put Editorial Notes in when that happens.

I want to give a tip of the hat to student Sandra Nickel, who not only turned the poem into a counting song but made sense of it all. She conjured up some excellent images and controlled the sound qualities in a masterful way - it's a terrific poem, one where the rules of the challenge don't narrow it down but open it up. You know, looking back over them, there are quite a few here that work within the restrictions well....

At the end, I'll add one that I wrote, if I can find it in the mess of papers I call my "study" - I should call it my "study-not"! 


Sun's dun 
by Sandra Nickel

Sun up
10 bugs thrum
 9 ducks pluck
 8 gulls hubbub
cull
strut
scud punch-drunk

Sun lulls
 7 bucks run
 6 bulls rut
 5 cubs dust fuzz
rumpus
ruckus
run 'muck

Sun rusts, turns up trumps
 4 pups rush, suck
 3 skunks gust musk
 2 urubus turn, tuck, hurl
 1 runt succumbs
nub's hum
dusk's dun
hush
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First Kiss
by Sarah Cramer

This is it I think.
First kiss. 

Swimming
In this ink-spill night,
In this blinking light,

His wrist tickling
Tick-tick-tick. 

This is it. 

Lips slick with lipstick
Pinch tight.
Fish-lips-tight.

Is this right? 

Lids wrinkling,
Skin pricking,
Lips link.


I'm sinking in this
First-kiss
Bliss
Thinking, This is it. 
-----------------------

Rez Fest  
by  Maggie Lehrman

Here, we set elements
(we clever keepers)
squeeze letters
eke essences
edge free newness
deemed mess --
better--
best.

We exert tenses
speed pens
respect elders
(neglect self)
peddle jests, yes!

Then: Rest.
Flee, lest we
revert.
Bed,
freshness,
end.

[Ed. Note: Oh-oh, I see a "u" in there along with the e's. But since it's connected to a "q," maybe it's more like a "q-u" unit, and not a separate vowel!][Further notes: In the comments, Maggie suggests replacing "squeeze" with "wedge" - great choice. Extra points, too, for making it be about the residency!]
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Demeter
by Jessica Leader

locks of womb shorn?
don't hold to cold comfort.
no honor to scold trollops
for solo loons won't coo --
nor scorn poor grooms or sons who woo
for sons grow old too soon.
throw off gloom.
sow.
drop tons of roots.
grow.
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Five Poems   [Ed. Note - I'm pretty sure these are discrete (i.e. independent) poems.]
by Lori Steel

Crowns of thorn do mock,
God's son, forlorn not forgot,
Cost of blood born.

Owl hoots, flocks blown down,
From cool to cold, drops form snow,
Town plows work, school stops.

Fool plots,
Clock tocs,
Shop loots,
Words drown,
Glock cocks,
Crook robs,
Cop stops,
Mob knows,
Town's loss.

Mood                               World's top
      drops                                         slows
                                                             to
      flows                                                  form                                       
          down                                                  cold
                from                                                   rocks.



Cooldropsformfromsobsofsorrowcooldropsformfromsobssofsorrowcooldropsformfromsobsofsorrow

[Ed. Note - that last one is a concrete poem in the form of a teardrop - couldn't figure out how to shape it!]
               
Untitled 
by Alyson Whatcott

Twins: Ling, Ting,
In swings,
Slip, tip,
Skip, dip,
Zing, wing.
RRRRIIIINNNGGGG
"In! In!"
Ting spins,
Ling wins.
In swings,
Ling, Ting--twins.
-----------------


Holy Pop
by Anonymous

Oh, roll on.
On to tock
     of Holy God
     who took hold of sod.
On to tock
     of good hooks
     born oh so long,
     Holy Pop.
On to tock of
     Hop on Pop?
     Hold on to two
     So good
Oh, roll on.
-----------------------

Untitled
by Anonymous


He tells me,
"We tell every Steven
they'll never be
even whenever
they're seven"


Me tells he,
"We seel every Ben
the secret seek-seeker
whenever they're ten."
-------------------------

Oh, Plot!

by Maggie Lehrman

Oh Plot!

Oh Plot Forgot! 

No jot to top

Oh Plot Forgot! 

Go on

forlorn. 

To stop

on bottom

not cool. 

 
Big thanks to everyone who participated - I love the adventurous spirit that guided you all!  Here's my own single vowel poem, written awhile back - not a counting song, but fun to do:

BODY KNOWS

Body
knows how

to go
slow now,

to fool Doom,
to bow down -

to grow
old.

Body
knows not

how to grow
cool, nor cold,

knows not
how

to stop,
poor sot.
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Today's Poetry Friday round-up is being hosted by Tara Smith over at A WRITING LIFE. Head over there to see what other people have posted.