“A difficulty is a light. An insurmountable difficulty is a sun”.
Hi, my reader…
You know me a little : I love to watch and find structures, then I love to find two opposite qualities, then I love to find how they dance together, how they weave…
Thus I ask myself questions like “Does an artist have to explore his paths from him/herself, or does he have to learn all the rules of his/her Art before?”. Or “Does a piece of Art please the audience as it is, or does it please the audience with questions, links with other things, analysis bliss?”.
I know nothing about poetry, but as I’m interested in the translation processes (English/French), therefore I had to look at poetry “building”.
Most of the time, the reader who knows a little and like poetry SEES what is activated. You could almost imagine the poet in his workshop…
There’s a delight in feeling sensations provided by a good line, and there’s another pleasure which is to understand why.
It’s why we often meditate on a poem. We read over. We stop. We suck it, feeling nuances like a good cigar or an old rich wine. This discipline activates your brain on many levels, and you can almost hear the levers and dials of your intelligence and sensitivity (sensibility?) moving their little feet in your dancing mind…
I chose “La Fileuse” (The Spinner), a poem by Paul Valéry, because… You’ll see…
I give the translated text (the French one is at the end). Of course the French rhymes are lost, their’s less music. Whatever.
Like in a quiet painting, a spinner falls asleep…
She fell asleep because of the blue sky, or the wheel’s noise, or is she tired? She spins wool, or her hair? Is it a poem or a dream?
Things resonate : swaying garden, rose, head, hair. All the poem can be seen as a “game of arrows” playing with your inner eyes : the woman, then the garden, the wheel, the blue, a tree, a stem, a rose, the woman, she spins (but she’s aslept, right?). Your “sights” are pulled, constantly…
The proceedings of the poem plays with paradoxes, facets, like a poetic proliferation. The time seems lost in dreammobility. The “camera” dances between small elements like in Pierre Boulez’s music. It’s like examining a small architecture (instead of following the time and the path of a “story”).
Therefore the reader is pleasantly lost, like in… a dream. He needs to go back to beginnings. Many little disturbances are like jewels in the painting. A stem, in which the wandering wind relaxes…
To keep it a poem, the translator chose to forget a few flakes :
Here is it. The poem has many assets…
Thanks for reading!
Seated, the spinner in the casement blue—
The garden nods and sways melodiously;
The old wheel snores, and she becomes entranced.
Weary—having drunk the azure—of spinning
The nestling hair elusive to her frail
Fingers, she dreams; her little head bows down.
A bush and pure air make a lively stream
Suspended in the sunbeam: delightful sprinkles
Of flower-losses bathe the idler’s garden.
A stem, in which the wandering wind relaxes,
Bends the vain salute of its starry grace
Devoting to the wheel its splendid rose.
The sleeper spins a lonely woolen hair:
Mysteriously the subtle shadow weaves
Into the thread of long and sleeping fingers.
The dream unwinds angelic laziness:
Ceaseless, onto the sweet ingenuous spindle,
The hair waves gladly under her caress . . .
Behind so many flowers the azure hides,
The spinner girded round with leaves and light:
The sky of green is dying. The last tree burns.
Your sister the lofty rose, a smiling saint,
Perfumes your hazy brow with gentle wind
Of innocent breath; you languish . . . You are fading
In casement blue where you were spinning wool.
Assise, la fileuse au bleu de la croisée
Où le jardin mélodieux se dodeline,
Le rouet ancien qui ronfle l’a grisée.
Lasse, ayant bu l’azur, de filer la câline
Chevelure, à ses doigts si faibles évasive,
Elle songe, et sa tête petite s’incline.
Un arbuste et l’air pur font une source vive
Qui suspendue au jour, délicieuse arrose
De ses pertes de fleurs le jardin de l’oisive.
Une tige, où le vent vagabond se repose,
Courbe le salut vain de sa grâce étoilée,
Dédiant magnifique, au vieux rouet, sa rose.
Derrière tant de fleurs, l’azur se dissimule,
Fileuse de feuillage et de lumière ceinte :
Tout le ciel vert se meurt. Le dernier arbre brûle.
Ta sœur, la grande rose où sourit une sainte,
Parfume ton front vague au vent de son haleine
Innocente, et tu crois languir… Tu es éteinte
Au bleu de la croisée où tu filais la laine.
Instagram : itspeteski
Some say haiku come from old songs. If you extract words from these wakas (Japanese songs) you have an haiku ! Sadaiye collected some of these songs in a book…
Chiru hana wo
The falling blossoms:
Look at them, it is the storm
That is chasing them.
Found in Haiku and Modernist Poetics, by Hakutani Y.
When I find a structure like this, an Art-Pattern, I’m as happy as a kid who found a colored beetle under a rock. Here it is :
In the bonuses of the war movie Dunkirk, C. Nolan explains that he want to puts tension and stress in the audience. Firstly, he does it the normal way, with the story and its continuity/proceedings (suspense, following action, etc). Secondly, he wants that every little part of the movie to be stressful “in itself”, in the way it’s done at the moment (with sound, music, cut, etc). Cut 5 seconds randomly in the movie and bite your nails!
The day before, I was reading an article in the train (there’s some bliss to read in a train) written by Paul Valéry about Marcel Proust‘s masterpiece “In Search of Lost Time”. He says something I already noticed & told you about : if the novel is great from its “stories”, you can pick ANY PAGE in the thousands, you’ll find a great idea. In each page, there’s a seed…
I bought two photography books last week. Stephen Shore‘s Uncommon Places (in USA) and Raymond Depardon‘s Habiter en France (“To live in France”). At first I was not that impressed by Depardon’s work. Shore’s photos are so gorgeous you can melt your brain into them, like in front of a painting. With Depardon in France, you have a little parking place, a road, a church. It’s touching, but it is almost “just ordinary”. BUT…
Watching many of them, though, you begin to understand there are patterns (like juxtaposing modernity and “old France”) : the pleasure is not in each photography, but in what you find when you watch many of them…
How could we call that? There are two tools presented here, and I admit I’ve been amazed to notice them in a single week, in three differents Arts (Movies, Literature, Photography).
What could we say about this in Architecture, Poetry, Teaching? What about weaving them? Are artists aware of that? What could it bring them to be aware? Where is the efficiency? Can the artist offer a clue on more discreet propositions? What do you prefer? What is the more satisfying? To focus on each little part (moment, second, page, verse), or to focus on the proceedings, the long development of a piece? What other questions does it trigger?
Thanks for reading!
Instagram : beautifulbizarremagazine
Degas (a painter) was discussing poetry with Mallarmé (a poet);
“It isn’t ideas I’m short of… I’ve got too many”, said Degas.
“But Degas,” replied Mallarmé, “you can’t make a poem with ideas. … You make it with words.”
Game for brain : behind the obvious, what does that mean? What frontier does is draw? Why? What can we find around this? Where to apply it?
Mallarmé answers a painter… as a poet. He did it on purpose, right? How can a Art irrigate another Art?
Have a nice day!
Candlestick in hand,
See, he strolls through the garden,
Grieving over spring.
I work in a bookstore. Yesterday a guy asked me where to find books about dance. I showed him a little shelf under a table.
– Ah ah, he said in a smile, well hidden, right?
– Yes, I answered, but not the way you think it is.
You can show books in a bookstore in many ways.
Yes of course, Medieval poetry, or books about dance are not in the top selling lists. But books about wedding or competitive exams training are good sells and they ARE under tables. People don’t come along in a bookstore hit uponing like “Oh, a book about how to become a customs officer, I’m suddenly interested!”. Wedding organization books are all the same : you come in order to find these. Therefore it’s not useful to put it at eye-level height. Voilà.
With this man, we talked about les dénicheurs.
A nest is called in France “un nid”. Thus “un dénicheur” is someone who removes birds (or eggs) from a nest. As it’s pretty rare to have this strange activity, for the verb “dénicher” (it could be : “To denest”), we French all understand “To hit upon”, “To unearth”.
Here we are!
In a store, are you the Mainstream Type, following marketing and medias, buying best sellers and prized titles, overpresented books under spotlights? Or are you the Unearthing Type, called also the Hit Uponer, forgotten corners prone, exploring the deserted alleys of Anthropology, International Situationism or Avant-Garde Jazz?
Probably both, right?
Thanks for reading!