Wordbreaks

Root Collections

I'm down in Boston this week, visiting the bubs. Ten days ago there were still little piles of snow in my backyard in Quebec, and a sizeable mound of the hardened, dirt-encrusted stuff still perching on the front lawn. It's all gone now (yay!) but what a strange thing, to go, in a matter of days, from brisk, chilling winds and biting frost to almost 80-degree weather, daffodils and cherry blossoms everywhere, and luscious green grass.

Lots of people in town last weekend for the Bruins/Canadiens game and the Boston Marathon on Monday. It's been raining, off and on, for three days. I've not yet had a chance to revisit some of the neighborhoods here that hold a store of memories of my time here for so many years. It's always strange, walking past a house we'd once lived in, seeing the changes (or that it has remained EXACTLY the same), unable to imagine myself, today, still living there. Times change, situations change--people change. But those memories hold a special place, they come flooding back, in waves of little nostalgic nudgings, evoking surprising turns of reflection.

The word "roots" always signified to me the place of one's birth. But then you leave home and go out in the world and set down new roots somewhere else. You can live in a place 20 years, happily re-rooted and comfortably acclimated, then one day discover a place you immediately fall in love with, feel completely at home in, and dream about living there forever. Not just as a tourist daydreamily musing "I'd LOVE to live here" but something deeper--a great, sincere longing to really always BE there, as in "I BELONG there."

It sometimes happens that you land in a place not by choice but by circumstance, fully intending it to be temporary, definitely not a place you normally would have chosen--in fact, you might at first really hate it. But in time you become accustomed, what was once strange is now familiar; you find, much to your surprise, when you're away from it, that you actually start missing it. You've put down new roots again. It is that way for me now, with T-R.

Home is not a place. It's what I take with me, wherever I go. The memories of past places, the dreams of future places, the nowness of my present place.

Yesterday at the park I overheard a father pushing his little boy on the swings, speaking to him in French. I asked him where they were from and he said, "Senegal." We had a mini-conversation, en francais, and I realized, somewhat to my surprise, that even though it'd only been four or five days that I've been here, I miss hearing French.

Tomorrow I'm going to visit old friends, some of whom I haven't seen for many years. And breakfast in my favorite kitchen in the whole world--S's kitchen--with the domed Turkish ceiling and from whose plant-lined windows one can watch squirrels traversing the limbs of adjacent trees; the smell of warm toast, hot coffee and the hum of a lively conversation, news to catch up on, projects to discuss. I love his house, nestled in a hidden cul-de-sac, the booklined walls, book-filled (from floor to ceiling) hallways, subterranean study, the thousands and thousands of books--everywhere and everywhere; paintings, artifacts from journeys abroad, my most favorite house in all of Cambridge, in all of Massachusetts! Then a train ride out to Concord, Thoreau's old stomping grounds, then back to Cambridge and drop in at the Tibetan store (can a place be an "old friend" too?).

I am unable to post any Boston pictures to the blog until I return because my camera is one of those ancient digital ones that uses floppy disks, and the computer here doesn't have a drive to support them. Pictures to remember a former life, a present-day visit, a thread in a continuing journey.

It was Earth Day yesterday.

Ah, Spring!

Enfin, vous êtes arrivés!!

Anyone Got a Vowel?

Strč prst skrz krk is a Czech and Slovak tongue-twister meaning "stick your finger down your throat." It is sometimes used to judge whether or not a particular person is drunk.[1]

Wearing a T-shirt displaying a script in a "foreign" language is definitely an attention getter. People will come up to you and ask: "What language is that? How do you pronounce it? What does it mean?"

Assuming the person wearing the shirt knows and gives you an explanation, you may pass along and never again encounter another instance of that particular language in print, but some part of you will probably make a mental note of the diacritically marked letters and remember the sounds they're connected to. For example, with this t-shirt message pictured at the right, the letter "c" with a little check mark at the top (called a háček) is pronounced "ch" (as in "chomp")--as opposed to, say, the "c" that has a little tail underneath (the cedilla) in the French language, that's pronounced as a soft "s" (as in "cedar").

This T-shirt can be ordered from Typotheque, a graphic design studio/type foundry located in the Netherlands.

Commenting on the fact that the number of native English speakers is less than the number of native Hindi and Arabic speakers, Typotheque founder Peter Biľak,, suggests that "we should pay as much attention to Greek, Cyrillic, Arabic, Armenian or Devanagari scripts as we pay to Latin."[2] He has acted on that belief, in founding a company that specializes in creating custom type solutions for a variety of applications and languages.

Cool t-shirt!! One day I'm going to get one!

Is Anyone Listening?

This month is National Poetry Month, and I would like to contribute my small part by bringing certain poems here to share with whoever stops by.

Sometimes you stumble upon an arresting image, a compelling metaphor, a memorable phrase, a well-written story (or even--a REALLY interesting word), and make note of it. Sometimes it's good to share these finds with others--you never know when even the most random reference might, for someone, turn out to be particularly meaningful.

In that vein, I would like to highlight a poem I found yesterday morning, written by Charmaine Cadeau, a Canadian poet currently living in Albany, NY. (The word cadeau, in French, means "gift." Merci, Charmaine, for the permission to post your poem here.)

HUMAN NUMBER

If I could fling
open windows painted
shut or charm your second-hand
jeans into forgetting
the shape of someone
else’s body, I would.
Leeward, the northshore, our street’s
melting, park oaks
curved through icycle glass, always
springtime. We’re surrounded by
cloudacrylic, bare
picture hooks.
The apartment floor’s camber:
breastbone, wishbone. Aerial,
corridors are drenched with burnt
toast, furred thuds of mice
somersaulting from pipes
behind plaster walls.
Air pockets caught in the radiators
cry like small-throated birds room to room.
Living here, we rely on gravity and that backstair
force that leads the body to sleep,
draws smugness,
out of love as though it’s venom.
Toys left overnight on the lawn,
next door, ragstrewn, tumbledown,
but at least a yard. Blocks
away, the laundromat and no one makes
eye contact. Before all the neighbors, before
cycles of yelling and silence, we believed
absolution wasn’t meant to be
bittersweet. Our building’s nocturnal,
gargoyled. I sleep in late. Overcast
days, mud-gray mirrors, we shut ourselves
in like a toy that when
spun opens its fists, is all bright tin petals.
For the hooks, I should paint what a boxer
sees when he’s down, spindrift, hard
riversmooth shapes.[1]

-- Charmaine Cadeau

Ms. Cadeau has stated that her book What You Used to Wear is underscored with the question, "Is anyone listening?" [2]

To which I would answer: Yes. Definitely.

Two Little Ladies, All Dressed Up

J. and V.

Easter Sunday, 2009

Daniel Hudon's Life of Dreams

One day, a dream had a dream.
It split off from the collection and went to speak to a man.
It wanted to make the man a deal:
if the man would let the dream inhabit his life,
then the dream would become real.
In return, the man could live the life of a dream ...

Now and then, some dreamers dreamed of such exquisite delights,
and so vividly, that they knew they were dreaming.
They even said so to themselves, "I must be dreaming."
Each time, in this lucid state,
the dreams repeated their offer to the dreamers.
But the dreamers couldn't be convinced to take it seriously.
They awoke saying to themselves, to their loved ones,
to anyone who would listen,
"I had the strangest dream last night ...

One night a poet dreamed that he went to heaven
and saw a strange and beautiful flower.
He was dazzled by its color and intoxicated by its perfume.
The poet loved the flower with all his heart and plucked it.
And when he awoke, he held the flower in his hand.

-- Daniel Hudon

Excerpted from "The Life of Dreams", a short story that first appeared in the Avatar Review (Summer 2008, Issue 10), reformatted and reprinted with the kind permission of the author. Daniel Hudon is a Canadian, now living in Boston, where he teaches science.

Dreams that can dream, what an interesting concept. Dreams, not as a random collection of images and abstractions divorced from reality, streaming forth like a rambling, unedited film while we sleep but as a conscious entity seeking enactment. Here the dream chooses the dreamer, not the other way around. (Not that we really "choose" our dreams; it's more like we go into the movie theater of dreamhood without a script and exit surprised, baffled, delighted or horrified, depending on what transpired in the dream.)

A lovely story, from an interesting writer! It really got me thinking. (And dreaming...) Thank you, Daniel.

But really, you should read the story in its entirety! Also check out his new book just out this month, The Bluffer's Guide to the Cosmos.

[If you are interested in reading more of Daniel Hudon's writings, you can find them listed on his web page here.]

*Artwork by krystiedawn

Farewell old tree

Our neighbors had their tree cut down today.

"Do trees feel pain?"

Some random responses collected from the Internet:

The "No" Group:
-- Absolutely not. Trees do not feel pain.
-- No central nervous system means no pain as we know it.
-- We cannot anthropomorphize trees; they are not humans! Humans contemplate death, trees do not. [Source: I teach Botany and have a master's degree in Biology]
-- No, trees can't feel anything.

The "No ... But" Group:
--I'd have to guess that trees don't feel pain. But somehow they ARE aware of their environment.

The "Yes" Group:
--Pain, not as you understand it. All life responds more to our intent rather than our actions.
-- Yes. If you hurt them, they cry.
-- Yes, and they bleed, too. The sap is their blood.
-- Yes, they also talk to God. They are living beings.
-- Trees do bleed, their sap weeps out when they are cut, so to seal a wound they have sap. It is probably buried right at their core because you always count the rings on inside of their trunks to find out how old the tree was before it was cut down. So maybe their brains are attached to their roots.
--Just because a tree cannot talk does not mean it cannot feel.
-- If I put a cut on the stem of a tree, it will perceive it, as a physiological disturbance or distortion ... then it will try to heal itself. Think about it. If the tree never "knew" or "felt" that it was cut at some place, how would it heal itself?
--Well, once a teacher told me that every time we pull a leaf out of a tree we should pull out a hair of our head, so yes I believe they feel pain.
--If you're pagan or Christian there are spirits in trees that may be able to feel pain.
--I believe that everything that grows must feel some sort of pain.
--Of course they do, but their bark is worse than their bite, so just leaf them alone.

The "Not Sure" Group:

--Well they don't have any nerve cells, so probably not. But then again ... we may never know.-- Strictly speaking, since they have no means of communication with humans, and to paraphrase Wittgenstein, 'if a plant could talk we would not understand it,' we cannot definitively say whether they do or do not feel pain.

The "Define Pain" Group:

--Firstly, you have to think about what our definition of "pain" is. Really, it's just a perception by our brain of an electrical signal sent through our nervous system.
--Pain is very subjective. The only way we can guage pain is to ask the subject, "How much pain do you feel?" This fact pretty much limits pain research to humans.
--The value and deep meaning of pain, emotions, pleasure, etc. are nothing more than the creation of an active human imagination. The reality is that they are simple chemical reactions to stimuli.
--There might be a completely alien concept of pain that applies to trees and plants, but it would probably be outside human understanding.

Comments from a tree cutter:
I've realized something when it comes to cutting down trees:
1. Trees are bigger than they look.
2. Chainsaws are very hard to start.
3. When the neighbor kids come out and see you with a chainsaw and fallen tree and say "Holy [expletive]", it's quite possible you've impressed them.
(Oh and before any tree huggers freak out and email me about killing a tree, it had to go because its roots were growing into the foundation of the house.)

That was not the case with the tree they cut down in my neighbors' lot this morning. It was not too near the house. It was also not diseased, as far as I know. Nor, despite what it looks like in the photographs, was it interfering with the electricity or telephone lines; it stood a good 5 feet behind them. My guess is, they simply wanted the land the tree occupied--for parking or to add to their garage. It appears to be a case of eviction, pure and simple. Terminal eviction.

If a tree fell in the forest, and nobody was there to hear it ... would it make a sound? Philosophers have been arguing this for centuries.

(Does a tree, being chainsawed down and pulverized into a wood shredder, silently scream? NO! (they say), it cannot "feel" anything like pain, much less communicate, silent or otherwise. Sentience, sapience, qualia--all I know is, this tree did not scream. But a passerby almost did, judging from the expression in her eyes on witnessing the chopdown. Me, I just felt sad. It was a nice tree. Definitely dignified, and the home of many feathered creatures.)

I don't know if our little tree out front--"Maurice"--is "aware" or not. We certainly do our best to protect him till he gets a little bigger and stronger, make sure to dig him out of the snowbank in March so he can breathe, etc. The neighbor dog pees on his trunk, the bugs chomp his leaves, his tiny branches are too fragile yet to support the birds, but every year he gets taller and more interesting. I know, I know--I'm anthropomorphizing, but since I planted him (I mean "it") and have been watching, from twigdom on, I feel kind of like his mom. (I mean its.)

"Maurice"

Old trees whacked and mulched; baby trees waving in the breeze ... they come, they go. Just like us. The sea isn't "aware" either. The clouds can't talk. (They spit rain, though.) As for the poor old tree (former tree) across the street -- I know the birds, for sure, are going to miss it.

As will I.

Goodbye Snow

It's going .... slowly. Two days of rain and by next week there'll be only small piles of it left, sinking into the mud, making way for spring grass.

Gray sky, gray day, Wayagamack pumping out its pluffy plumes, a barge groaning its way down le fleuve St. Laurent.

Spring in Cap-de-la-Madeleine.

Who's Who on Whohub

Hi, Awyn

We are contacting you because we have seen references about your work online.

We would like to include you in our directory of interviews with creative professionals and artists.

We invite you to take part in this interview. It is free.
You will also be able to include any web links to samples of your work on the internet.

To start the interview just go to this web address and start responding to questions:
http://www.whohub.net/interview/WRITING

Here, you can find some examples from other professionals:
http://www.whohub.net/en/authors.php

Elsa Wide

Whohub is a directory of interviews with professionals in the fields of communication, arts, technology, and marketing.

I received the above email yesterday from Whohub. Last time I checked, my blog rank was number 12,532,802. Less than 15 people dropped in to read my postings this entire week. So how these people found me to invite me to be interviewed is a complete mystery.

Who the heck is Whohub and why do they want to interview me? I checked it out and basically what happens is, you actually interview yourself. You just pick a category that applies, choose the questions you want to answer, submit them--along with a photo--and they'll post it, in English, Spanish, French, Italian or Portuguese, your choice.

Interesting to see what other writers say about creativity, fictional characters, manner of working, experience with publishing, self-discipline, etc. Some interviews show 14 "views"; others 200. Hmmm. Each time you click on your own interview (to see how many views you have accumulated), that will also count as a view. So conceivably you can work your total up to, say, 400-500 views--if you were so inclined--making it appear you are far more popular than you really are. I'm just saying ... :)

I am a little leery of the proliferation of these social networking blogs. I once joined a temporary blog set up for a specific human rights event and was delighted to see people from all over the world as concerned as I was about this particular issue. But then it got weirdly a little too ... myspacey. Other members immediately invited me to be a "Friend", which meant their photo would then appear on my page. Some members had dozens and dozens of these little photo-boxes attesting to their vast collection of "Friends". I started getting personal email messages having nothing to do with human rights. So-and-so sent me a cutesy card with a mushy poem declaring his affection, inviting me to be his "Special Friend." I began to get spam mail from another member EVERY SINGLE DAY exhorting me to "Check out these songs! Check out this movie! Check out my other web sites!!" and almost weekly from yet another to "Subscribe to my online lecture series". Sigh.

I tried to unmemberize myself, to no avail. "Hi awyn," the website proclaimed whenever I clicked on it, recognizing me immediately. It noticed that I had neglected to include a photograph of myself and reminded me I hadn't put anything into my Recent Activity section--and that I had yet to reply to Member X's invitation to be a Friend. Several months later--the event having long since passed--out of curiosity, I checked back. The website now had another theme--but my personal page was still there, as if set in stone, unremovable.

A whois of the Whohub site shows that it's registered to Jerni Web Development of Miami Beach, FL and so far, the site has collected over 10,000 interviews. Assuming at least half of those interviewed will definitely mention, in person or on-line: "Check out my interview on Whohub!", that'll send a steady stream of a potential 5,000 future Whohubbers to the site who will also want to get interviewed and included as well. (Note though: "Interviews without photos are ranked at the bottom of Whohub's list.")

Can one find kindred spirits on Whohub? Imagine my delight in finding that an Indian blogger at her blog "The Abyss of Non-Being" in listing some of the things that bring her happiness coincidently names the same kind of things I might have chosen if asked that question:

"The smell of burning logs on a cold wintry night"
"the soft rhythmic sound of wind chimes in my balcony"
"the rain soaked breeze entering my bedroom window"
"Smell of freshly sharpened pencils..."
"A deeply satisfying kiss!"
"Buying books, reading books, touching books, and smelling books.
Entering a bookshop ..."
"A loving glance, from the one I love"
"Hearing a child’s squeals of delight" [1]

Of the several biographies I read of Whohub interviewees, the most unusual and intriguing seemed to be that of a countess on the Italian Riviera ("of noble lineage, an author, child prodigy, composer, performer, entrepreneur, former model, head of marketing and PR for Gucci, former advisor to government of Mozambique, arranged more than 20 major Joint Ventures with China, knows 9 languages, visited more than 80 countries, produced movies for Fellini, hosted a radio show called 'Ciao Baby', knows Gore Vidal, writes 6-8 hours a day, has 5 blogs, teaches an Italian course on-line"-[2]--Good grief, how does one top THAT eclectic set of experiences!).

As interesting as they were, however, in the end it was not the authors' mini-bios and responses to the questions but their referenced writings that either maintained or completely squelched my initial interest. Interviews show personality, method, process, and motive. But if the writings themselves disappoint, or the words and/or images fail to resonate, the presentation and packaging, to me, are irrelevant.

Whohub, the Who's Who of webdom. Whohubbing with other Whohubbers in NetHubburbia.

Connection, connection, ...connection. (Or not. All depends on what you want out of the experience. If you've written a book and need to market it, being listed in the Whohub directory might gain additional Internet exposure. It could also put you in touch with other writers who share the same habits, experience, or personal and professional dilemmas, struggle with the same questions, enjoy the same pleasures, admire the same writers, etc. What the creators of Whohub have recognized is that people generally like talking about what they do and what they love. So they've produced a public forum where anyone can tell everyone who cares to listen: "Hey, LOOK at me, look at who I am, what I do/create/write/produce/sell".

The Whohub interviews show you the "who". You have to follow their links and search a bit further for the "what"--their product. So there's something for everyone here: 10,000+ examples of the creative process in motion--first-hand reports detailing origins, influences, difficulties, successes, motive, process and outcome. A treasure trove of material for an inkling as to, for example, how writers write, or painters paint, or teachers teach, or marketers strategize; the thinking that goes behind their choices, the obstacles encountered, the rewards reaped, etc.

Who doesn't like talking about themselves?! Give someone an opportunity and off they go! Whohub has cleverly tapped into that desire by offering a public forum for people to say who they are and what they do and invite everyone to take a look. Their stated goal is to create a social network. One of the interviewees, in discussing the potential of social networks for marketing on line, mentions the advantage of creating backlinks from as many social networks as possible, to one's own site.[3] And while Whohub enables interviewees to connect with one another and encourages their self-promotion, its own site also gets traffic sent to it every time an interviewee alerts anyone to "Go look at myinterview on Whohub!", in turn building Whohub's net presence. What does Whohub do with all the data collected from these thousands and thousands of Whohubbers? (It mentions Datacenters located in Chicago and in Maidenhead, Berkshire, UK.)

Unlike some social networks, you don't actually have to become a member to view the entries on Whohub. And if you're unemployed and looking for work, it's another venue to consider announcing your availability--for example, tweaking the questions and answers presented in such a way as to become your online resume for a particular position (in the event a hirer happens to be looking in). .

The downside is that the site could eventually become so Who-heavy that the urge to be listed as a Who's Who in Cyberland might seem less important than actually getting back to doing what it is you love to do. (The jury's still out, it seems to me, as to whether posting a personal self-interview will bring the type of connections or results one desires.)

Now, although the responses to some of the questions were interesting, few compelled me to actively follow all the links to their respective writings/blogs/web pages, etc., many of which turned out to be unimpressive, rather pedestrian word churnings (this was in the Writing category), or the interviewees themselves were downright off-putting (e.g., an unabashed, self-professed narcissist who plainly states he doesn't care about you, the reader of his Interview, or what you think, reminding you it's really all about HIM). And one interviewee, I noted, took as many as 35 paragraphs to answer a single question, confirming my observation that people really, REALLY like an opportunity to express their opinion about something!

That is not to say there weren't some others whose writings (or links) led me to fascinating places with even more interesting discoveries--they did, and in fact, I plan to revisit--but it occurred to me that this whole exercise (in showcasing people's little histories of themselves, what they think, how they work, who they feel they are) may be just another example of rampant (or inadvertent) ME-ism.

Not that self-promotion is a bad thing. It isn't. It's what some people are promoting that makes me pause. Generally, I suppose, one would go to the category that fits one's profile (although some overlapping is unavoidable here). In my case, I went to "Writing". Oddly (or perhaps not), I sometimes found information or suggestions of more compelling interest in a category I normally wouldn't frequent: for example, Programming (of which I know nothing--but techies advising you on how to protect your computer from viruses provided me a variety of solutions I hadn't before considered. So in that sense, these Interviews can be extremely helpful.)

Okay, so that's my General Impression of Whohub after a cursory glance and a bit of trekking among the postings. But as a programmer from India remarked "Think before you dive in sea, it is not swimming pool."[4].

Also of note: When you try to post a message to any of the interviewees without joining and getting an account set up--a little box pops up with the message: You cannot send a message beacuse you are not a registered user or you are not logged in."

And so, what to think about Whohub? Again, guess it depends on what you want from it. Social connection, self-promotion, marketing potential--all possible. Then again, viewers may drop by, read the interviews, maybe even check out the referenced sites or blogs, and then move on, never making contact. The Whohubber would never know what such viewers thought of him/her or the interview. But it will be there for all to see (at least until the site expires or the domain is bought out by someone else, meaning their name is there forever, so to speak, for anyone to find. All they have to do is google them. Neat, eh?

The Geese are back!!!!!!!!!

the time needed for writing, as he said, the stories he has yet to tell and ideas to explore.
"Le Peuple Migrateur"[1]If I remember correctly from last year, the returning geese came flying past my house between 6:30 and 7:15 in the mornings, the largest number of them. A sky full of undulating, fluttering V's--barking a song one never, ever, tires of.

They're back!!!!!!! :)

Noted Recently

"Patient, time consuming, mudraking investigative journalism is not a commodity like any other. It is not a beer, or a car, or even a collateralised debt obligation. It is an irreducible public good. Without it, the powers get away with whatever they want." [Ian Dunt's article Friday re: the death of newspapers, 3/27/2009]

Jain PharmaBioTech, in 2007: "In eight years, the world market for antiviral drugs, excluding vaccines, will be approximately $60 billion." [1].

Biolex: "Hepatitis C is a $5 billion market." [Independent market research predicts that total interferon sales for the treatment of hepatitis C will exceed $5 billion by 2014. [2]

"Codex Alimentarius has brought back 7 of the 9 forbidden persistant organic pollutants banned by 176 countries." [Dr. Rima Laibow in video re: Nutricide].

"The bourgeois women are stupid and insignificant, and the nouveaux riche are boring, but the paintings I do of them are masterpieces." [plaque seen 2 weeks ago at Montreal Museum of Fine Arts quoting artist Kees van Dongen]

"I am a vulgar man. But my music, I assure you, is not." [Mozart, as played by Tom Hulce, in the film, Amadeus].

"Be like a postage stamp. Stick to it until you get there." -- Harvey Mackay

"Il n'est jamais trop tard pour apprendre!" [my French teacher, last week, in her kitchen].

Love of Words: Guilty!

[Photo by awyn]

Continuing the theme of my last post--the difficulty of translating poetry--here's an original poem written in words no longer commonly used, and a playful attempt to "translate" it. (I get to say it's a definitive translation 'cuz I'm both the author and the translator.)

I'm conducting this little exercise because I love working with words--and because it gives me new insights, both into poetry and into word meanings. I must include a disclaimer, however, that this in no way pretends to be good poetry. It does, however, communicate certain personal reflections gleaned from several mental journeys, walking amongst words stuffed in my head, lining my pocket, floating in the air--itching to just jump out, joggle the pencil perched in my ear, crying "Pick me! Say me! Let us out!"


Walking with Words

Vicambulating through life
squiriferously, not like a foppotee,
I am a sparsile in a universe of vacivity.

Despite my pigritude, I emerge from my latibule.
Ever the inveteratist lover of serantique utterances,
I adimpleate on locupletative pleasantries.
Neither graviloquence, nor kexy tortiloquy this.
Historiasters will tudiculate me. I obstrigillate
their moriscant, cynicocratical obaceration to pessundate my blateration.

Hymnicides prevail:
theirs, mine.
But not our sodalitiousocity.


Translation:

Strolling through life
graciously, not as a simpleton,
I am unknown in a universe of emptiness.

Despite my languidness, I've come out of my shell,
championing forgotten words.
I replenish myself with these enriching pleasantries.
Neither serious talk, nor stuffy elusiveness, this.

I shall resist the squawking word pickers!
Their caustic pricking, intended to silence me,
to obliterate my humble verse, will fail.

Words can be killed by tweaking, twisting, changing.
We are word people joined at the hip
watching the massacre,
or evolving, magnificent creations
that emerge.

So delicious!!

--Annie Wyndham

Okay, calling my blaterations "hymns" may be going a bit far but it's not meant in the churchy sense. More like a general song of ... joy. Or if not joy exactly, then appreciation. (For words, that they just are.)

Notice I added words that were not in the original. Translators sometimes do this for clarification, although one must be careful not to overdue it. (As for reciting this poem out loud, forget it. I found I could barely READ it without cracking up laughing (or cursing, stumbling over the words. The word "torture" comes to mind, ha ha) .

Glossary of Word Meanings for words used in the "poem":

vicambulate = to walk about in the streets.
squiriferous = having the character or qualities of a gentleman.
foppotee = a simple-minded person.
sparsile = a star, not included in any constellation.
vacivity = emptiness.
pigritude = laziness.
latibule = hiding place.
inveteratist = one who resists reform, one who holds to tradition.
austerulous = slightly brutal.
serantique = very old or ancient.
adimpleate = to fill up.
locupletative = tending to enrich.
graviloquence = grave speech.
kexy = brittle,withered.
tortiloquy = dishonest or immoral speech.
historiaster = a contemptible historian.
tudiculate = to bruise or pound.
obstrigillate = to oppose, resist.
moriscant = producing the sensation of repeated biting or pricking.
Cynicocratical = pertaining to rule by cynics.
obaceration = the act of stopping one's mouth.
pessundate = to cast down or destroy.
blateration = (n.) act of blabbering, chattering.
hymnicide = killing of hymns through alterations.
sodalitious = belonging to society or fellowship. [Note: This is an adjective, but I made a noun out of it. Writers are allowed to make up new words.]

If you're wondering where I got these wonderful old words, go to Save the Words, where you can "adopt" a word, to ensure it does not remain an orphan and gets a new life.

And for more word galleries, check out Victorian Humor: Modern Meaning to Old Words. I especially liked the one for housewifery.


Synchronicity: Found a poem by William and asked to put it on my website/ looked at William's website / Found a link to Silliman's Blog/ read Silliman's blog this morning / found a link to Save the Words/ it's the words' fault/ They simply can't contain themselves/no matter what/ Never have/ What is one to do?/.

Translating Basho

Thanks to Stephen Kohl of the Department of East Asian Languages and Literatures at the University of Oregon for putting online five different English translations (as well as the original, in Japanese) of Basho’s travel journal in 1689: The Narrow Road to the Deep North.

Here are five different translations of his haiku poem, "Monokaite" (Farewell, my old fan), in the chapter entitled Station 39: Maruoka:

Farewell, my old fan.
Having scribbled on it,
What could I do but tear it
At the end of summer? (Translator: Yuasa) [1]

I'll scribble something on it
And tear up my faithful summer fan:
Just a farewell sonnet! (Translator: Britton) [2]

What was composed
on the fan wrenched apart
subsides together. (Translator: Corman) [3]

Hard to say good-bye
To tear apart the old fan
Covered with scribbles. (Translator: McCullough) [4]

Scribbled all over,
The summer fan might be rejected now,
But for its memories. (Translator: Miner) [5]

Now, the word "scribble" and and the word "compose" conjure up entirely different images for me. I found that each translation elicited a completely different reaction.

While the chapter''s Discussion section enabled me to understand the poem a little better, it made my choice of which translated version to choose to follow infinitely more difficult. (And the words "some have suggested", "other documents suggest", and "what seems most likely is .." tells me maybe nobody really knows for sure what actually took place and they are making educated guesses.)

Where the translations differ is in what each chooses to emphasize. What was it about each version that caught my interest more? Was it (1) the fan as a cherished object? (2) the significance of the scribbling on the fan? (3) the reason for discarding the fan? or (4) the emotion(s) connected with the event?

There are those who agonize (or delight) in analyzing and rating which translation of a particular work is the "more definitive". Assuming someone has the inclination (and time!) to plow through all existing translations of a work and meticulously compare them, I'd be curious to know what the criteria for selection/rejection were. But too much explanation in translating can be disastrous, for while it would probably be instructive, I could also foresee it's overwhelming me with even more threads to unravel, more sources to read, more historical and cultural trails to investigate, taking me away from the pleasure of sitting down and just reading any version. (Here, for example, are NINE different translations of the opening paragraph of this book, and here are THIRTY-ONE different translations of Basho's "Frog Haiku". Which version would you pick--and why?)

Even if one were able to read and fully understand both languages—the original and its translation--why does the translated text sometimes resonate more deeply with some of us than the original? (And by extension, X's translation of Basho more so than Y's?) Is it that the words seem richer or more expressive (or in some cases, less superfluous) that makes it more meaningful? Do we see the meaning of the words more clearly in one version than in another (regardless of what Basho may or may not have intended in the original poem)?

What fascinates me here though, is the process that seems to be unfolding when one act of creativity (the original poem) reappears, in a somewhat altered fashion, as another act of creativity, in another language). I’m phrasing this badly. But translations are not merely creative interpretations whereby one’s "song" is sung by someone else in a different language . Something else is taking place.

Words in the process of translation become two voices—that of the poet and that of the translator. The work that results is a combination of the joined voices of the two, but there's a third voice, that of Poetry itself. ( I remember reading somewhere once that Petrarch considered that translation of a poem is to the original poem as a son is to his father, i.e., they share the same blood but each has his own distinct soul. Poetry, like blood in one's veins, flows like a creative force connecting the poet, the translator, and the reader, as it pulsates, spreads, changes and renews itself. Perhaps it's not so much a "voice" as it is an invitation to participate in its unfolding. I sense this happening; I only wish my clumsy attempt at explanation weren't so ... clumsy.

Can it be that the meaning of a poem doesn't actually come from the poet but from the words themselves? Poetry has many meanings, and translating/rearranging/reworking words of a poem in order to share them with a wider group of readers is kind of like poetry spreading itself. The translator, besides facilitating that flow, also recreates new meanings.

I came to the surprising realization that it is not Basho’s poems per se, as wonderful as they are—nor even the visual delight of viewing the gallery of images evoked by the several translations--that intrigued me so much as the unintended observation of what seems to me to be the evolution of that third element, brought forth in the creative process generally, and its extraordinary manifestation not only in words, but in art and music as well.

Kenneth Rexroth said that many of Basho's haiku "are as puzzling to Japanese as they are to Western scholars," that "they"resemble Zen mondos; but lurking behind their mystery is not the ultimate empirical religious experience of Zenism but Basho's own very odd and very refined personality. The translator of Basho sets himself the task of solving a whole set of telescoping conundrums, like Chinese boxes, in intercultural transmission." He also notes that, "the prosody of haiku is totally unknown to almost all haiku devotees in the West and bears exhaustive study, especially by those amateurs who think all you have to do is string together an imagist whimsy in seventeen syllables." [6].

I wish I were more familiar with the Japanese language and culture. Despite the many ways of singing Basho, I think his original voice still comes through sometimes, loud and clear.

Translations referenced:
From The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches, trans. Nobuyuki Yuasa, Penguin Books, 1966.
From The Narrow Road to the Interior, in Classical Japanese Prose: An Anthology, trans. Helen Craig McCullough, 1990.
From Back Roads to Far Towns, trans. Cid Corman and Kamaike Susume, Grossman Publishers, 1968.
From Haiku Journey: Basho's Narrow Road to a Far Province, trans. Dorothy Britton, Kodansha International, 1974.
From The Narrow Road Through the Provinces, in Japanese Poetic Diaries, trans. Earl Miner, University of California, 1969.

Other translations:
The Narrow Road to the Deep North, trans. Tim Chilcott (2004) online here. (Japanese text alongside English translation).

Narrow Road to the Interior and Other Writings. trans. Sam Hamill. Boston: Shambhala, 2000.
The Narrow Road to Oku. trans. Donald Keene, Tokyo: Kodansha International, 1997.
Bashô’s Narrow Road, trans. Hiroaki Sato, 1996.

Apocalyptic Haiku Dream

Overweight, her cupboards bare
Mother Earth implodes.
News at eleven.

-- Annie Wyndham

Don't Erase Us

Fifty years today.

Nous sommes avec toi, Tibet.

Chinese Government: Shut Up or Else

Late in the evening of December 8, 2008, two days before the 60th anniversary of the UN General Assembly's adoption of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, Liu Xiaobo was taken away from his home by police. Another dissident and scholar, Zhang Zuhua, was also taken away by police at that time. According to Zhang, the two were detained on suspicion of gathering signatures to a charter appealing for greater respect of human rights in China. [1]

A literary critic and former professor of literature, Liu Xiaobo has been held in incommunicado detention since December 8, 2008. Human Rights Watch has pointed out that the detention of Liu Xiaobo is arbitrary and violates the minimum procedural guarantees specified under Chinese law. Over 30 signatories of Charter 08 have been questioned, summoned by the police, or put under surveillance since Liu's arrest. [2]

Liu Xiaobo has been arrested repeatedly since he spent 20 months in detention after the 1989 protests. He was jailed for three years in the 1990s but remains among the most outspoken and irrepressible critics of the system. [3]

Write but
don't rock the boat
Don't CRITICIZE!
or
else

Fear of writers. Fear of criticism.
Fear of the truth.
You can wash away the blood from Tiananmin Square--
but not words.
You can't kill their words.
There is no net big enough
to catch all the words.

I don’t ever remember you
tapping your foot
in time to music.

Not even
once.

I Didn't Know ...

Recently learned that:

Chocolate is toxic to dogs -- it can kill them.

High school students in Finland must have studied FOUR languages before graduating.

More than 90% of the soy, and most of the corn, canola, papaya, white rice and cotton crops in the U.S. have been genetically manipulated, with government approval.

another war casualty

Spc. Simone Robinson, age 21. Died Sunday at Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio, Texas of severe burn injuries sustained in Kabul, Afghanistan when attacked by a suicide bomber while providing security for a fuel truck outside the base. It was her first time in a war zone. She had only been there a few weeks. She leaves behind a two-year old daughter.[1]

Why (Some) People HATE Poetry

Today's blog is a text collage comprised of random statements found on the Internet about HATING poetry.

Teachers at a poetry forum group discussing why they or their students hate poetry:

JW:
I once overheard a teacher saying to his class, "I don't like this either, but we have to do it so let's just get through it as quickly as possible, okay?" (It was Chaucer, btw.) Why do you think this resistance exists and what can we do to overcome the attitude?"

J:
AAACCCK. How can you not love Chaucer!! … I think the key is to ignore the format as much as possible when you're dealing with poetry-resistant kids and just focus on the content.

L.A.:
Get your rotten tomatoes ready: I'm one of those heretical teachers who hates poetry. Wait! Wait! I don't hate it as a genre. I hate it as an excuse for somebody to put smarmy nonsense down on a page. How many times when we ask students to write poetry do we get "I'm going to kill myself because he doesn't love me" drivel?

Honestly, besides the smarmy nature of teenage poetry, I think what kills my enjoyment of poetry is having to break it down into dactyls and hexameters and troches and objective correlatives. Why can't we appreciate poetry for what the poet says and not for how he or she says it? It's ok to point out the poet's brilliance in being able to write something great according to a preset formula, such as a sonnet. But is all the stuff I mentioned above necessary for high school students to learn? Do we turn them off by making poetry reading a chore instead something pleasurable?

That's sure what happened to me. Here's some smarm for you:

A bird came down the walk
He did not know I saw
He bit an angle worm in half
and ate the fellow raw.

By Emily Dickinson for goodness sake!

By the way, I love Chaucer and Shakespeare. For some reason, they don't count as poetry to me.

A-L:
Kids don't like poetry because teachers don't teach them that the entire line has to be digested to get the point. All of them read the words on the line as they see it...they don't get that sometimes you have to actually read until you get to a period or a semicolon to get the whole idea. I wouldn't like it either in fragmented bits.

L.A:
Set it to music, and kids like poetry. That's all songs are...get on their level, and how can they NOT like Beowulf, Chaucer, and Shakespeare?

M.:
Wasting a class' time just analyzing the rhyme scheme and meter to the point that they're nodding off and wishing they were having root canal work instead of sitting in your class is very, very sad. It would be the same thing if I assigned "King Lear" and said cite every example of iambic pentameter in the play - there are 182 and you have to find them all!!! AACCCCKKKK!

I'm NOT saying the mechanics aren't important. I am saying that most kids are not going to get hooked on poetry if that is the only approach the teacher uses to teach poetry.

J.W.:
Poetry is meant to be heard. It's great to know the mechanics eventually, but it is the words, the meaning they convey, which are of ultimate importance. Read aloud. This is my best advice. The hunger for language is real; the "fear" of poetry quelled for many when the inhibitions are quieted.

Kw.:
Students don't understand that poetry MUST be read differently than prose, they find poetry difficult to comprehend. In addition, poetry has no set form and can be written in so many different ways. It is much more "open" than prose; therefore, many students have a problem with poetry due to it being so "unstructured" in many ways. I think many students have this mentality: "I don't understand it; therefore, I hate it"

Kr.:
I am a student from the UK studying English Language and Literature. My mother is a high-school English teacher and so I was raised in a fairly literary environment. I can't get enough of novels, short stories, essays; I love reading prose... but I f**king HATE poetry!

I hate its artificiality. I hate the fact that it DEMANDS one's analytical attention and that there is no way of gleaning pleasure from it without picking it apart like some smug cryptic crossword clue. And more than anything I hate the fact that, for others, poetry seems to speak directly to their souls, setting hearts and minds on fire, while it leaves me sitting here, uninspired, empty and alienated. It tortured me because I really do WANT to feel what you feel when you read poetry, but I can't. I think I'm incapable of it. If a person can be tone-deaf, do you think it's possible to be "poetry-blind"?

Kw.:
Try to open your mind and realize that NO ONE "gets" all poetry. Not all poetry must be picked apart and analyzed, either, believe it or not. Some poems are meant to be enjoyed for what is says literally; for example, William Carlos Williams wrote a poem about taking his wife's plum from the refrigerator and eating it. She had to find out it was gone instead of him telling her about it before he found it. It is a very simple poem about nothing more than the narrator offering his apologies for taking his wife's plum out of the refrigerator and eating it without telling her first or asking her if this was "ok."

[Apparently some students still have problems with even this "simple" poem: Click here.]

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

From a California girl working full time while attending the University of Iowa:

I Hate Poetry. Here’s why:

1. I hate that with poetry, we are expected to read into it all.

2. With poetry, you’re given basically nothing, and you’re expected to identify facts that you would have absolutely no way of knowing. If you really want me to understand, graph it for me. Or use clear language. But the point isn’t for me to understand; the point is for you to learn something about yourself, or for you to find a way to express something for yourself. Whenever you write a poem, you’re writing it for you.

3. I can understand how dissecting poetry can help us create symbolism, and watch for subtleties in writing. I can also see how poetry can sometimes be fun. I like some poetry, when I make it mean something new to me instead of trying to guess why the author wrote it. I do also enjoy the challenge of creating poems with particular rhythms. I like funny poetry. I think that some poems are kind of like a collage of senses; they can combine smells and imagery and those sorts of things, and that’s kind of interesting and even occasionally powerful.

4. Generally, though, I think poetry tends to be a big game of “Guess what I’m thinking!”

(She goes on to note that "a Google search of “I hate poetry” returned 7,320 results. “I love poetry” returned 9,190 results. "Why I hate poetry" returns 200 results and "why I love poetry" returns 2,130.) [1]

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Blogger Paul Dallgas-Frey asks, "How do you become a poet, if not by writing poems, even if they are bad ones? An architect is still an architect, even if he is a bad one." But: "He does have a license. Maybe that's what I need," Paul says. "A License to Practice Poetry, a CPP (Certified Poet Practitioner). "

Here's Paul's poem about why he hates poetry:

I Hate Poetry
by Paul Dallgas-Frey

When I think of poetry,
I think of maidens
in gossamer gowns,
skipping through meadows
with baskets full of flowers.

Can you imagine a poet
going out for a beer with the guys
after a hard day
of writing poems?

I can’t.
Poetry is for wimps.
It’s all about doilies
and butterfly wings,
or stuff so personal
only the writer
could possibly know
what it’s about,
which really
makes me crazy.

And half the time
it doesn’t even rhyme anyway.

~~~~~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~~ --

Random Comments from here and there:

--"Not to intentionally bash an entire medium of art, but I find poetry obnoxious and ridiculously pretentious."

--"I realize some people think it beautiful and moving; some find it to be a great release for stress and tension, etc. The symbols, the imagery, blah blah blah. I think if people are going to be writers, I want to read something with a bit more substance to it."

--"Good poetry is demanding of the reader - much of what is communicated occurs in what is not said, left out, or alluded to through allegory and metaphor. For the lazy reader who wants to be more passively entertained, good poetry is often too demanding."

--"The ratio of bad poetry to good poetry is about 3 billion to one, if you count lovesick things scribbled by adolescents during Calculus class. Lit classes tend to suck the joy out of experiencing poetry by sneering at 18-year-olds who aren't already steeped in the historical and social context that produced Leaves of Grass and The Wasteland and Prufrock. Some poetry is intensely personal; bad personal poetry tends to come off as either self-pitying wankery or self-aggrandizing wankery. And like it or not, Shakespeare IS very, very difficult for most people with an "average" IQ and education to understand. The language is archaic and becoming more so."

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And, finally, from a published poet:

I Hate Poetry
by Adrian Potter

I hate poetry.
It doesn’t pioneer unexplored territory
or stand upon dangerous ground.
I hate poetry
because it’s crafted with shoddy quality,
like a t-shirt sold at a swap meet
that falls apart after only a second or third wearing.
I hate poetry.
It’s all foreplay, no passion.
It speaks of romance without defining anything new,
ignoring how the mention of sex
clings like sweet mango to the roof of your mouth,
how a kiss can push whiskey breath
onto unsuspecting lips,
how regret glistens like sweat beads
on a sleeping lover’s body.
I hate poetry.
It believes it can crawl
through the broken glass of the past
without bleeding and still somehow
manufacture timeless literature.
Remember: advice is just advice,
but never let words stand in the way of writing.
Instead, twist the words – as if they are nipples
and your ideas are the index and thumb,
applying torque until the words
become what you desire,
or what you fear,
or both.
Show me what I do not know,
sins and shortcomings,
how to cheat to survive,
why hope hovers in the chest of men
despite the bell-shaped curve of misfortune
that governs our existence.
Show me these things instead.
Show me these things so I can love poetry again. [1]

________________________________________________

So there you have it. A few random examples of why some people HATE poetry.

I grew up in a small town in the mountains where the only music carried by the few radio stations we could receive was country, pop or polkas. I adopted, like a sponge, the prevailing attitude that classical music was "longhair stuff" and opera the tedious, boring dronings of fat, screeching women singing in languages I couldn't understand. It took the dogged persistence of a fellow student to trick me into actually listening to certain arias, and only after multiple listenings (first in Russian--that was how he tricked me; then in Italian) did I finally come to understand and appreciate what I was hearing.

Perhaps poetry is that way for some people. It's not so much that they seek to consciously resist it--it may simply be that it just doesn't seem all that relevant to them--yet.

Relevancy and relation--Let's face it, if you can't relate to a thing, it's not going to be high on the list of things you think about, especially seek out or pay too much attention to. Maybe it's like music. They say about jazz that you either love it or hate it. But nothing is all black and white and we don't really live in an Either/Or universe. There're so many big gray areas. (I like SOME jazz, for instance. But not all, and I don't collect it, the way I collect certain books or poems.)

That's neither here nor there, though. What was the purpose of this lengthy word-collage? Beats me, ha ha. Seriously, it wasn't just mere curiosity on my part. I guess I wanted to understand the urge behind the desire to say something relevant creatively with words (as in a poem)--to resonate with at least one reader poetically the way certain poems have resonated with me. One of the poetry haters said poets are just writing for themselves but I disagree. Sure, poets write to express themselves and maybe, like some writers, they simply can't NOT write. But itching inner compulsion and/or proliferation alone do not a poet make.

But how come so many people find even the IDEA of poetry so worthy of disdain? Some people become attuned to poetry--and some don't. (I hate that word, "attuned". As if we've got some kind of inner antenna that goes "ka-ZAP-Ching!" when we connect to something.) The word "choice" comes to mind. You pretty much choose which TV channel to watch; it's a process of selection. That someone chooses to tune out Poetry is a choice. We should respect that. How extraordinarily fortunate, though, that for many it is indeed relevant... and positively loved. Some of the loudest critics of poetry I sometimes think are actually not people who "hate" poetry so much as poets themselves who spend more energy ranting about other poets' words or methods or perceived affiliation or affronts than they do in writing poetry themselves.

Really though, words matter. (Thank you Joseph Brodsky, for drumming that into my head!) Especially if you're a writer. The words you choose, the ones you omit. It is particularly disheartening when what one considers one's "best" poems are misunderstood, rejected, or blatantly ignored. (And like with the hair, you can have a really "bad poem day" I know you know what I mean here.)

For me personally, the magic, the insight, the passon and the beauty of what poetry's supposed to be about I think sometimes gets forgotten in the endless petty intellectual squabbles; blah-blah-blahing about the process, method, or performance; the sheer amount of attention devoted to contests and prizes; and the gnawing quest for feedback giving validaton. These all help us become more aware, and possibly better poets. But in the end, it's the words, man. It's the WORDS.

And the perplexing reality is ... that some people simply just hate the words.