{"title":"Jo Shapcott","description":"Jo Shapcott is one of Britain’s leading poets. She has twice won the National Poetry Competition, and won the Forward Prize in 1999. She was Northern Arts Literary Fellow at the universities of Newcastle and Durham in 1998-2000, and is Visiting Professor of Poetry at Newcastle University and at the University of the Arts, London; she also teaches on the MA in Creative Writing at Royal Holloway College. She is president of the Poetry Society. Her poetry books include \u003cem\u003eElectroplating the Baby\u003c\/em\u003e (Bloodaxe Books, 1988), \u003cem\u003ePhrase Book\u003c\/em\u003e (OUP, 1992), \u003cem\u003eMy Life Asleep\u003c\/em\u003e (OUP, 1998), \u003cem\u003eHer Book\u003c\/em\u003e (Faber, 1999) and \u003cem\u003eTender Taxes\u003c\/em\u003e, including her versions from Rilke’s French poems (Faber, 2001). She co-edited the anthology \u003cem\u003eEmergency Kit: Poems for Strange Times\u003c\/em\u003e (Faber, 1996) with Matthew Sweeney and \u003cem\u003eElizabeth Bishop: Poet of the Periphery\u003c\/em\u003e (Bloodaxe \/ Newcastle University, 2002) with Linda Anderson.\n","products":[{"product_id":"modern-poetry-in-translation-series-3-no3-metamorphoses","title":"Modern Poetry in Translation (Series 3 No.3) Metamorphoses","description":"\u003ci\u003eMetamorphoses\u003c\/i\u003e seeks to extend the very idea of translation, and features texts which translators have transformed from a foreign original into something that is peculiarly their own.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHighlights include versions of Akhmatova done by outstanding contemporary poets for Poetry International at the South Bank in 2004, as well as Ingeborg Bachmann’s War Diary, a moving document of her early life in terrible times.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis volume of MPT gives a voice to the unheard and creates living connections across frontiers, cultures, genres, mediums and ages.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ca name=\"contents\"\u003e\u003c\/a\u003eCover by Lucy Wilkinson. Typesetting by Paul Dunn. Editorial by David and Helen Constantine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eContents\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cul\u003e\n\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/ul\u003e\u003cb\u003e Akhmatova on the South Bank \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cul\u003e\n\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cli\u003eRuth Borthwick: Anna of all the Russias: Translating Akhmatova    \u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eElaine Feinstein: An Evening for Akhmatova\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003e\n\u003ca href=\"#e0\"\u003eColette Bryce: Six poems \u003c\/a\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eSasha Dugdale: Five poems\u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eJo Shapcott: Three poems\u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003e\n\u003ca href=\"#e1\"\u003eGeorge Szirtes (with Veronika Krasnova): Six poems \u003c\/a\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eMarilyn Hacker: ‘For Akhmatova’\u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eJohn Greening: ‘Coming Soon. Remastered from the Old Norse’\u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003e\n\u003ca href=\"#e2\"\u003eNeil Philip: ‘Twenty-one glosses on poems from The Greek Anthology’ \u003c\/a\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003ePaul Howard: Versions of four sonnets by Giuseppe Belli\u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eTerence Dooley: A version of Raymond Queneau’s ‘La Pendule’\u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eKathleen Jamie: Hölderlin into Scots. Two poems\u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003e\n\u003ca href=\"#e3\"\u003eJosephine Balmer: The Word for Sorrow: a work begins its progress \u003c\/a\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003c\/ul\u003e\u003cb\u003e Ingeborg Bachmann \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cul\u003e\n\u003cbr\u003e\u003cli\u003eKaren Leeder: Introduction\u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003e\n\u003ca href=\"#e4\"\u003eMike Lyons: ‘War Diary’ \u003c\/a\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003ePatrick Drysdale and Mike Lyons: Five Bachmann poems\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eSean O’Brien: A version of Canto V of Dante’s  Inferno\u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eCristina Viti:  Eros Alesi’s Fragments\u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eSarah Lawson and Malgorzata Koraszweska:  Six poems by Ann Kühn- Cichocka\u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eMarilyn Hacker: Guy Goffette’s  ‘Construction Site of the Elegy’\u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eBelinda Cooke and Richard McCane: Six poems by Boris Poplavsky\u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eCecilia Rossi: Poems from Alejandra Pizarnik’s Works and Nights\u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eTerence Cave: A memorial note on Edith McMorran and a translation of  Aragon’s ‘C’\u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003ePaul Batchelor: An essay on Barry MacSweeney’s Apollinaire\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003c\/ul\u003e\u003cb\u003eReviews\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cul\u003e\n\u003cli\u003e\n\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAntony Wood on Angela Livingstone’s Poems from Chevengur\u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eJosephine  Balmer on Cliff Ashcroft’s Dreaming of Still Water and PeterBoyle’s Eugenio Montejo \u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003ePaschalis Nikolaou on Philip Ramp’s Karouzos\u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eFrancis Jones on Jan Twardowski (translated by Sarah Lawson and Malgorzata Koraszweska) and  A Fine Line: New Poetry from Central and Eastern Europe\u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eJosephine Balmer:Books Received.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ca name=\"e0\"\u003e\u003c\/a\u003e\u003cb\u003eColette Bryce:Two Poems\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eUnder a dark veil she wrung her hands…\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUnder a dark veil she wrung her hands...\u003cbr\u003e‘What makes you grieve like this?’\u003cbr\u003eI have made my lover drunk\u003cbr\u003ewith a bitter sadness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'll never forget it. He left, reeling,\u003cbr\u003ehis mouth twisted, desolate...\u003cbr\u003eI ran downstairs, ran into the courtyard,\u003cbr\u003emanaged to catch him opening the gate\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand begged him: ‘It was all a joke, don't leave,\u003cbr\u003eplease... I will lose my mind!’\u003cbr\u003eBut he only smiled, calmly, terribly,\u003cbr\u003eand said to me: ‘Get inside out of the wind.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e1911\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eHe was young, anxious, jealous…\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was young, anxious, jealous. \u003cbr\u003eHis love was like the heat of the sun\u003cbr\u003ebut he killed my white bird\u003cbr\u003eas he could not bear her singing of the past.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSunset. Into the room he strides:\u003cbr\u003e‘Love, laugh, write poetry!’ he orders me.\u003cbr\u003eI buried the bird\u003cbr\u003eby the well, near the alder tree.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI promised him I wouldn't cry\u003cbr\u003ebut my heart set to a stone,\u003cbr\u003eand now it seems that everywhere\u003cbr\u003eI turn, I hear her sweet song.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e1914\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ca name=\"e1\"\u003e\u003c\/a\u003e\u003cb\u003eGeorge Szirtes (with Veronika Krasnova): From the Introduction to Six poems \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe first and most difficult task of a translator is, as I see it, to understand the poem. I don’t mean the words, but somehow to see the ghost in the machine, to see what it is that gives that particular form of words life. Without this nothing can be done. I am aware that this sounds far too simple, because the process of reading is also the process of translation, so the life in the original begins to kindle, then overlap with, the life of the developing translation. The translator, if a poet, seeks that life and is used to seeing it develop in his or her own work. Nor is that ‘life’, if I may give the word its proper inverted commas at this stage, independent of all the elements that seem to comprise it. There is compromise and conversation throughout.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ca name=\"e2\"\u003e\u003c\/a\u003e\u003cb\u003eFrom Neil Philip’s: ‘Twenty-one glosses on poems from The Greek Anthology’ \u003c\/b\u003e.                                                                                \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eAntipholos\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen Tereina was just a child,\u003cbr\u003eI said, ‘This one will break a few hearts\u003cbr\u003ewhen she grows up.’\u003cbr\u003eEveryone laughed—me too—\u003cbr\u003ebut now it’s all come true.\u003cbr\u003eJust to look at her\u003cbr\u003eburns me up,\u003cbr\u003eand look at her\u003cbr\u003eis all I can do.\u003cbr\u003eWhen I beg her\u003cbr\u003eto put me out of my misery,\u003cbr\u003eall she says is,\u003cbr\u003e‘I’m a virgin.’\u003cbr\u003eThis will be the death of me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eBassus\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTurn into a shower of gold, a swan,\u003cbr\u003ea bull, a bird? That’s too hard.\u003cbr\u003eI’ll leave such fancy tricks to Zeus,\u003cbr\u003eand woo Corinna with a credit card.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eLucilius\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll this stuff you buy—\u003cbr\u003eexfoliating scrub,\u003cbr\u003emoisturiser,\u003cbr\u003efoundation,\u003cbr\u003ehighlighter,\u003cbr\u003elippy,\u003cbr\u003eeye-shadow,\u003cbr\u003eeye-liner,\u003cbr\u003emascara,\u003cbr\u003ecoloured contacts,\u003cbr\u003ewash-in hair dye—\u003cbr\u003ewouldn’t a new face\u003cbr\u003ework out cheaper?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ca name=\"e3\"\u003e\u003c\/a\u003e\u003cb\u003eFrom Josephine Balmer’s: The Word for Sorrow: a work begins its progess\u003c\/b\u003e.                                                                                \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne rainy spring day I was working on an initial translation from Tristia using the Perseus site’s on-line Latin  dictionary, when an electrical storm required me to log off . Turning to an old dictionary, bought at a village fete as a school-student, I noticed by chance an inscription on its fly-leaf which I must have seen many times over the years and yet barely registered: a name in faded ink and a date, early in 1900. Back on-line a few days later, I ran a search on the name, almost on a whim. The results were impressive: First World War documents and diaries relating to 1\/1st regiment of the Royal Gloucester Hussars, posted to Gallipoli in 1915, to the Hellespont, near Ovid’s own place of  exile and which, by coincidence, Ovid had just described crossing in the poem I was translating. Following link after link, more and more connections were revealed; old photos of the regiment lined up on Cheltenham Station just before leaving for the east, bringing parallels with Ovid’s famous poem describing his last night before exile. The eye-witness accounts detailing the sickness, deprivations and dangers of the Gallipoli campaign in which 50,000 Allied troops and 85,000 Turkish soldiers died, reminiscent of Ovid’s own powerful laments about his conditions of exile. And so The Word for Sorrow came about, versions of Ovid’s verse alongside original poems exploring the history of the old second-hand dictionary used to translate it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ca name=\"e4\"\u003e\u003c\/a\u003e\u003cb\u003eFrom Mike Lyons' Translation of Ingeborg Bachmann's: ‘War Diary’ \u003c\/b\u003e.                                                                                \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e11 June. L. has fallen in love with an Englishman, he is tremendously tall and gangling and is called Bob. She says he is very rich and was brought up in Oxford. He’s all she can talk about. Yesterday she said she had just one wish, to get away from here and go to England. She’s hoping, I think, that he will marry her. But marriage between Austrian girls and Englishmen is prohibited by the military government. She says the hardships here will never end and that she has gone through too much, can’t take any more, and wants a life for herself. I can understand her only too well but get angry with her too, because she thinks I also ought to marry an Englishman and get away from here. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf course I want to get away, but only in order to study, and I don’t want to get married and not even to an Englishman, just for the sake of a few tins of food and some silk stockings. Most of the Englishmen here are very nice and decent, I think. But I am much too young. Arthur and Bill are really very nice and we talk and laugh a lot together. In the garden we often play Tailor, Tailor, Lend Me Your Scissors and Look Behind You . Arthur keeps giving Heinerle chocolate, and a few days ago he called on Mummy, who is still in bed, and put tea and biscuits onto her bedspread. She calls him ‘Redilocks’, because he has such ginger hair, and likes him best. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI think he also is in love with L., Bill is too, but Arthur more so, and I think too that Arthur is terribly jealous of Bob. Bob is quite standoffish. We once exchanged a couple of words but never again and even then it didn’t amount to much: it was just to thank him for letting L. have the car so that she could fetch Mummy from hospital.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e14 June. My mind is in a whirl still. Jack Hamesh was here again, this time he came in a jeep. Everyone in the village was gawping of course and S. came across the stream twice to look into the garden. I took him into the garden because Mummy is in bed upstairs. We sat on the bench and to begin with I was trembling again so badly that he must have thought I was mad or had something on my conscience or whatever. And I just don’t know why. I no longer know what we talked about first, but then all at once it was about books, about Thomas Mann and Stefan Zweig and Schnitzler and Hofmannsthal. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was so happy, he knows everything, and he told me he would never have thought he might meet a young girl in Austria who in spite of her Nazi upbringing had read all that. And suddenly everything was quite different, and I told him all about the books. He told me that he was taken to England in 1938 in a Kindertransport with other Jewish children. Actually he was already 18 years old at the time, but an uncle managed to arrange it, his parents were already dead. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow I know too why he speaks such good German. Then he joined the British army and in the occupation zones lots of former Germans and Austrians are now working in the offices of the FSS, on account of the language and because they know the conditions in the country better. We talked till evening, and he kissed my hand before he left. Nobody ever kissed my hand before. I am so mixed up and happy, and when he’d gone I climbed the apple tree in our garden, it was already dark, and I cried my eyes out and thought to myself that I would never wash my hand again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJack comes every day now, and I’ve never talked so much in my life. We talk mostly about Weltanschauung and history. He’s very good at explaining, and I’m no longer in the least embarrassed by him. I always ask him if it’s something I haven’t yet heard about. At the moment we’re doing socialism and communism (and of course if Mummy were to hear the word ‘communism’ she would faint!), but you must have detailed knowledge of everything and study. I’m reading Marx’s Capital and a book by Adler. I’ve told Jack that I’d like to study philosophy, and he takes me very seriously and thinks that is right for me. But I’ve kept quiet about the poems.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/li\u003e\n\u003c\/ul\u003e","brand":"Modern Poetry in Translation","offers":[{"title":"Book","offer_id":1040750824,"sku":"9780954536732","price":9.95,"currency_code":"GBP","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0441\/7369\/products\/2_2_9f70c4b0-eb28-488b-b088-4821d55ea06b.jpeg?v=1752237543"},{"product_id":"modern-poetry-in-translation-series-3-no10-the-big-green-issue","title":"Modern Poetry in Translation (Series 3 No.10) The Big Green Issue","description":"\u003ci\u003eMigration\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat the very first stirring\u003cbr\u003emy airtight, upright\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esarcophagus breaks \u003cbr\u003einto pieces,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eeach fragment starting to turn green\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eeven as it falls …\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMartii Hynynen, translated from the Finnish by Mike Horwood\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eModern Poetry in Translation Third Series, No. 10\u003c\/i\u003e is dedicated to the beauty, abundance and plight of Mother Earth. This autumn MPT will be truly internationalist. Work from all quarters, out of as many languages as possible, will demonstrate an obvious fact: on Planet Earth we sink or swim together. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe arguments will be polemical, saying the things that must be said, but also celebratory, so that we see, yet again, what it is we risk losing.  Poetry, translated and original, essays, anecdotes, photographs, and illustrations, all of the highest quality, show up wrong attitudes and the deeds they encourage; but also indicate how we might live better in the living world. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFounded by Ted Hughes and Daniel Weissbort in 1966 and now edited by David and Helen Constantine – based in Oxford; Modern Poetry in Translation is Britain’s most important poetry translation publication. \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eMPT publishes translations, original poems, reviews and short essays that address such characteristic signs of our times as exile, the movement of peoples, the search for asylum, and the speaking of languages outside their native home.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eContents:\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEditorial\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBewketu Seyoum, poems, translated by the author and Chris Beckett\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMartti Hynynen, five poems, translated by Mike Horwood\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOliver Reynolds, ‘Rosenegg’s Night’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWaldo Williams, ‘Spring 1946’, translated by Jason Walford Davies\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePascale Petit, four poems\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRocco Scotellaro, poems, translated by Alen Prowle\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRobert Saxton, sonnets from Hesiod’s Calendar\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnna Lewis, ‘The Wash-house’, from the Mabinogion \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJoão de Jesus Paes Loureiro, two poems, translated by Stefan Tobler\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAntônio Moura, three poems, translated by Stefan Tobler\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMary-Ann Constantine, ‘Notre Dame de Port Blanc’, from the Breton ‘Itron Varia ar Porz-Gwenn’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTerry Gifford, Ted Hughes, Translation and Ecopoetics\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePauline Stainer, six poems\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJeff Nosbaum, ‘Cape Weavers’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSiriol Troup, three  poems\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDante, Purgatory, Canto 11, 1-36, translated by Mark Leech\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWulf Kirsten, ‘village’, translated by Dennis Tomlinson\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWulf Kirsten, ‘Bleak Place’, translated by Stefan Tobler\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eElisha Porat, three poems, translated by Cindy Eisner\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnne Cluysenaar, two poems\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePedro Serrano, ‘Swallows’, translated by Anna Crowe\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnna Crowe, ‘The Mysterious Starling’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNaomi Jaffa, Aldeburgh 2008\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYi Sha, five poems, translated by Simon Patton and Tao Naikan\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAntjie Krog, ‘the unhomely’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFarzaneh Khojandi, two poems, translated by Jo Shapcott\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRose Scooler, ‘Mica Parade’, translated by Sibyl Ruth\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTomas Venclova, three poems, translated by Ellen Hinsey\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePhotos from Durham?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFranz Hodjak, six poems, translated by Peter Oram\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eZsuzsa Beney, five poems, translated by George Szirtes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCesare Pavese, five poems, translated by David Douglas\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEugeniusz Tkaczyszyn-Dycki, five poems, translated by Bill Johnston\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJerzy Harasymowicz, four poems, translated by Maria Rewakowicz, with illustrations by Swava Harasymowicz\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEugene Dubnov, two poems, translated, with the author, by Vernon Scannell, Anne Ridler and John Heath-Stubbs\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eReviews\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCecilia Rossi, on translations of Pura López-Colomé, Dulce María Loynaz and Mercedes Roffé\u003cbr\u003ePaschalis Nikolaou on Richard Burns’s The Blue Butterfly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBelinda Cooke on Sasha Dugdale’s Elena Shvarts\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDavid Constantine on Poems from Guantánamo and two Hafan Books\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJosephine Balmer, Further Reviews\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e Extracts \u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e Rocco Scotellaro, Poems, Translated by Allen Prowle \u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e   Rocco Scotellaro never saw his poems published.  In 1954, the year after his cruelly premature death from a heart attack at the age of thirty, E Fatto Giorno (Day Break), edited by his friend Carlo Levi, was published by Mondadori, and was awarded the Viareggio prize.  He was the gifted son of a very poor family from Lucania, a mountainous and impoverished region of the Italian mezzogiorno.  His parents made great sacrifices so that he could enrol at Rome University to study law, but the war and then the death of his father forced him to leave without completing his degree.  He was of that young generation which saw the post-war years as a real opportunity to establish a just and egalitarian society, and to improve the material lives of the poor.  At 23, he was elected as socialist mayor of his home town, Tricarico, and became actively engaged in the struggle for land reform.  Inevitably, this brought him into conflict with the landowners, many of whom had welcomed his election believing that this son of a shoemaker could be easily manipulated.  Victim of a political vendetta, he was imprisoned in Matera.  The charges of corruption were spurious and he was acquitted after two months.  He resigned as mayor and left for Portici, near Naples, where for some three years he studied at a research centre in agrarian economics.  It was in Portici that he died.\u003cbr\u003e   One hears in these poems a voice, or rather, voices that had scarcely reached the ears of any public, let alone one given to reading poems.  They narrate an archaic rural way of life dominated by the seasons, the harshness of place and weather, the need to feed one’s family, but the sense of timelessness is sometimes disrupted by poems which relate contemporary events, such as the political defeat of 18 April 1948, the discovery that the agrarian reform plan had handed the peasants largely uncultivable strips of rocky ground, the death of his brother-in-law in the Greek expedition, the retreat of campaigning field- hands from the bosses’ bully boys.  Scotellaro, political activist that he was, is no populist poet.  He lets us share his ambivalence towards a moment in history when the past and the possible future are in contention.  He was never able to commit himself utterly to an intellectual environment where reform and political change were debated; emotional ties to an ancestral past, whose limitations and inertia so frustrated him, frequently brought him back from the city.  The muleteer’s daughter was ultimately more difficult to leave than the city girlfriend.  His poetry is encamped in that border country where Raymond Williams also lived:  pitched between attraction and repulsion, affection and irritation.  The quarrel with others would have inspired, as Yeats claimed, a discourse of rhetoric, something Scotellaro no doubt kept for the hustings and public meetings.  It was out of the quarrel with himself that he wrote many of the most telling poems in E Fatto Giorno.\u003cbr\u003e                                                          \u003cbr\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e The violets are children with bare feet \u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe leaves are fresh on the almond trees,\u003cbr\u003espring water rains from stone walls;\u003cbr\u003etrotting lightly, the donkeys choose\u003cbr\u003ethe friendlier of the river’s banks;\u003cbr\u003ethe girls with the darkest eyes\u003cbr\u003eclamber on the squeaking cart, aloof.\u003cbr\u003eMarch is a baby, laughing already, in its swaddling clothes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd you can forget the winter,\u003cbr\u003ewho, bent by bundles of wood,\u003cbr\u003ehave told your beads,\u003cbr\u003emile after freezing mile,\u003cbr\u003eto roast your face by the fire. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow ticks come back to the horses,\u003cbr\u003ein the stables flies stir the air,\u003cbr\u003eand children with bare feet\u003cbr\u003echarge upon clumps of violet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e Already you can smell the apples on the air \u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlready you can smell the apples on the air\u003cbr\u003eand you can sleep the deepest sleep,\u003cbr\u003eno moth flies in \u003cbr\u003eto flutter round the lamp.\u003cbr\u003eBut I have never heard, in late October,\u003cbr\u003eso many unfamiliar voices\u003cbr\u003ereach me from the street;\u003cbr\u003emy father was strapping up my trunk,\u003cbr\u003emy sister repairing my clothes,\u003cbr\u003eand I was having to leave to study\u003cbr\u003ein a city which I did not know!\u003cbr\u003eI felt my spirit turn to milk\u003cbr\u003ewhen my friends spoke consoling words,\u003cbr\u003enot moving, lonely and shy, from their doors.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePerhaps now I ought to leave in silence,\u003cbr\u003ewithout a backward glance at anyone;\u003cbr\u003eI’ll seek some trade or other.\u003cbr\u003eHere, a rag flutters on its threads,\u003cbr\u003eand leaves from the apples scenting the air\u003cbr\u003eare settling on my head.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e Forlorn cuckoo, your call keeps us awake \u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll round the brown mountains\u003cbr\u003eyour colour has crept back,\u003cbr\u003eour old September friend.\u003cbr\u003eYou’ve settled in among us.\u003cbr\u003eWhen, fleeing the burnt stubble\u003cbr\u003eof our fields, castaway crickets\u003cbr\u003escreech at the doors,\u003cbr\u003eour women have heard you quite close.\u003cbr\u003eFrom the vaulted ceilings hang\u003cbr\u003estrings of dried figs and green tomatoes;\u003cbr\u003ethere’s a sack of hard wheat,\u003cbr\u003ea heap of felled almonds.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eForlorn cuckoo,\u003cbr\u003eyour call\u003cbr\u003ekeeps us awake:\u003cbr\u003eYes, we’ll trudge back along the paths \u003cbr\u003eand, tomorrow, get down to work,\u003cbr\u003ewhen water streams yellow again\u003cbr\u003eunder the furrows,\u003cbr\u003eand the wind billows\u003cbr\u003eour coats in the cupboards.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e To the muleteer’s daughter \u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI cannot live beside you any longer,\u003cbr\u003esomething stifles my voice.\u003cbr\u003eYou are the muleteer’s daughter\u003cbr\u003eand you take away my breath.\u003cbr\u003eBecause below us, in the stable,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e Mark Leech\u003cbr\u003e‘Oil’\u003cbr\u003eA version of Dante, Purgatory canto xix, 1-36 \u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDante’s dream encounter with the Siren is a sudden lurch in the otherwise upward progress of the Purgatorio. Standing alone, it captures the nightmarish quality of humankind’s addiction to its own destruction – yet at the same time offers some hope of escape. This version was written alongside similar re-imaginings of several Old English poems. Like many translations, it is an experiment in bringing the perspective and authority of a particular text directly to bear on a modern problem, and vice versa, while keeping the framework of the original vision intact.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e Oil \u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the day had given up the world\u003cbr\u003eto the hard moon, thrashed by Earth\u003cbr\u003eor Saturn, or some other punisher\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe hour that prophets foretell the rising\u003cbr\u003eof great stars out east down roads\u003cbr\u003ethat flare with falling shells\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea woman came staggering to me\u003cbr\u003eeye-pained, foot-bound, hands\u003cbr\u003eyellowed with a cancer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy gaze upon her membraned flesh\u003cbr\u003ejerked her straight, as from a morgue\u003cbr\u003eher tongue slopping free\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eher body stiff like one about to fall.\u003cbr\u003eHer face washed in a flood of colour –\u003cbr\u003esome lust, or blood, had burst its banks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo her story was released, and she\u003cbr\u003ekeened a note that held me closer\u003cbr\u003ethan any prayer-built hope:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I the Siren, sweet in my throat,\u003cbr\u003esweet on the sea, bring crude men\u003cbr\u003eto ruin, spilt on rocks and currents.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWandering Ulysses was trapped in my slick:\u003cbr\u003eany man who’s burned for me is caught – \u003cbr\u003eno engine can undo my grip.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt her pause a lady, cold, stepped\u003cbr\u003ebetween us. Her icy breath thinned\u003cbr\u003ethe Siren’s spell to air, invisible.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘She’s got him! He’s bending to her lips!’\u003cbr\u003eMy guide was closing in, eyes fixed\u003cbr\u003eon her white shroud. He grabbed the Siren\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand laid her open, the belly slack, \u003cbr\u003estinking, choking me, waking me\u003cbr\u003ewith poisoned air. My eyes fell\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eon my guide. ‘Three times I’ve called on you\u003cbr\u003eto wake!’ he said. ‘Now rise: this path\u003cbr\u003ewill take us on to lighter skies.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe mules are restless, though asleep,\u003cbr\u003eand your father, snoring nearby,\u003cbr\u003ehas not yet clambered on his cart\u003cbr\u003eto beat away the stars with his whip.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e Anna Lewis\u003cbr\u003eThe Wash-house\u003cbr\u003ePoems from the Mabinogion \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNote\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis sequence is drawn from the story of Blodeuedd, found in the Mabinogion, the major collection of Medieval Welsh tales.  Blodeuedd is often thought to represent the natural world in human form; connections and tensions between humans and the natural environment run throughout the story.  The sequence is told from the imagined perspective of Blodeuedd’s maid.  Blodeuedd is created from wild flowers by magic, to be the bride for a young nobleman, but begins an affair with another man, who encourages her to kill her husband and appropriate his land.  Their attempt at murder fails when her husband transforms into an eagle, and flies out of sight.  Blodeuedd’s husband is later reinstated by his uncle, a magician, who then pursues Blodeuedd, and turns her into an owl as punishment for her disloyalty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e 3 \u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAutumn shakes into winter,\u003cbr\u003eand we all settle down to our snow-pace:\u003cbr\u003eslow hours under candle-light, patching and darning \u003cbr\u003ethe woollens, salting and curing small game.\u003cbr\u003eI don’t see so much of the girl – \u003cbr\u003eher husband away, she keeps her door bolted,\u003cbr\u003ewon’t meet my eye when we pass in the halls.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut we’ve had her pegged, in the wash-rooms and kitchens,\u003cbr\u003esince the first snowdrop came shouldering up through the frost;\u003cbr\u003esince the daffodils, all statuesque and deep blonde,\u003cbr\u003eand the plum trees, scattering petals\u003cbr\u003eover the still-rigid ground.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt gets no warmer, \u003cbr\u003esunlight shallow and brief on the field.\u003cbr\u003eHer door bangs at midnight, and again before dawn;\u003cbr\u003eshe sleeps later, talks faster, flagrant\u003cbr\u003eas the clematis limbering over her window.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e João de Jesus Paes Loureiro\u003cbr\u003eTwo poems\u003cbr\u003eTranslated by Stefan Tobler \u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJoão de Jesus Paes Loureiro was born in a small town in Pará, in the eastern Amazon region, and is a poet and professor of aesthetics, the history of art and Amazonian culture at the Federal University of Pará (UFPA). His first collection Tarefa was published in 1964, just before the military coup that brought a dictatorship to Brazil. Tarefa was confiscated and Paes Loureiro imprisoned for months. A prolific poet, his collections include the trilogy Cantares Amazônicos which has been translated into German and Italian. The focus moves from the Amazon's indigenous culture and history in the first book Porantim (1979), via increasing rural and cultural devastation in Deslendário (1981) to a large Amazonian city, Belém, and the many dispossessed who end up there, in  Altar em Chamas (1982), the collection from which 'A Criminal Recipe' and 'Workers' are taken.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e A Criminal Recipe \u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLet him be born.\u003cbr\u003eThe bed of poverty\u003cbr\u003e\t\tis a good measure . . .\u003cbr\u003eHe’ll grow up without milk\u003cbr\u003eand without greens.\u003cbr\u003eThe mud below the house’s stilts\u003cbr\u003e\t\tis bound to give him\u003cbr\u003ethe tides’ inheritance of worms.\u003cbr\u003eIt’s a good thing he’s got the samba groove.\u003cbr\u003eHe won’t have schools\u003cbr\u003e\t\t\tnor a childhood.\u003cbr\u003eAnd youth, would be better it didn’t blossom\u003cbr\u003ebecause the stem of his love\u003cbr\u003e\t\t\t        has been castrated.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe day on which he goes out\u003cbr\u003e\t\t\t          partner of the moon\u003cbr\u003e(revolver in his belt\u003cbr\u003e\t\t       and a decision in his eyes)\u003cbr\u003ehe’ll be meat, peppered with bullets.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e Zsuzsa Beney\u003cbr\u003eFive poems\u003cbr\u003eTranslated by George Szirtes \u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eZsuzsa Beney, Hungarian poet, essayist and surgeon,  was born in Budapest in 1930. Her first book of poems, Tüzföld (Fire-earth) appeared in 1972 with an introduction by Sándor Weöres, one the greatest Hungarian poets of the century. She produced a book of essays the next year and the first of her two novels in 1974. Her 1993 book of essays, Szó és csend között, was published in the UK by Mare's Nest as Between Sound and Silence, translated by Mark Griffiths. The essays in it are mainly philosophical and mystical meditations following the death of her husband. Her poems are contemplative, often preoccupied by suffering and the borders of existence and non-existence. She continued as a surgeon to her seventieth birthday. She died in July 2006.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e The River\u003cbr\u003e(A folyó) \u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThrough what sluices has it swept\u003cbr\u003ebefore it finally reached my home\u003cbr\u003eof clay soil and carved its crumbling bed?\u003cbr\u003eEternity humming from its dark source.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe non-transparent water shows time\u003cbr\u003eonly its wrinkled silk surface.\u003cbr\u003eMirror images of sparkling light.\u003cbr\u003eWaves sliding one under the other.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBroken tiles in the mirror,\u003cbr\u003ecracking, and still another glass,\u003cbr\u003ebetween was and will be, I became \/ I’ll not be,\u003cbr\u003erunning water’s burning catharsis.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e Dust\u003cbr\u003e(Por) \u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThere’s nothing I hate more than dust\u003cbr\u003ein corners of the room, in understanding.\u003cbr\u003eBut I can no longer clean everything.\u003cbr\u003eI’ve strength enough for work, but not for cleanness.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI live in half-light. Literally half-light.\u003cbr\u003eMy eyes no longer tolerate the sun.\u003cbr\u003eMy heart can’t manage all your empathies.\u003cbr\u003eI don’t look into death’s eyes unafraid.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBecause there are no gates of death, just slow\u003cbr\u003egatherings of dust. Mud and dirt cover our lives.\u003cbr\u003eThey gather in the corners of our souls.\u003cbr\u003eWe can’t step into the light for fear of drowning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e Into the spider’s web…\u003cbr\u003e(A pókhálóba…) \u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eGod entangled in the spider’s web\u003cbr\u003ebecomes immobile, a dummy,\u003cbr\u003ewoven into easily-broken\u003cbr\u003eglittering threads of thought.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHis trembling wings drop off, those lights,\u003cbr\u003ethose phosphorescences that reflect each other.\u003cbr\u003eHe sinks into the darkness of our twilight,\u003cbr\u003einto the harbours of despair.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eFor just one minute liberate yourself,\u003cbr\u003eerupt from our minds if only for a moment.\u003cbr\u003eLet it be you that leads us through the gates\u003cbr\u003eof death to the unknown far side of being.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e","brand":"Modern Poetry in Translation","offers":[{"title":"Book","offer_id":1040751056,"sku":"9780955906404","price":9.95,"currency_code":"GBP","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0441\/7369\/products\/2_2_e91338ec-5aff-4156-9b4c-3c13882ce590.jpeg?v=1752237542"},{"product_id":"womens-work-modern-women-poets-writing-in-english","title":"Women's Work: Modern Women Poets Writing in English","description":"Three years in the making, and with over 250 contributors, this generous selection of poetry by women with an emphasis on twentieth-century poetry in English features poets from the USA, Canada, England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales, Australia, and New Zealand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn these 'Post-Feminist' times, is there a need for such a book? Is the literary establishment still as dominated by men as it once was? Who gets to decide the canon? Eva Salzman opens \u003ci\u003eWomen's Work\u003c\/i\u003e with a lively polemic, making the case for the women-only anthology with characteristic wit and flair. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArranged by thematic chapters that touch on various aspects of modern life, this anthology aims to be a touchstone of women's thoughts and experiences; to be entertaining and relevant as well as inclusive and representative of some of the best poetry published now. A thorough section devoted to author biographical details and credits will be of use to scholars and the curious who desire to read more work by the poets included.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Editors are the well-known poet Eva Salzman, and Poetry Editor Amy Wack, both Americans, graduates of Columbia writing programme in New York City, who have made the UK their home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou will find familiar names as well as new discoveries amongst the contributors: Fleur Adcock, Patience Agbabi, Moniza Alvi, Margaret Atwood, Sujata Bhatt, Colette Bryce, Siobhan Campbell, Amy Clampitt, Polly Clark, Wendy Cope, Toi Derricotte, Carol Ann Duffy, Christine Evans, U.A. Fanthorpe, Ruth Fainlight, Vicki Feaver, Daisy Fried, Alice Fulton, Tess Gallagher, Louise Gluck, Marilyn Hacker, Joy Harjo, Selima Hill, Kathleen Jamie, June Jordan, Martha Kapos, Jenny Joseph, Jackie Kay, Mimi Khalvati, Alice Oswald, Phillis Levin, Denise Levertov, Gwyneth Lewis, Sandra McPherson, Marianne Moore, Sharon Olds, Ruth Padel, Pascale Petit, Katherine Pierpoint, Sylvia Plath, Adrienne Rich, Muriel Rukeyser, Carol Rumens, Olive Senior, Jo Shapcott, Stevie Smith, Gertrude Stein, Anne Stevenson, Chase Twichell, Judith Wright, Tamar Yoselfof, and many others. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eAmy Wack\u003c\/b\u003e has edited a number of anthologies for Seren including \u003ci\u003eOxygen\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eBurning the Bracken\u003c\/i\u003e, and was for many years Reviews Editor at \u003ci\u003ePoetry Wales\u003c\/i\u003e magazine. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eEva Salzman\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of two individual collections, \u003ci\u003eThe English Earthquake\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eBargain with the Watchman\u003c\/i\u003e and her \u003ci\u003eDouble Crossing: New and Selected Poems\u003c\/i\u003e has recently appeared.","brand":"Seren","offers":[{"title":"Book","offer_id":1041147716,"sku":"9781854114310","price":14.99,"currency_code":"GBP","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0441\/7369\/products\/2_2_f7051130-87fe-49c1-9844-c68b7a21dd92.jpeg?v=1752238145"}],"url":"https:\/\/inpressbooks.co.uk\/collections\/jo-shapcott\/patrick-drysdale.oembed","provider":"Inpress Books","version":"1.0","type":"link"}