Posts filed under ‘Stanley Kunitz’

I am Goya

Andrey Voznesensky

Listen


I am Goya
of the bare field, by the enemy’s beak gouged
till the craters of my eyes gape
I am grief

I am the tongue
of war, the embers of cities
on the snows of the year 1941
I am hunger

I am the gullet
of a woman hanged whose body like a bell
tolled over a blank square
I am Goya

O grapes of wrath!
I have hurled westward
the ashes of the uninvited guest!
and hammered stars into the unforgetting sky – like nails
I am Goya

(translated from the Russian by Stanley Kunitz)

A poem that captures so well the darkness and violence of Goya’s vision, marrying it to images from the Second World War.

[falstaff]

The original in Russian (we think! hat-tip Black Mamba)

Я – Гойя!
Глазницы воронок мне выклевал ворон,
слетая на поле нагое.

Я – Горе.

Я – голос
Войны, городов головни
на снегу сорок первого года.

Я – Голод.

Я – горло
Повешенной бабы, чье тело, как колокол,
било над площадью голой…

Я – Гойя!

О, грозди
Возмездья! Взвил залпом на Запад -
я пепел незваного гостя!
И в мемориальное небо вбил крепкие звезды -
Как гвозди.

Я – Гойя.

July 2, 2006 at 3:59 am 9 comments

The Layers

Stanley Kunitz

Listen

I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strenth
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
"Live in the layers,
not on the litter."
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.

Say what you will about Kunitz, he is the possessor of a truly exceptional ear. He has the fastidious and hypnotic ability to pick the precise words ("scavenger angels", "nimbus-clouded voice") that will both enhance the image and round out the sound. He is also, as this poem makes apparent, a proficient phrase maker – capable of delivering lines that are as radiant and as perfect as tiny gems set in a larger ornament. The repetition, of "I turn, I turn", for instance, or the delightful comeback of that second line ("some of them mine"), or that glorious question placed strategically in the very centre of the poem ("How shall the heart be reconciled / To its feast of losses?").

If there is one difficulty I have with Kunitz, it's that his poetry tends to get too fussy for my taste, too overwrought. That, fortunately, does not happen here – this poem has the true simplicity of the spoken voice, as practically all of Kunitz's better poems do. It is a lovely poem, a joy to read aloud, and a fitting tribute to one of our oldest and most venerable bards, a man who lived through many, many changes, and now, at the age of 100, is finally done.

Stanley Kunitz died last week (May 14th). My post on his death can be found here. Some biographical information can be found here. See another fine poem by Kunitz on Minstrels

[falstaff] 

May 26, 2006 at 7:05 pm Leave a comment


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