Category: poetry

poet and pretender

Last week, someone sent me a text that included this translated quotation from Pessoa:

El poeta es un fingidor.
Finge tan completamente
Que hasta finge que es dolor
El dolor que de veras siente.

No attribution was given to the translator, but it seems to be faithful enough to the original Portuguese that perhaps that isn’t necessary:

O poeta é um fingidor.
Finge tão completamente
Que chega a fingir que é dor
A dor que deveras sente.

Now, though, I’m wondering how on earth I’d say that in English.
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nine lives

A friend has told me that, before he started discussing poetry with me – by which he probably means before he started listening to me rant about it – he thought poetry was mostly about “kittens”. By which he definitely means hearts-and-flowers and Hallmark-style fluffy kittens.

There is far too much bad cat poetry out there. I don’t mean Roger McGough’s Bad, Bad Cats, which contains gems such as The Cats’ Protection League; I mean the self-indulgent, fluffy stuff that gets me ranting about poetry.
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new year, old writing

John Hayes’ 2010 horoscope for Gemini tells me it’s

an excellent time for writing, asserting your views and for catching up on your paperwork. However, if you identify too closely with your views, you may take a difference of opinion too personally and so there is the potential for disputes and disagreements

That’s a neat reminder about the difference between the writer/ narrator and what is written. And it’s not always just the reader who forgets this distinction. Paraphrasing Hayes: If you identify too closely with your writing, you may take criticism too personally.
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new year

Orion
greets the new year
with open arms

 
One thing I love about writing, is that it forces me to learn. I’m limited to my phone camera at the moment so was looking for a copyright-free photo to put alongside this piece, and I’ve ended up discovering lots of things I probably should have known about Orion, but didn’t.
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Boxing Day

on a foreign shore: icing-tipped waves
toss tinsel into the clear air. We play
at Wenceslas in the sand, taking it in turns
to be the page. We look for sea holly and sing
carols under the curious gaze
of a parrot in a palm tree.