Poetry International article, Audacious tongues

AUDACIOUS TONGUES: THE HEART OF TRANSLATION

Poetry is what gets lost in translation
—Robert Frost
As you die/ you meet the light/ of before creation
—Bert Schierbeek

“Sometimes poetry is literally a matter of life and death,” said Martin Mooij, founder and shy godfather of Poetry International in Rotterdam, The Netherlands. A central focus of the 27-year-old literary organization is to liberate poets incarcerated by oppressive governments due to his or her literary work. The annual Poetry International Award “to distinguish an imprisoned poet, was established in 1979 to commemorate the 10th anniversary of Poetry International,” said Mooij.

At the 1996 festival, exiled South African writer and political prisoner Breyten Breytenbach, who received the Poetry International Award in 1981, was also the recipient of this year’s translation Vertaalproject where world-class poets participating in the festival translate a selected poet during the annual two-week event. Breytenbach is the only poet to receive both honors.

 Like many of the poets chosen for the Poetry International Award, Breytenbach lives in exile, borderless, without a country, having only his mother tongue to sustain the roots of his art and culture. We began our translation workshop honoring those imprisoned poets—Breytenbach painting the name of the latest recipient of the 18th Poetry International Award, Iraqi poet, Adnam Abbas Salman al-Sayegh, on the Poetry Wall mural on the corner of Niewe Binnenweg and Gaffelstraat in Rotterdam. It is hoped he’ll be released from prison to collect his award.

Executive director Mooij explained, “The Poetry International Award began as a fluke. I'd published some Turkish children's books, and I mentioned the name of an imprisoned poet, Nevzat Çelik.” Mooij said he was merely wondering aloud what had happened to the Turkish poet. Surveying Kruisplein from the squat, modern post-war De Doelen building in Rotterdam, Mooij explained, “The editor promised to write to a government official, and in 1987. . . the poet was set free!”

Mooij continued, “We cooperate closely with PEN International, and the Index on Censorship.” Without the political pressure and media exposure wielded under the auspices of the Poetry International Award, the voices of world-class poets might not be with us today—

Poetry International journal, a spontaneous combustion of translation

14. June. The Monday evening Reading schedule included Roberto Juarroz, Anne Vetger, Gonzalo Mitlán, Leo Vroman… I missed Yehuda Amichai and Homero Aradjis, two poets I actually wanted to meet, but I wound up doing some spontaneous translations with two poets I met in the hospitality café. Sometimes you just have to go with the flow.

Since I wasn’t feeling up to snuff, I missed two events today, plus the beginning of the evening show. I’m not networking the way I should. I just don’t feel like chasing the stars for photos, to give them my poems, etc. it’s exhausting work, and I’m not up for it. (Not that I have anything to give—but poetry, in myriad tomgues, is the only true currency).

My poetry partner in crime, editor Herman Berlandt also never showed up for the evening event. So I was a little worried about him, but they assured me he was OK, and he was seen earlier today with a young man who must be Ton. 

A Dutch-Argentinian couple sitting at the table next to me and I spontaneously translated a Dutch poem someone left at the table. First he translated it into English and then Andrea helped with the Spanish, because his Spanish was about on par with mine. Still, it was fun to do. This is why I missed the Amichai and Aradjis reading. They won’t read again. I am bummed.  Somehow the process of translation helped to restore my nascent social skills. 

Roberto Juarroz’s work seems fine, but my mind took its own time shifting into Spanish. So I understood the words, but not the poetic sensibilities. I didn’t go to the Bal de Festival because I was feeling funky and that antisocial streak still prevails. Oh well. When it descends like a wet blanket, there’s not much I can do. Pre-party panic syndrome. Sign of a true introvert.

I met a woman from England who bought copy of Soviet Poetry Since Glasnost from me, a Helena Hinn. from England. I took down her address and she said she would send some poems nlater. It seems I am madly collecting poets addresses that the front and the back of my journal is beginning to read like a who’s who in poetry.

As it turns out, a poet I met, Victor Manuel Mendola not only knew John Oliver Simon in Mexico, but he has a copy of our chapbook, Falling to Sea Level. He asked if I was the woman of John. And I answered, no longer. We were not sure if we met at Elsa Crosses’ house in Mexico City. It certainly is possible. 

He’s done many translations of poets that I like including Valerio Magrelli, and Tomaž Reizwicž. I gave him one of our poetry tabloids on Saturday and he said that he’ll give me a book on Wednesday. Poetic reciprocity in action. God, how I love the insane babble of many audacious tongues.

(Revised for clarity—added some connective tissue, but mostly swapped paragraphs)

(PI archives.)

• Letter to Valerio Magrelli, Via Condotti, Roma