Time was when intelligence possessed its own penumbra and discourse was a sacred table of Presences where everyone with ability and passion would be invited. I fear the insanity of war waged today always (and demonically) along religio-nationalist lines has, as you've sagaciously said, thrown us into a twilight of reason and faith.
If we're not careful there will quite literally be no poetry left in the world...
I couldn't agree more with Conrad here..There is no valid discourse left..as who would hear anything sensible amidst the noise of explosions and gunshots..Excellent composition as always..
Thanks to all for responding with your thoughts on this piece, which was written primarily because I was feeling angry with myself for being so useless to the Palestinians in Gaza and felt I had to do something, even if that was nothing more than to write a poem.
As for the question “Does poetry matter?”, I think all of us who write it would agree that it does, but I tend to shy away from statements that seek to elevate both it and the person writing it to a higher realm of consciousness, while playing down the need to stick close to the ground so to speak. In such a context, I like to think of the poet as the man being described in Seferis’ poem “Narration,” which I’ll paste here in its entirety:
Giorgos Seferis: "Narration"
That man walks along weeping no one can say why sometimes they think he's weeping for lost loves like those that torture us so much on summer beaches with the gramophones. Other people go about their business endless paper, children growing up, women ageing awkardly. He has two eyes like poppies like cut spring poppies and two trickles in the corners of his eyes. He walks along the streets, never lies down striding small squares on the earth's back instrument of a boundless pain that's finally lost all significance. Some have heard him speak to himself as he passed by about mirrors broken years ago about broken forms in the mirrors that no one can ever put together again. Others have heard him talk about sleep images of horror on the threshold of sleep faces unbearable in their tenderness. We've grown used to him; he's presentable and quiet only that he walks along weeping continually like willows on a riverbank you see from the train as you wake uncomfortably some clouded dawn. We've grown used to him; like everything else you're used to he doesn't stand for anything and I talk to you about him because I can't find anything that you're not used to; I pay my respects.
Seferis' piece is beautiful and I agree it's the fate of every sensitive person--more often than not the poet--exposed to the brutality of life. I think it is a poet's call to decry the brutality of human behaviour: I think of a young Irving Layton, for example, who spoke (and spoke very passionately) often in public forums on the Middle East. He'd been a fiery passionate advocate of the Arabs in a time when they'd been even more demonized than they are today. Close to his death he'd even described himself as "a quiet madman, never far from tears".
Only academic poets think of themselves as being elevated to a higher consciousness and so their writings are generally worthless. The real poet suffers with the rest of us and is distinguished merely by the strength and beauty of his verses. The terrible atrocities being committed against the Palestinians in Gaza--the indiscriminate slaughter of the young, old and the helpless--must make us all cry.
Vassilis, your poem is an elegant and moving part of such a record and I thank you for your courage and integrity.
Time was when intelligence possessed its own penumbra and discourse was a sacred table of Presences where everyone with ability and passion would be invited. I fear the insanity of war waged today always (and demonically) along religio-nationalist lines has, as you've sagaciously said, thrown us into a twilight of reason and faith.
ReplyDeleteIf we're not careful there will quite literally be no poetry left in the world...
Another superb piece, Vassilis.
I couldn't agree more with Conrad here..There is no valid discourse left..as who would hear anything sensible amidst the noise of explosions and gunshots..Excellent composition as always..
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteHere's an interesting article at Bob Arnold's site. I think Cid and Vassilis are on the right page...
ReplyDeleteThere's a question that has to be put. Thank you, Vassilis.
ReplyDeleteThanks to all for responding with your thoughts on this piece, which was written primarily because I was feeling angry with myself for being so useless to the Palestinians in Gaza and felt I had to do something, even if that was nothing more than to write a poem.
ReplyDeleteAs for the question “Does poetry matter?”, I think all of us who write it would agree that it does, but I tend to shy away from statements that seek to elevate both it and the person writing it to a higher realm of consciousness, while playing down the need to stick close to the ground so to speak. In such a context, I like to think of the poet as the man being described in Seferis’ poem “Narration,” which I’ll paste here in its entirety:
Giorgos Seferis: "Narration"
That man walks along weeping
no one can say why
sometimes they think he's weeping for lost loves
like those that torture us so much
on summer beaches with the gramophones.
Other people go about their business
endless paper, children growing up, women
ageing awkardly.
He has two eyes like poppies
like cut spring poppies
and two trickles in the corners of his eyes.
He walks along the streets, never lies down
striding small squares on the earth's back
instrument of a boundless pain
that's finally lost all significance.
Some have heard him speak
to himself as he passed by
about mirrors broken years ago
about broken forms in the mirrors
that no one can ever put together again.
Others have heard him talk about sleep
images of horror on the threshold of sleep
faces unbearable in their tenderness.
We've grown used to him; he's presentable and quiet
only that he walks along weeping continually
like willows on a riverbank you see from the train
as you wake uncomfortably some clouded dawn.
We've grown used to him; like everything else you're used to
he doesn't stand for anything
and I talk to you about him because I can't find
anything that you're not used to;
I pay my respects.
Translated by E.Keely & P.Sherrard
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteSeferis' piece is beautiful and I agree it's the fate of every sensitive person--more often than not the poet--exposed to the brutality of life. I think it is a poet's call to decry the brutality of human behaviour: I think of a young Irving Layton, for example, who spoke (and spoke very passionately) often in public forums on the Middle East. He'd been a fiery passionate advocate of the Arabs in a time when they'd been even more demonized than they are today. Close to his death he'd even described himself as "a quiet madman, never far from tears".
ReplyDeleteOnly academic poets think of themselves as being elevated to a higher consciousness and so their writings are generally worthless. The real poet suffers with the rest of us and is distinguished merely by the strength and beauty of his verses. The terrible atrocities being committed against the Palestinians in Gaza--the indiscriminate slaughter of the young, old and the helpless--must make us all cry.
Vassilis, your poem is an elegant and moving part of such a record and I thank you for your courage and integrity.
Thanks again for the above, Conrad.
ReplyDeleteRespects for being an exception among poets once again, Vassilis.
ReplyDeleteAnd yes, it's been reassuring to know that Canada's plastering the old maple leaf over its trembling subservience to Power once again!.
Thank you, Tom-- and for the link letting me know that Canada's venerable leaders have not forgotten how to kotow.
ReplyDelete