translation – Page 4 – don't confuse the narrator

biscuits and other ambiguities

When I’ve quoted Sandburg – “poetry is the achievement of the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits” – in the past, I have always felt the biscuits were there to represent the everyday, functional side of life: I’ve always assumed he meant Rich Tea, not Hobnobs.

But apparently yesterday was National Biscuit Day, which set me thinking: as I am not really sure which nation was celebrating, I don’t know whether the biscuits in question are the ones you eat with morning coffee or with gravy. And even if it were definitely a British celebration, they might be cheesy biscuits rather than gingersnaps.

Now I am wondering whether Sandberg was thinking of American biscuits – the plain scones eaten with thick sausage gravy – with all the social and regional connotations that they bring to bear. Suddenly hyacinths have become the clear and unambiguous aspect of the quote: a natural Truth alongside the unnecessarily complex human view of things.
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lost in translation

Sadly, the utter magnificence and glory of this rhododendron has been lost in my attempt to translate it into a photograph.

I, too, am – or should be – lost in translation, as I have a deadline approaching at a worrying rate of knots.

it’s complicated

I’ve posted this poem before, but this time I have a photo to go with it.

Lacemaker

  You sit, bent over the pillow; 
beaded memories
 click back and forth. 

Deftly, you weave silk threads:
 over, under, twist and hitch; 
under, over, pin and twist. 

Beneath your fingers
 a brass forest grows
 shrouded in gossamer.

(In the photo, the forest is silver rather than brass, but I think it still illustrates the point.)
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poems, pictures, books, beasts & castles

It’s April 23rd and there are a number of things to celebrate, so, I’ve gathered together some bits and pieces from the blog archive. First of all, it’s World Book and Copyright Day.

So, a book-themed poem:

Underground literature

A spotless Stephen King
sits opposite Dostoyevsky
on the metro. The Russian
looks a little down-at-heel:
his jacket, once expensive leather,
is now worn and shabby. Sadly,
he is only a translation. Beside him,
a paternal-looking businessman
holds tight to Harry Potter, while,
further down the car, a little girl
in a blue frock, frets and scuffs
her round-toed sandals. Defiantly,
her bare arms clutch Lewis Carroll
to her undeveloped chest.

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