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Hard-Wired
130 Poems, Jean Follain, chosen and translated by Christopher Middleton,
(176pp, £11.95, Anvil)
Before the Invention of Paradise, Ludwig Steinherr, translated by Richard Dove
(154p, Arc Visible Poets)
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I wonder yet again
what it is about some words on a page that have immediately an effect on the
metabolism (or how to name it?) of the reader. Words inanimate, the pulse
organic. Is it a legitimate critical assessment to say that one of these
books had this effect on me and the other didn't? I am saying it anyway.
So immediate and consistent was this effect on me of Jean Follain's poems, I
had to ask myself whether they were really his, or are they Christopher
Middleton's? Or put it this way, if I were French or a fluent French speaker,
would the effect have been of this same kind? The originals are not here, and
my hazy schoolboy French would anyway have been able to hear only something
of the music.
Jean Follain (1903-1971) was born in Normandy; from 1951 he was an Assize
Judge and he died in a street accident in Paris. The poems are almost all
short, from ten collections between 1933 and 1971. There is some consistency
in origination, as if considered thought, unexpected whimsy, observation (and
who can know which it is?) was almost always his way in, his opening lines
suggest it.
They brought the farmer's son back
The taxidermist sat/ face to face with his sparrows
He was born a child/ in wide open countryside
When evening shakes/ its mass of cloud
In an uncertain century/ close to an English fireplace
These are opening lines from 1931, 1947, 1953, 1967, 1971, the first and last
are the book's first and last, and although they seem to suggest fragments of
life story, personal and observed or reported, the drift (as it seems, drift,
or perhaps compulsion) of a whole poem usually gives the lie to it.
Death [1953]
From animal bones the factory
made
these buttons that closed
the blouse over the bust
of a dazzling worker girl
when at night she fell
one button came off
and the stream in a gutter
went and deposited it
in a private garden
where a plaster Pomona
laughing and naked
was crumbling away.
When transcribing this I typed 'the gutter' - the specific fell into place in my
own thought - whereas 'a' is less specific, more thrown away, any gutter
would take it; and an aspect of his poems may well be to do with their
appearing as stray thoughts, while yet only then and there would they have
been composed. Their effect, for me, is to take me aside, to whisper, to
say, 'A word in your ear,' then
it's a few lines and done, gone.
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It isn't fair to
contrast Ludwig Steinherr for not being Jean Follain, so I shall try to
present him in a similar way. The poems in 'Before the Invention of Paradise'
are from eight German collections between 1985 (when he was 23) and 2005. The
originals are here on facing pages. Here are five openings:
Suddenly/ sodden/ with tepid drops
In the
courtyard/ two fifteen year olds
Please take a look at/ this flintlock pistol
This privilege/ of being here
The white-tiled room/ is windowless
It seems less easy to date these (the book has eight sections of poems from
ten books), but they are chronologically selected. This book's poems, too,
are mostly short; here is a whole poem from near the middle:
Letter
This summer which
only consisted of your
absence -
I felt you everywhere
even in the fur
of a cat that had strayed far from home
even in the draught coming from
the metro shaft
All
those endearments,
embraces between us -
I'll never be able
to make you feel them.
In so far as I can measure the German but not translate it, this equates, and
although I can read the original superficially, I wonder how exactly it would
sound. My sense of the translations is of a poetry of letter-writing,
of everyday speech, of impressionist recall. Towards the end, the energy
toughens and has to be contained, just: das Leben ist eine (wow! I think, he's
on a roll), and I am brought down again by the translation, life is a, and perhaps there is
more energy in the German, which becomes in English (all lower case),
life is a
rotten suspension bridge
across which drunk
you must push a piano
while from the other side
a furious gorilla
is lumbering towards you
and so on, step by step, no oomph. Yet wild in intent (and in the German
so?). Or I'm the wrong reader. Maybe I am.
I've been wondering - or wondering yet again - what it is essentially poetry
is, and is for, that is not voiced in any other way. Because of the
impossibility of absolute translation, while yet how important it is that the
attempt is made, perhaps key questions are most begged by it. In a curious
way translation might take us closer to why poetry seems hard-wired in human
life. Tell me true, tell me!
© David
Hart 2010
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