Adam is a mighty fine poet and translator . His translations of Grzegorz Wroblewski, A Marzipan Factory, were just published by Otoliths. He has the touch with Wroblewski's translations into English. I dig it. No doubt, if read, many more will dig it!!! Tender elliptical Kafkaesque dramatic situations spun oh so well!!! witty, charming, slender, funny, surrreal, awe-filled, animals, the quotidian reframed and reframed again and again, space age, earth age, ghosts, narrative threads, elliptical strip teasing (did i already say that), razor sharp observations of the natural human world, birds, old age, fucking, not fucking, haunting, hunting, beyond the barbarian/classical divide, ahead of the time cause it's bloody smack dab OF the time not 10, 20, 30 years behind like majority of poetry and art, and so on . . . .
Marjorie Perloff claims it is the best book of poetry she has read in years!!!!
And Grzegorz is also a painter/visual artist. Version 1, one of his paintings, is the cover!!!
Check it:
A Marzipan Factory
Adam has some of his own poems in Cleaves (among many other places):
Adam Zdrodowski CLEAVES
And check out this interview with Adam and some of his poetry for 3AM magazine:
Adam Zdrodowski interview
Adam Zdrodowski poetry
29 July 2010
28 July 2010
27 July 2010
refreshing report from Soundeye 2010
I have often had a discussion with non-poets and their feelings after attending an innovative event (reading or festival) and they reported a feeling of perplexity. Not because they didn't enjoy the work. Some hated poetry, or at least disliked it, but often really enjoyed the variety of work at an innovative poetry event. No . . . they were asked if they too were a poet and when the said "no, but I enjoy the work" the conversation ended and they felt outed.
It is a silly question but . . . . . . can non-poets attend innovative/experimental poetry events????
Some of these same folks have also mentioned the word "hobby." And I say no way. it is not a hobby. It is a whole way of life. POETRY is not a hobby damn it. Or maybe being a "language artist" is better than the word poet?
If poetry events become a closed club of self congratulation maybe it resembles a hobby.
or perhaps it is a religion.
We need more candour. We need more connections to the other arts. As quite a few folks have mentioned, innovative poetry could have a much larger audience. Say . . . the audience for innovative jazz, indie music, theatre, and so on.
And haven't some critiques been written about that whole dichotomy between art and entertainment!!!
While I may not agree with everything written about Soundeye (if I attended this year), it is a step in the right direction.
The Openned community in London gives me hope as well!!!
REPORT FROM SOUNDEYE
It is a silly question but . . . . . . can non-poets attend innovative/experimental poetry events????
Some of these same folks have also mentioned the word "hobby." And I say no way. it is not a hobby. It is a whole way of life. POETRY is not a hobby damn it. Or maybe being a "language artist" is better than the word poet?
If poetry events become a closed club of self congratulation maybe it resembles a hobby.
or perhaps it is a religion.
We need more candour. We need more connections to the other arts. As quite a few folks have mentioned, innovative poetry could have a much larger audience. Say . . . the audience for innovative jazz, indie music, theatre, and so on.
And haven't some critiques been written about that whole dichotomy between art and entertainment!!!
While I may not agree with everything written about Soundeye (if I attended this year), it is a step in the right direction.
The Openned community in London gives me hope as well!!!
REPORT FROM SOUNDEYE
26 July 2010
Barry Schwabsky
in response to a review of Tom Raworth in which the reviewer argues that so-called difficult poetry is anti-capitalist and difficult "modernist' poetry carries more political weight than the movement/mainstream poetry in the UK with its easily summarised themes and conversational speech and so on . . ..the old language school argument . . . and of course modernism consists of more than so called high modernism . . . i don't want to choose between difficult or accessible . . . . there are many kinds of interesting art . . . nice response from Barry
either "accessible" nor "difficult" is a quality with inherent aesthetic value--that is, to state what I hope is obvious, there are good and bad "accessible" works just as there are good and bad "difficult" works (though there might be pleasures that are specific to difficult works that are unobtainable through accessible ones and vice versa). So to speak of accessibility or difficulty as either in themselves laudable or not is really barking up the wrong tree, like having an argument about whether marble sculptures are better than steel, or sonatas in minor keys are better than those in major keys, or landscape paintings are better than still lifes. It's taking a descriptive quality that only takes on aesthetic significance within the total complex of a given work as if it had some absolute value in itself.
either "accessible" nor "difficult" is a quality with inherent aesthetic value--that is, to state what I hope is obvious, there are good and bad "accessible" works just as there are good and bad "difficult" works (though there might be pleasures that are specific to difficult works that are unobtainable through accessible ones and vice versa). So to speak of accessibility or difficulty as either in themselves laudable or not is really barking up the wrong tree, like having an argument about whether marble sculptures are better than steel, or sonatas in minor keys are better than those in major keys, or landscape paintings are better than still lifes. It's taking a descriptive quality that only takes on aesthetic significance within the total complex of a given work as if it had some absolute value in itself.
25 July 2010
Mugla
Mugla
(Turkish wedding)
born for the void
dry dolls fall
around me
there are ikons
there are ikons more
horrible than
angels mangled
in the trees
the sperm
scented
gardens with goat’s
cheese
the groom did the gorilla
the bride pined
with money
the upchoke of sea scents
the special chimneys
what passes
for my mind
ballistic reports
as you disappeared
everything is
not too ha ha
melancholy wakings now
attack the nipples
this milk turns to fire
the prophet comes
into a virtuous lady
my hymen
amen
(Turkish wedding)
born for the void
dry dolls fall
around me
there are ikons
there are ikons more
horrible than
angels mangled
in the trees
the sperm
scented
gardens with goat’s
cheese
the groom did the gorilla
the bride pined
with money
the upchoke of sea scents
the special chimneys
what passes
for my mind
ballistic reports
as you disappeared
everything is
not too ha ha
melancholy wakings now
attack the nipples
this milk turns to fire
the prophet comes
into a virtuous lady
my hymen
amen
24 July 2010
NO NAME
here comes the wind
the blinds clacking
like stuck penguins
I’m sleeping with
a flower vender
on a moped
with a bell from hell
let's part the hood
and ride
our Hegelian brides
with the wicked smiles of those who jerk
off and off
in solid white cloudy tissues
and the ashes of Irish mermaids, yep, them
i clog along
in deer hoofs
my thursdays
bleeding
into your weekends
silk hair expiring at
yr ankles with
a sea map between
cleavage
yr voice cracks
like a piano you keep
moving we’re long
gone
water boils in the clouds
of the sick
i run on beams
a baptismal dish
when i’m smiling
my jaw turns to stone
heft yr own hungry
ghosts
dawn’s kingdom
maketh me
beside the rancid
waters
swift with my
antlers
my tawny
bride
engorged
me
I danced myself
a tomb
a goat two goats
stood on the rocks
my hand raised
towards
THE DAWNS
the blinds clacking
like stuck penguins
I’m sleeping with
a flower vender
on a moped
with a bell from hell
let's part the hood
and ride
our Hegelian brides
with the wicked smiles of those who jerk
off and off
in solid white cloudy tissues
and the ashes of Irish mermaids, yep, them
i clog along
in deer hoofs
my thursdays
bleeding
into your weekends
silk hair expiring at
yr ankles with
a sea map between
cleavage
yr voice cracks
like a piano you keep
moving we’re long
gone
water boils in the clouds
of the sick
i run on beams
a baptismal dish
when i’m smiling
my jaw turns to stone
heft yr own hungry
ghosts
dawn’s kingdom
maketh me
beside the rancid
waters
swift with my
antlers
my tawny
bride
engorged
me
I danced myself
a tomb
a goat two goats
stood on the rocks
my hand raised
towards
THE DAWNS
THE GREAT SALT LAKE
in this Karaman
desert
i’m beat beat
there is a sweatstorm
in my trousers
and if you find yourself
falling apart
there is a rain of mud
and a lake of salt
I’m posed and popping
like a peacock
what used to calm
rips my life to ribbons
my gut kicks
map it blind
i can’t say it’s a sickness
but a stranger slipping nooses in my den
yr old man was
a wishing machine
a toy chest
if only we hope
desert
i’m beat beat
there is a sweatstorm
in my trousers
and if you find yourself
falling apart
there is a rain of mud
and a lake of salt
I’m posed and popping
like a peacock
what used to calm
rips my life to ribbons
my gut kicks
map it blind
i can’t say it’s a sickness
but a stranger slipping nooses in my den
yr old man was
a wishing machine
a toy chest
if only we hope
23 July 2010
LATO 2010
what was the fate of the turtle gripping the talons of the eagle?
do you miss sauerkraut stew?
do you miss the bubbles of Polish beer?
before you fall asleep
chronicles spray against the white walls of
yon mind
a pensioner of the void
broccoli dust on the night sheets
to be like plums in an icebox
lazy PUG!
my family owned peaches and a dog named Lady
when you add up all the sunday
roasts I ate many a cow
what is the convenient truth?
my liver today requires a fresh bleeding
copulation:cooperation:community
we’ve been tricked into saucey action
lately the booze has been scratching my eyelids
making tea in my underwear
something to eat to clear yr mind
something bad inside went away
can a vibration alter our ocular visions
don’t take the voices for silky gods
a kiss on yr molten eyes
the lure of mermaids
they are waiting in the ether to form
propogate only to die
and I grant you no wishes my pretty son
tell me what you wanna become
a union of mammals
a mammal republic
milk giving fiends
-----------------------------------------
Lato lato swansea swansea
step o step o the music
blok switchey o na me
lato lato
switchey ah na nanny
swan che say
moze
alle tato lato
NO LATO
switchey ah na me
na namey
Swansea Saaaaayyyyyy
-----------------------------------------
do you have the urge to speak
of mud and marrow
my wallet is on the fire
summer esconced
a red deer sleeps
in yr marrow
water and rust between
the antlers
look for me
the cracked shells
of turtles provide
a pattern
plasma clocks &
metaphysical pain
humans are
relationships
how do you look
inside me
eyes cut in deer juice
gleaming a beat a real
beat
because we are
young
or old
and the rose
is suffering from surprises
a dazed turtle
is still a turtle
before you fall asleep
switch off the remote!
do you miss sauerkraut stew?
do you miss the bubbles of Polish beer?
before you fall asleep
chronicles spray against the white walls of
yon mind
a pensioner of the void
broccoli dust on the night sheets
to be like plums in an icebox
lazy PUG!
my family owned peaches and a dog named Lady
when you add up all the sunday
roasts I ate many a cow
what is the convenient truth?
my liver today requires a fresh bleeding
copulation:cooperation:community
we’ve been tricked into saucey action
lately the booze has been scratching my eyelids
making tea in my underwear
something to eat to clear yr mind
something bad inside went away
can a vibration alter our ocular visions
don’t take the voices for silky gods
a kiss on yr molten eyes
the lure of mermaids
they are waiting in the ether to form
propogate only to die
and I grant you no wishes my pretty son
tell me what you wanna become
a union of mammals
a mammal republic
milk giving fiends
-----------------------------------------
Lato lato swansea swansea
step o step o the music
blok switchey o na me
lato lato
switchey ah na nanny
swan che say
moze
alle tato lato
NO LATO
switchey ah na me
na namey
Swansea Saaaaayyyyyy
-----------------------------------------
do you have the urge to speak
of mud and marrow
my wallet is on the fire
summer esconced
a red deer sleeps
in yr marrow
water and rust between
the antlers
look for me
the cracked shells
of turtles provide
a pattern
plasma clocks &
metaphysical pain
humans are
relationships
how do you look
inside me
eyes cut in deer juice
gleaming a beat a real
beat
because we are
young
or old
and the rose
is suffering from surprises
a dazed turtle
is still a turtle
before you fall asleep
switch off the remote!
readings
breakfast:
white cheese, tomatoes, fresh bread, orange juice with a drop of wodka
readings:
A Marzipan Factory by Grzegorz Wroblewski
Seoul Bus Poems by Jim Goar
The Story of England by Tom Beaumont James
I Too Went to the Hunt of the Deer by Lale Mulder
Small Gods by Terry Pratchett
Nausea by Sartre
Nadja by Andre Breton
Gangway 40 (expatriations): http://www.gangway.net/40/index.shtml
Cleaves: http://www.cleavesjournal.com/
white cheese, tomatoes, fresh bread, orange juice with a drop of wodka
readings:
A Marzipan Factory by Grzegorz Wroblewski
Seoul Bus Poems by Jim Goar
The Story of England by Tom Beaumont James
I Too Went to the Hunt of the Deer by Lale Mulder
Small Gods by Terry Pratchett
Nausea by Sartre
Nadja by Andre Breton
Gangway 40 (expatriations): http://www.gangway.net/40/index.shtml
Cleaves: http://www.cleavesjournal.com/
22 July 2010
Antalya
ANTALYA
I’m writing to you in this weather
among buckets of bumble bees
I am trying to write as if
something is happening to you
these leopard skins are not my people
I do not understand your way of turning
an animal curls up in silence
reality cannot be forced
I bought a jacket
everyone kept calling us German
the bar was Russian
the women were Russian
the music was Gypsy
we were both perceiving and it is said
perceiving is complex
the gin and tonics
were expensive but strong
I’m writing to you in this weather
among buckets of bumble bees
I am trying to write as if
something is happening to you
these leopard skins are not my people
I do not understand your way of turning
an animal curls up in silence
reality cannot be forced
I bought a jacket
everyone kept calling us German
the bar was Russian
the women were Russian
the music was Gypsy
we were both perceiving and it is said
perceiving is complex
the gin and tonics
were expensive but strong
20 July 2010
Gangway #40 – Expatriations: The expatriat edition
some poems from Primitive Pianos (Polish section) in new issue of Gangway:
Gangway #40 – Expatriations: The expatriat edition
Gangway #40 – Expatriations: The expatriat edition
19 July 2010
16 July 2010
EXACTLY!!!!
And I am always trying to think about how to write. As if starting over again. So that I am using different modes all the time and seem to resist doing what I know how to do, resist using modes I may think I have gotten good at. In some visceral way, my feeling is that everything I have written is unsuccessful, and that now, today, as I write, I might find out how to do it right, in a completely different way. Of course I know I never will. Still, I have that feeling--that writing is essentially inexpressible and mysterious, and one is always trying to figure out how to do it and never quite getting there. That there is something absolutely essential to be expressed but one can’t ever quite express it. So it always feels like finding a new way to write, starting completely over again on a new tack.
Like probably all poets my writing comes out of reading, and reading may be a form of writing and vice versa. So I am reading something important to me and then at some point in reading I am drawn to writing. It is a nearly physical sensation that I have come to be very sensitive to.
from Norman Fischer interview with Hank lazer
Like probably all poets my writing comes out of reading, and reading may be a form of writing and vice versa. So I am reading something important to me and then at some point in reading I am drawn to writing. It is a nearly physical sensation that I have come to be very sensitive to.
from Norman Fischer interview with Hank lazer
14 July 2010
EDA (from primitive Pianos)
EDA (Istanbul)
Adana kebab is sizzling
behind me in Sultanahmet
a man in an all-white suit
gets his shoes shinned
I’m skinned
he speaks of Kurdish and Armenian
symbols animals & patterns
Silk. Wool. Silk & wool. Crosses.
the azan prayer booms
from mosque to mosque
in surround sound
I move among the crowds
of Taksim
I run my hands
over the Galata tower
move through tunnels
move through the songs of gypsies
EDA is a foreign land
a foreign tongue say
ghosts the ghost of
an idea EDA is not
a verdict EDA moves
through 20th century
Turkish poetry
a crossing, a bridge,
pronouns are fungible
pre-rational pre-Islamic
a profanity and a purity
there is no sticky tape
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I slept on the banks of Bosphorus and woke to a cold breeze. This is a city of crooked teeth.
Canan is an idea. Canan is the beloved. Canan is pronounced Ja nan. Canan is the lion’s milk the lion’s inferno.
I learnt the formula for the perfect potato by the banks of the Bosphorus in Ortakoy. The Turkish innovative poet ILHAN BERK:
“I don’t like the potato. But all the world consumes it; it grows everywhere, / knows no boundaries, belongs to an international family.”
and
“The potato has no personality”
“From the soil it yells: / Hey! The Ground! Hear me?”
EDA (Istanbul)
framed by the Hagia Sophia
framed by mucus
framed by mounds
framed by lute players
framed by mangy cats
waiting for a ferry
to the island of Büyükada
watching
the Golden Horn
a birthday cake was presented
for my middle passage
crossings & double
crossings
bridges &
balloons
* Thoughts and ideas of EDA taken from Murat Nemet-Nejat’s amazing anthology EDA: An Anthology of Contemporary Turkish Poetry
Adana kebab is sizzling
behind me in Sultanahmet
a man in an all-white suit
gets his shoes shinned
I’m skinned
he speaks of Kurdish and Armenian
symbols animals & patterns
Silk. Wool. Silk & wool. Crosses.
the azan prayer booms
from mosque to mosque
in surround sound
I move among the crowds
of Taksim
I run my hands
over the Galata tower
move through tunnels
move through the songs of gypsies
EDA is a foreign land
a foreign tongue say
ghosts the ghost of
an idea EDA is not
a verdict EDA moves
through 20th century
Turkish poetry
a crossing, a bridge,
pronouns are fungible
pre-rational pre-Islamic
a profanity and a purity
there is no sticky tape
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I slept on the banks of Bosphorus and woke to a cold breeze. This is a city of crooked teeth.
Canan is an idea. Canan is the beloved. Canan is pronounced Ja nan. Canan is the lion’s milk the lion’s inferno.
I learnt the formula for the perfect potato by the banks of the Bosphorus in Ortakoy. The Turkish innovative poet ILHAN BERK:
“I don’t like the potato. But all the world consumes it; it grows everywhere, / knows no boundaries, belongs to an international family.”
and
“The potato has no personality”
“From the soil it yells: / Hey! The Ground! Hear me?”
EDA (Istanbul)
framed by the Hagia Sophia
framed by mucus
framed by mounds
framed by lute players
framed by mangy cats
waiting for a ferry
to the island of Büyükada
watching
the Golden Horn
a birthday cake was presented
for my middle passage
crossings & double
crossings
bridges &
balloons
* Thoughts and ideas of EDA taken from Murat Nemet-Nejat’s amazing anthology EDA: An Anthology of Contemporary Turkish Poetry
Mind Sores 4th or so revision
MIND SORES
eagles search for turtles to drop and crack upon the rocks
this is a tangible instant of a pure orgasm
cracks in the hands of a moviestream
the body of a cracked door
sun crackles across this country of mosques
dirty scientists gather a genesis of light
cracked armies attack the honeycombs
how fast the summer passes with drums
peons with a rainstorm of rugs and flirts and virgin brides
cracks in the muslim masks
all the pretty boys just for the hell of it
yr cracks lay upon my pillow
the body of a cracked nation
cracked producer of royal candies
a voice in a hammock cracks the trees
a cracked lung for penitence
you were born and we kept you hungry
cracked cats lick yr name
eagles search for turtles to drop and crack upon the rocks
this is a tangible instant of a pure orgasm
cracks in the hands of a moviestream
the body of a cracked door
sun crackles across this country of mosques
dirty scientists gather a genesis of light
cracked armies attack the honeycombs
how fast the summer passes with drums
peons with a rainstorm of rugs and flirts and virgin brides
cracks in the muslim masks
all the pretty boys just for the hell of it
yr cracks lay upon my pillow
the body of a cracked nation
cracked producer of royal candies
a voice in a hammock cracks the trees
a cracked lung for penitence
you were born and we kept you hungry
cracked cats lick yr name
Mind Sores 2nd draft
MIND SORES
eagles search for turtles to drop and crack upon the rocks
this is a tangible instant of a pure orgasm
cracks in the hands of a moviestream
the body of a cracked door
sun crackles across this country of mosques
dirty scientists gather a genesis of light
cracked armies attack the honeycombs
how fast the summer passes with drums
peons with a rainstorm of rugs and flirts and virgin brides
cracks in this pegan country
yr cracks lay upon my pillow
the body of a cracked nation
cracked producer of royal candies
yr boat moves upon cracky sounds
eagles search for turtles to drop and crack upon the rocks
this is a tangible instant of a pure orgasm
cracks in the hands of a moviestream
the body of a cracked door
sun crackles across this country of mosques
dirty scientists gather a genesis of light
cracked armies attack the honeycombs
how fast the summer passes with drums
peons with a rainstorm of rugs and flirts and virgin brides
cracks in this pegan country
yr cracks lay upon my pillow
the body of a cracked nation
cracked producer of royal candies
yr boat moves upon cracky sounds
13 July 2010
from primitive pianos
dawn’s kingdom
maketh me
beside the rancid
waters
swift with my
antlers
my tawny
bride
engorge
me
maketh me
beside the rancid
waters
swift with my
antlers
my tawny
bride
engorge
me
from primitive pianos (3rd draft)
DETOUR
(Karaman, Turkey)
here comes the wind
the blinds are clacking
like stuck penguins
in an Anatolian desert
this plywood mouth
moves
the soul ala ala
the soul in mouldy
chariots
and crumbling
zeus bricks
superstars
of the civil wars
(Karaman, Turkey)
here comes the wind
the blinds are clacking
like stuck penguins
in an Anatolian desert
this plywood mouth
moves
the soul ala ala
the soul in mouldy
chariots
and crumbling
zeus bricks
superstars
of the civil wars
9 July 2010
7 July 2010
from primitive pianos (1st draft)
Celestial Teabags
(Karaman, Turkey)
there is a sweatstorm
in my trousers
celestial teabags
officianados
wise ones
the sun whose
subject
is neurosis
flames of
disenchantment
the blinds are
rattling
sexology
sigh
it is hard to keep
track of my buttons
reality is a sandwich stuck
between my knuckles
i’m in fact
a thing a thing
in this mountain town
covered women & more goat cheese
cross women slapping the cheeks
of cheeky children
down on this cracked desert earth
Rainer Maria Rilke
I’m putting in my ear-
rings a phantom paw
paws me
cat angels
everywhere around here
i’m beat beat
ANGELS STORM HISTORY
ARMENIAN GENOCIDE AMERICAN GENOCIDE
and so on . . .
I’ve been stabbed by the Baltic
fleet and live with the Ottoman
trading company
(Karaman, Turkey)
there is a sweatstorm
in my trousers
celestial teabags
officianados
wise ones
the sun whose
subject
is neurosis
flames of
disenchantment
the blinds are
rattling
sexology
sigh
it is hard to keep
track of my buttons
reality is a sandwich stuck
between my knuckles
i’m in fact
a thing a thing
in this mountain town
covered women & more goat cheese
cross women slapping the cheeks
of cheeky children
down on this cracked desert earth
Rainer Maria Rilke
I’m putting in my ear-
rings a phantom paw
paws me
cat angels
everywhere around here
i’m beat beat
ANGELS STORM HISTORY
ARMENIAN GENOCIDE AMERICAN GENOCIDE
and so on . . .
I’ve been stabbed by the Baltic
fleet and live with the Ottoman
trading company
6 July 2010
5 July 2010
4 July 2010
lovingkindness
think like this: “May all creatures be happy and safe,
May they all have happy minds.
Whatever living things there are –
whether feeble or strong,
long or short, whether stout
or of medium size, whether quick or green,
whether big or little, whether seen or unseen
whether those living near or far away,
or those being born as well as those
only seeking to be born –
may all these beings be happy,
may they all have happy minds.
Let no being deceive another
Let none despise others
nor wish harm, in anger or with hatred,
upon another.
Just as a mother protects her only child
with her entire will and being
so let us each cultivate a boundless friendliness and love
toward all living things
Let each of us radiate limitless love
toward everything in the world:
above, below, beside, and across – unhindered
with no ill will or enmity."
Do this whether standing, walking, sitting, or lying down:
develop this attitude!: this is how to live nobly.
Let each of us not fall into useless thoughts
but be virtuous -- and be endowed with an insightful heart,
and discard the lust for satisfaction
so that we may never again come
to be born into pain.
—"Karaniya *Metta Sutta," or "Sermon [Hymn] on Lovingkindness," by Siddhatta Gotama, the historical Buddha (translation/compilation by GG, based on original and translations by Thanissaro Bhikkhu, Ñanamoli Thera, the Amaravati Sangha, Piyadassi Thera, and Acharya Buddharakkhita),
* ["Metta" is a Pali word meaning "lovingkindness." It is an attitude of mind that can be cultivated through an activity called "metta bhavana." "Bhavana" stems from the root "bhav" -- "to grow" or "to become" -- and can be translated as "cultivation." Metta, according to the teachings of Siddhatta Gotama, the most recent Buddha, is one of the "divine abidings," one, that is, of the four most supremely satisfying and wholesome states of mind a sentient being can achieve. To cultivate metta, one holds an attitude of friendliness and good will toward all things.
Metta directed at others or oneself can be felt across time and space.]
May they all have happy minds.
Whatever living things there are –
whether feeble or strong,
long or short, whether stout
or of medium size, whether quick or green,
whether big or little, whether seen or unseen
whether those living near or far away,
or those being born as well as those
only seeking to be born –
may all these beings be happy,
may they all have happy minds.
Let no being deceive another
Let none despise others
nor wish harm, in anger or with hatred,
upon another.
Just as a mother protects her only child
with her entire will and being
so let us each cultivate a boundless friendliness and love
toward all living things
Let each of us radiate limitless love
toward everything in the world:
above, below, beside, and across – unhindered
with no ill will or enmity."
Do this whether standing, walking, sitting, or lying down:
develop this attitude!: this is how to live nobly.
Let each of us not fall into useless thoughts
but be virtuous -- and be endowed with an insightful heart,
and discard the lust for satisfaction
so that we may never again come
to be born into pain.
—"Karaniya *Metta Sutta," or "Sermon [Hymn] on Lovingkindness," by Siddhatta Gotama, the historical Buddha (translation/compilation by GG, based on original and translations by Thanissaro Bhikkhu, Ñanamoli Thera, the Amaravati Sangha, Piyadassi Thera, and Acharya Buddharakkhita),
* ["Metta" is a Pali word meaning "lovingkindness." It is an attitude of mind that can be cultivated through an activity called "metta bhavana." "Bhavana" stems from the root "bhav" -- "to grow" or "to become" -- and can be translated as "cultivation." Metta, according to the teachings of Siddhatta Gotama, the most recent Buddha, is one of the "divine abidings," one, that is, of the four most supremely satisfying and wholesome states of mind a sentient being can achieve. To cultivate metta, one holds an attitude of friendliness and good will toward all things.
Metta directed at others or oneself can be felt across time and space.]
3 July 2010
1 July 2010
fantastic new book of poetry by Grzegorz Wróblewski
Grzegorz Wróblewski's A Marzipan Factory
A Marzipan Factory is the most original and enticing book of poems I have read in years. It is Kafkaesque and yet tender, cynical and yet warm, elliptical and yet wholly immediate. GRZEGORZ WRÓBLEWSKI can take the most ordinary of phenomena and then give them the twist of a knife: to “spare” the life of a living organism—a “dry” tangerine for instance—is, from another angle, to forget it. The pleasures and terrors of sex, of age, of the fear of death, of the deceptions of our social life, have rarely been so brutally—yet wittily and charmingly—documented as they are in these short, often gnomic poems, surprisingly well rendered in Adam Zdrodowski’s translation. Grzegorz Wróblewski restores one’s faith in the power of lyric poetry to renew itself. - Marjorie Perloff
A Marzipan Factory is the most original and enticing book of poems I have read in years. It is Kafkaesque and yet tender, cynical and yet warm, elliptical and yet wholly immediate. GRZEGORZ WRÓBLEWSKI can take the most ordinary of phenomena and then give them the twist of a knife: to “spare” the life of a living organism—a “dry” tangerine for instance—is, from another angle, to forget it. The pleasures and terrors of sex, of age, of the fear of death, of the deceptions of our social life, have rarely been so brutally—yet wittily and charmingly—documented as they are in these short, often gnomic poems, surprisingly well rendered in Adam Zdrodowski’s translation. Grzegorz Wróblewski restores one’s faith in the power of lyric poetry to renew itself. - Marjorie Perloff
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