10 December 10 | Chad W. Post | Comments

The latest addition to our Reviews Section is a piece by BTBA judge Erica Mena on fellow BTBA judge Idra Novey’s translation from the Portuguese of Manoel de Barros’s Birds for a Demolition, which came out from Carnegie Mellon University Press earlier this year.

Erica Mena is a poet, a translator, and visible. She joined the BTBA poetry committee this year, and has reviewed for us in the past. She’s also the host of the “Reading the World Podcast series”: http://www.rochester.edu/College/translation/threepercent/?s=tag&t=reading-the-world-podcast which is available by clicking there, or at the side, or on the iTunes.

I don’t know much about Manoel de Barros, but Idra Novey is phenomenal, and if she translated something, I’m sure it’s good. Idra is the director of the Literary Translation at Columbia program. (Quick observation: so they’re using the “at” in the acronym? Is that because LTAC is that much easier to pronounce than LTC? Must be another department with that same LTC designation . . . The Long Term Care program?) She’s also a poet, a translator, and an overall awesome spokeswoman for literature in translation.

And as mentioned above, she’s also a member of the BTBA poetry panel. And just to make sure no one thinks the fix is in, to avoid potential conflicts, Birds for a Demolition won’t be considered for this year’s award.

But that doesn’t stop us from reviewing it . . .

Birds for a Demolition is a deceptively slight book of deceptively simple poems. Poems that at first glance seem embedded in the natural world, in the landscape of Brazil, in the language of the wetlands. But this is in fact an expansive collection, spanning more than forty years of Manoel de Barros’s illustrious career and a breadth of styles and subjects. Idra Novey’s first triumph in this book is the selection of these poems, which make clear the development of the poets trajectory, while elucidating de Barros’s unwavering interest in language and the poetic self. Her second is her successful performance, as she put it in an interview with Subtropics, of de Barros’s voice in English.

These sparse poems are poems of “re” and poems of “un.” Poems that reinvent the natural world, that undo the poetic self, that redraw the relationship between language and nature and undermine it. “Before anything else a poem is an un-utensil.” (“from Thrush in Darkness III”).

Click here to read the full piece.

10 December 10 | Chad W. Post | Comments [1]

Birds for a Demolition is a deceptively slight book of deceptively simple poems. Poems that at first glance seem embedded in the natural world, in the landscape of Brazil, in the language of the wetlands. But this is in fact an expansive collection, spanning more than forty years of Manoel de Barros’s illustrious career and a breadth of styles and subjects. Idra Novey’s first triumph in this book is the selection of these poems, which make clear the development of the poets trajectory, while elucidating de Barros’s unwavering interest in language and the poetic self. Her second is her successful performance, as she put it in an interview with Subtropics, of de Barros’s voice in English.

These sparse poems are poems of “re” and poems of “un.” Poems that reinvent the natural world, that undo the poetic self, that redraw the relationship between language and nature and undermine it. “Before anything else a poem is an un-utensil.” (“from Thrush in Darkness III”). Or take sections II and III of “An Education on Invention”:

II

To uninvent objects.
The comb, for example.
To give the comb the abilities of not combing.
Until it is left with the inclination to be a begonia.
Or a gravanha.

To use some words until they belong to no language.

III

To repeat and repeat—until altered.
To repeat is a gift for flare.

There is an echo of Auden’s aphoristic “poetry makes nothing happen” in all this repeating to undo. And it is the kind of nothing that is replete with intent. It is the poetic nothing that requires sharp precision in language to inscribe. It is seeing anew the everyday; the ability to alchemize language into thing and thing into nothing.

14.

What I don’t know how to construct I unbuild in phrases.

To make nothing appear.

(What it demonstrates is that man is a dark well.
From here, above, one can’t see that nothing.
But when you arrive at the bottom of the well, there it is.)

To lose that nothing is an impoverishment.

(“Desiring to Be”)

The empty space that is at the heart of this book reflects in part the emptiness of the Brazilian countryside, deserted as millions move to cities chasing a dream of a better life. There is melancholy rooted in this unbuilding, in the movement of nature over the constructions of man, but there is beauty and silence also in the nothing.

Grounds besieged by abandon, given over to poverty.
bq. Where men will have the strength of poverty.
bq. And the ruins will bear fruit.

(“Six or Thirteen Things I Learned About Myself”)

The fruit of the ruins for de Barros seems to be the poetry, though that too is fraught with denial, undoing, and nothingness. Being a poet, de Barros is justly concerned with what poetry is, how language works (or doesn’t), and what that means for the poet. The aphorisms Novey creates in his voice are eminently quotable:

A poet is a creature who licks words and gets delirious.

(“Six or Thirteen Things I Learned About Myself”)

Poetry is to flap without wings.

(“An Education on Invention”)

*

There are many serious ways to say nothing, but only poetry is true.

(“The Book about Nothing”)

But the slightly self-deprecating tone, the derisive pithiness that underlies this navel-gazing concern gets a bit tiresome. “The artist is nature’s error.” de Barros says later in “The Book about Nothing.” The sense that poetry always falls short of the thing it wishes to be, that the language can never fully alchemize, the emphasis on lack which seems intended to soften the potential for ostentation with humor, only serves as an irritant.

Where the book is most powerful is where the power of language and the power of nature combine. In “from Song of Seeing” the subject of the poem, perhaps a stand-in for the poet, spends years living in nature like a bird until he gains the ability to observe “things the way birds observed them. / All the unnamed things.” The power to name, to create and transform the natural world, is celebrated. But that power transforms the poet, the namer as well.

And, if he wanted to end up a bee, it was only a matter
of opening the word bee
and stepping inside it.
As if it were the infancy of language.

These poems are tightly packed, sharp little lyrics cutting through the world. And it is a testament to Novey’s poetic sensibilities as a translator that they are so dense, and yet so light. That the voice is varied, yet consistent. That the poems invent in English without sounding stilted. She does this exquisitely in “Small World.”

Here, if the horizon reddens a little,
        the beetles think it’s a fire.
Where the river starts a fish,
                     river me a thing
River me a frog
River me a tree.

Novey brilliantly performs de Barros’ simultaneous un- and re-construction of himself and the natural world through language. Packed with luminous, inventive and often witty verse, A Demolition of Birds preserves the nothing at the core of poetry, nature and being.

6 April 10 | Chad W. Post | Comments

One of the complaints I get from time to time—about both Three Percent and Open Letter—is our lack of poetry coverage. This is primarily my fault, since I rarely ever read poetry. Probably some sort of reading deficiency, blindspot, or problem with my soul, but, well, there you have it. (It’s not as if this is my only flaw! Even my best-friend could provide a list as long as a summer day.)

To try and make up for this, Open Letter is launching a poetry series (one book a year, starting in February or thereabouts) and below you’ll find a poem that I came across in the new issue of Zoland Poetry. (BTW, the new issue isn’t actually featured on the website . . . yet. Whoops. There is a mention of the pub date—March 23rd—but that’s it. I can confirm that yes, this really does exist, and that it’s filled with good stuff.)

“Invented Memoir” by Manoel de Barros, translated from the Portuguese by Idra Novey

I leaned into the morning the way a bird leans and a vision appeared: the afternoon running behind a dog. I was fourteen. The vision must have come from my origins. I don’t remember ever seeing a dog outrun the afternoon. I made a note of it anyway. Such leaps of the imagination are what make our speech more beautiful. I made a note in a phrasebook. By this point, I was already saving visions like this one. I had another that month, but first I should tell you the circumstances. I transported parts of my childhood between the kitchen wall and the yard. I pretended to put a yoke on the frogs behind our kitchen. We understood each other well. I fixed things so the frog’s skin matched the color of the ground. It seemed right, since they were of the ground and grimy. One day I said to my mother: A frog is a piece of the ground that jumps. She said I was mixed up, that a frog isn’t a piece of the ground. Now that I’m older, I think of the prophet Jeremiah. He was so distraught at seeing his Zion destroyed and dragged through the fire that a vision came to him in his home: even the stones in the street were crying. Later, calmer, writing to a friend, he remembered the vision: even the stones in the street had cried. It was such a beautiful sentence because there was no reason in it. He said this.

....
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