A Translator’s Window

Tags

Borgean sonnet, decasyllabic, Elaine Stirling, form poetry, Gavriel Navarro, Jorge Luis Borges, translation challenges, translation from Spanish

A friend and fellow poet, Gavriel Navarro, invited me a few days ago to translate a sonnet he’d just written in Spanish. It was a casual invitation—if I happened to be around and had a few minutes, perhaps I would enjoy seeing what might come of it.

At the chance, I leaped, and here’s why. In 2011, when poetry was the furthest thing from my mind and experience, Gavriel thought I might be the right person to translate “a few poems he’d written.” There were 130 of them! It was an 8-week fugue of indescribable intensity. From that venture, we organized 49 poems to become his first published volume of verse, The Wind and the Sea: Poems and Reflections on the Voyage of No Return.

What I never attempted was a sonnet in translation. Gavriel is a free-verse kind of guy, and sonnets are the one form that make me feel like a scullery maid in the dining room. There’s way too much cutlery; I don’t know what silver pointy thing to pick up first.

Nonetheless, what is life for if not to overcome a fear of salad forks? Thanks to time zones, Gavriel lives fourteen hours into my future, so he’d already posted a free verse translation of his Borgean sonnet. I was under no pressure, except of the ABBA ABBA CDC CEE, decasyllabic kind. According to Hispanic scholars, this was the favoured rhyme scheme of Jorge Luis Borges when he composed sonnets. No offense, G., but an opportunity to tramp in the footsteps of that brilliant, inimitable Argentine was my real motivation.

A note on the translation: While I did keep to the rhyme scheme as much as English and my limited experience of sonnets would allow, I had to forego the strict 11-syllable meter in favour of (mostly) pentameter. In Latino poetry—prose, too, for that matter—emotions are writ large, and there is no shortage of compact, flowing words to accommodate them. English, on the other hand, stores almost none of her emotional vocabulary on low shelves. Fortunately, scullery maids have no fear of ladders or pantries.

I hope you enjoy Gavriel Navarro’s “Desires of Skin and Peach”, in both English and Spanish.

~~~

Desires of Skin and Peach

From the languid torpor of your exhales
your breasts spilled out covering my body
and concealed with roses the disharmony
that stole away with the wind lightly veiled

So, ‘neath your tender shade I did avail
myself to sit, a claimed authority
and far beyond mere bounds of satiety
eyes closed, I sigh, offer up my countervail

How is it possible from loves not to die
when far away, absence tearing cries from me
setting free, and loudly, that I’m terrified?

My love for you, I know you don’t deny
in realms sublime, I shall possess you fully
mad I am, meanwhile, to desire you so fiercely…

~~~

Deseos de Piel y Durazno

Desde los aires tibios de tu aliento
en mi cuerpo se derramo tu pecho
encubriendo de rosas al despecho
que partió sigiloso con el viento

Así, bajo tu sombra tome asiento
bajo tu ternura, que es mi derecho
y mas allá de quedar satisfecho
cierro los ojos, suspiro y consiento!

¿Como es posible no morir de amores
cuando lejos, la ausencia rompe el grito
en llanto desatando mis temores?

¡Yo sé bien que mi amor no esta proscrito
mientras en lo sublime te posea!
Loco de mi, quien tanto te desea…

~~~
© Gavriel Navarro, 2013
Image by Gavriel Navarro, 2013, used with permission
Translation © Elaine Stirling, 2013

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Pain Glyphs

Tags

Elaine Stirling, imagination, laments, pain, perception, prose poetry, sad poetry, snow shoveling, storm sewers, transitions

The husk around the heart hurts like hell when the freshness within breaks through. Gibran said it better. So did Harry Nilsson who called it belly achin’.

Pain while it gurgles away loves to have its say, but the flow of slush into a storm sewer doesn’t interest me much, even when, especially when, it’s set to verse. You’ll forgive me, I hope, if I ignore laments, including my own, in favour of the advent of crocuses.

Shoveling wet, heavy snow, I mourn the friend I can’t get near because of the one who’s deemed herself the myelin sheath that coats his neurons. Two intelligences halved, coconut closed, which, I suppose, is where that unfortunate phrase, “my better half”, comes from.

Well, the melt is under way, so I shall ignore the plow that delivered a fresh rampart of snow cement between me and the world’s roadways. The freshness that broke through kindly allows me to sift through the fragments of erstwhile heart-throbs and desiccated grudge, one of which appears vaguely boat-shaped and may be float-worthy long enough to sail me past and over the gurgles.

Sure enough, I spy an island up ahead, not far at all, with a swaying coconut, lime trees, and a boombox with a sonnet.

See you there!

Essay © Elaine Stirling, 2013
Image from mindbodygreen.com

The Bread Inside this Oven: A Cossante

Tags

cossante, Elaine Stirling, fertility chants, form poetry, Galician, jongleurs, Middle Ages, Portugese, rhyming couplets, troubadours

Image from tourist.com, Crevecouer-en-Ange, France

The cook and I did meet ‘neath the oleander tree
till the cuckoo stole his eggs away to Galilee.
Will the bread inside this oven ever rise?

The seaman brought a sturgeon with a rich pink spawn;
we fed each other roe paste till the cod was gone.
Will the bread inside this oven ever rise?

Till the cuckoo stole his eggs away to Galilee,
I’d hoped the stork would help me scrub the chimney.
Will the bread inside this oven ever rise?

We fed each other roe paste till the cod was gone,
no salty little pieces left to nibble on.
Will the bread inside this oven ever rise?

I’d hoped the stork would help me scrub the chimney
But he flew to Santiago for the Holy See.
Will the bread inside this oven ever rise?

No salty little pieces left to nibble on,
it’s time to light fresh coals beneath a different song.
Will the bread inside this oven ever rise?

~~~

The cossante is a Galician-Portuguese folk poetry form made popular in the 12th-14th centuries. Sung initially by women, it contains a weaving pattern known as leixa-pren, a dance term for two alternating lines of dancers and singers. With the rise of troubadours and jongleurs, the humble cossante found its way to royal courts where it became more formalized; but even when sung by men, they often retained the female narration. The oldest known fragments of folk poetry come from 10th century Aquitaine and may have been fertility chants, a theme I’ve scooped happily for this piece.

© Elaine Stirling, 2013

Agoraphilia: Two Sketches

Tags

abundance, agora, brave new leadership, commerce, Elaine Stirling, favourable trade balance, marketplace, Mercury, perception, poetry, self-pity, sonnets, The Corporate Storyteller

You asked me how I’d like to celebrate
the day we met, as if the wild terrain
we share like foxes needs some kind of gate.
All right, let’s swim the currents of your pain.

Walk me slowly through your imperatives:
show me the caged beasts whose jaws clamp shut when
others find means to forget or forgive,
and let me touch those vows that never bend.

No masochist am I nor therapist;
details I don’t need, for all illusion
is the same, looping densities their gist
of pity in self-reflecting fusion.

Take me deep, love, beneath your chemistry
where Nature’s dance beats on, no cover fee.

~~~

The marketplace is a dim provider
amplifying echoes of demands not
met with pretense of supply, our driver
knows the faster route, the sweet perfect spot.

Ignore the chaos of before, no thing
from that jumble can be worn or borne, used
goods are only good when used to be’s bring
laughter or a thought, gently love-infused.

Source your merchandise from gods predisposed
to balance of trade that favours all, no
service give nor lend to latitudes closed
by self-neglecting attitudes. Just flow!

Trust the hidden springs of impulse to lift
the agora to reach your mighty gift.

© Elaine Stirling, 2013
Image posted by Georgios, 2011, at walkingtoursathens.com

The Seamless Magic Carpet Ride of Brave New Leadership

Tags

business ethics, business leadership, corporate communication, Elaine Stirling, executive summary, General Motors, I/you/we, integrity, Mr. Transmission, paradigm shift, Saturn division, The Corporate Storyteller, Three Steps to Everywhere

You can buy or read reviews of the book here.

My poetic friends and readers, I beg your indulgence. The Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry & Poetics, you’ll need to hum to yourself in hexameter or free verse for the time being, while the gnomes and I (see previous post) tend to matters prosaic and incredulating.

As I write this piece, which may be rightly construed as a sales pitch for The Corporate Storyteller: A Writing Manual & Style Guide for the Brave New Business Leader, ten thousand fine people are suing an iconic corporation, known since my childhood for baby shampoo and other familial comforts, for creating an artificial hip that falls apart in five years. An automotive company, associated for decades with luxury and impeccable workmanship, is recalling 500,000 vehicles for a potentially lethal flaw, the second recall of similar magnitude in three years. I could go on about cruise lines that continue to publish flashy ads while their passengers flounder at sea on a disabled ship, but you know what, corporations? You entities that came into being like golems for purposes both nefarious and noble? This isn’t about you.

Who I’d like to honour in this piece are the brave new business leaders I’ve had the privilege to meet in groups of five to fifty since 2001. Technically, they are my students—corporate clients, adult learners, commerce undergrads—men and women who are ready to use language for the purpose that language was created: to communicate, to connect, to share, to improve, to heighten, to adore, to energize, to enrich. We gather in Canada, but we come from every culture. No matter the cradle tongue, religion, or political slant.

Since The Corporate Storyteller came out in 2009, I’ve watched its basic principles take shape in the minds and actions of people from healthcare, finance, mining, education, construction, and not-for-profit, to name a few, at all levels. The principles themselves evolved from the thousand learners who preceded the book’s publication, as I stumbled week after week in the early years, building bridges of duct tape and hope between the creative, the critical, and the non-thinking (read here: stuck to my handheld, I haven’t looked up in seventeen months) worlds. Sure, I had enough writing and managerial background to avoid mutiny, but really, it was the endless “show me, prove it, what do you mean by; yeah but, what if…?” that built the backbone of the instructor who now witnesses genius creators of wisdom, humour, and workable solutions who take what they learn, what they teach themselves out into the world. I float home in states of ecstasy that require no pharmaceuticals and for which there is no coming down.

So what’s going on here?

We’ve all heard the clichés of paradigm shift; the Maya may have charted our transformation five suns ago. As usual, we misinterpret and stock up on canned goods, and when the world doesn’t end, we make snorty noises. A musician/songwriter friend has been proclaiming since I first met him on Facebook: “Love is on the rise.” In fact, it’s the title and lyric of one of John Rasmussen’s songs. (You can enjoy the full song on video, performed by John and his beautiful life partner, Sarah, in the Comments section.)

If believing is seeing, John is right. Love is on the rise. I’m seeing it.

This morning, I reviewed four executive summaries, assignments from my writing class. Reviewed, read, graded. In every way—let me be clear—they were professional documents designed for the audience they’re written for: executives, decision makers, the people of influence. Only, these had the added, deliberate unmeasurable of human voice and the I/you/we structure that I call in The Corporate Storyteller “Three Steps to Everywhere”. All four, every one, made me laugh out loud, cry, gasp, and/or stop to catch my breath. If I’d been the recipient of those documents in real business time/space, I’d be reaching for my phone—where is this person? I need to talk to him/her. Now!

When is the last time you heard such a critique on the ho-hum, God let this be over soon, executive summary?

The thing is, every one of my groups is astonishing me this way. A few months ago, a young professional named Theresa created a five-minute slide show presentation for her organization based on The Corporate Storyteller and our classes. She delivered it TED talk-style without a written script to her colleagues, up and across the org chart, and generously invited me to share her presentation with anyone who expresses an interest. If you’d like a copy of the pdf, you can private message me at Twitter or on Facebook or through my website here. Thank you, Theresa!

Although I’ve heard such things happen, I could not have foreseen how it feels at the cellular level when the teacher becomes the student. It’s an honest-to-gosh reversal of polarities. Heaven comes to Earth; the greater Will that includes us all steps into the driver’s seat and we all relax.

I know there are cynics out there. I know there are people in places of power doing insidious and terrible things because for the time being, they can. But in their mindless, fear-based power grasping, they are not privy—and I mean this literally, they are shut out from what untold numbers of us are seeing within ourselves for the first time, since I don’t know when. That I’m a leader, you’re a leader, he’s a leader, she’s a leader.

The masks are coming down. The communicators and storytellers of the corporate world are showing their true faces, and they are beautiful.

A final note, on the subject of brave new business leadership, I would like to thank Frank Ragno and his soft-spoken, equally talented colleague Tom at my local Mr. Transmission, who replaced the clutch on my trusty red Saturn. GM corporate strategists, you really have no idea what you threw away when you shut down the Saturn division, but I’ll talk to you later. I am now driving what feels like a V-8 engine in a brand new car, warmed by the integrity and kindness of the best service I have encountered in the automotive industry, ever.

We shall keep singing it loudly, John. Love is, indeed, on the rise!

© Elaine Stirling, 2013

A Concourse of Gnomes

Tags

Elaine Stirling, gnomic poetry, intelligence, la pregunta, love, meeting point of science and myth, mythic creatures, pain vs. joy, poetic debate, poetics

What are you chasing, my green-eyed friend, with your net
through these dark, deep catacombs? The gnomes who came
before you have mined all the gold, and if pleasure
be your aim, you’ll find no blooming lilies here.

Why you ask and who you are I dare not know, yet
Pythagoras warned me that angles of shame
are a cute tight squeeze, so I’ll admit the treasure
I seek is the end of pain. That much is clear.

Heigh, ho! From the ville of seven hills I come to
carve new epithets and find you two have blocked
my way. You’ve swallowed carpe diem like a fish;
how about we try instead, release the day!

Dimittam die, Horace? Full-sighted as you
ever were. ‘Tis true. Assenting to be rocked
by passion, yes, but to be squished into a niche
we none of us should wish. This gnome’s had her say.

How well you play humility, dear Kassia!
The women of my day, too much of heeding old
aunts lost their ear for nuance, drove us menfolk to
the Sophist hills, their sisters fared not well at all—

But, wait! I, Simonides, friend of Mnemosyne,
have heard from gnomes Arabian that poets
who moan and do not otherwise pay their dues will
deep into shafts of mediocrity fa-a-a-a-ll…

And so the discourse of the gnomes goes on
perpetual intelligence in epic
verse & song. Pain loves to howl in sad refrain, but
Joy is love’s true keeper of the flame.

~~~

If words were chemistry sets, I’d have blown myself to smithereens years ago. Facts, in my opinion, are a silicone polymer, and meant to be played with, like Silly Putty. So in these seven stanzas, I have pummeled, bent and stretched history, as required, to illustrate two cool poetic concepts: gnomic poetry and La Pregunta.

The Greek word gnōmē, pronounced like the fabled race of mine guardians and their ceramic equivalent, comes from the root of gignōskein, to know. A couple thousand years ago, they were short moral lessons, set to verse as mnemonic devices. Another translation of gnōmē is “opinion”, and so you might say this poem is a concourse or gathering of opinions…underground, to allow for the Nordic variety.

I’ve allotted quatrains to a few of the best known gnomic poets, including Kassia, the 6th century Byzantine and only female of the bunch, and Pythagoras, who is said to have written gnomic poetry in his formative years.

La Pregunta was a style of poetic debate practiced in the 14th and 15th century Spanish courts. Using Q & A format, a question or challenge was posed by one poet, and the second poet had to answer intelligently, matching the rhyme scheme and meter. Fumblers were expected to bow out gracefully, though given the era, more than a few probably avenged their bruised poetics outside the court walls with swords.

© Elaine Stirling, 2013
Image: Catacombs of San Sebastiano, Rome, from Wikipedia

Whizbangs & Gold Stars: a sonnet

Tags

brave new leadership, Elaine Stirling, hendecasyllabic, poetry, recovery of talent, redefining authority, respect of self, Spenserian sonnet, The Corporate Storyteller

Where do all the best essays go, the ones marked
with stars, and the fine works of art teachers hang
in the hall for beauty queens, bullies and dark
troubled souls to ignore? Who shoots the whizbang
that breaks our balloon to drop us among fanged
blood-sucking tools? I know, I know! a small
voice cries in shadows of the plant’s overhang.
Do your job, says the one in the fore. Don’t call
us unless you have new and improved means to
take from the rest. And the little gold star falls
to the floor. Suffocation turns good words blue,
while the tools we build in their stead are recalled.

The one who knows picks up all you’ve left behind
places it three steps ahead for you to find.

~~~

The rhyme scheme for this sonnet is ababbcbccdcdee, known as Spenserian. For meter, I’ve used hendecasyllabic, which calls to mind a feathered, clucking leader, but which actually means eleven syllables. In Romance languages, the meter sounds natural; in English, not so much. I liked the sense of discomfort it evokes for this subject matter.

© Elaine Stirling, 2013

Ain’t No Good Ports of Call on a Mental Lagoon

Tags

awareness, choices, Elaine Stirling, ignoring the signs, poetry, prevention of abuse, relationships, self-worth

sweet lady, I hear
you’re taking a cruise
with a man you’ve just
met with a knack for
the blues, see you packing
your best, feel the breeze
of the swing of your
beautiful hips

in these days
leading up to the
launch of the ship
you grow younger
by years, all the
scars of the tracks
of your tears
melt away

while I hope that
your trip brings you
all that you crave

and that what I’m suspecting
is unnecessarily grave

I wouldn’t be much
of a sister now, would I
if I let you sail off with your
dreams on your sleeve
when I see where
he’s planted
the soul of his
wandering feet

ain’t no good
ports of call on
a mental lagoon

it’s not about saying
I’ve been where you’re
going, I haven’t

and it’s not that
we make the wrong
choices, we don’t

what we do is we pack
the wrong clothes for
the season, no screen
for the burns when you
reach the equator and
everything opposite
sails back to meet you

ain’t no good
ports of call on
a mental lagoon

but I know that
you’re going, so here
is a map of the eddies
and linns where the salt
ponds of sadness may
pull you too deep

and here is an
anchor to hold you
through storms, if you
stay in the center, lie
low, you’ll be safe

and finally I give you
this locket of ivory, the
scrimshaw inside in a
script he can’t read

of the truth of you

at the first sign
of blame, the first
indication that maybe
the blues he done wrapped
in his packet of charm
holds an asp

take your locket
to the captain
he’ll know
what to do

ain’t no good
ports of call on
a mental lagoon

© Elaine Stirling, 2013
Image of vintage postcard from zazzle.com

From the Silence: A Chant Royal

Tags

Chant Royal, Elaine Stirling, form poetry, French medieval verse, inner silence, Law of Attraction

Christine de Pizan presenting The Book of the City of Ladies to Queen Isabeau

In my continuing exploration (between fits of free verse madness) of old poetry forms, I offer here the Chant Royal, five 11-line stanzas and a concluding envoi that takes the medieval ballade, my previous post, even further.

This super-fun challenge was introduced to the 14th century French courts by a well-respected author and poet who was also a woman. Christine de Pizan had the courage to challenge misogyny and the stereotypes of her era, no small feat considering these were the times of the Inquisition, of witch hunts, and crusades against the Cathars and other heretics.

I’ll save the rhyme scheme details for the end of the poem and the die-hard poets. (I know some of you, and I appreciate you to the stars!) What I will say here is this. We have been led to believe that the so-called Dark Ages contributed little to humanity beyond castle ruins, the Black Plague, and the aforementioned terrors. But I believe that deep within those years of butchery were genuine Minds on Fire. Troubadours, jongleurs, poets, and jesters (the royal fools) challenged each other’s wits for three to four hundred years with tremendous feats of language and rhyme, and may thereby have set the neuronal cornerstones for the geniuses of the Renaissance who would follow them. That’s my theory anyhow, and I like the feel of it.

I hope you enjoy “From the Silence”.

~~~

I

In the days of Egypt old there lived an
aristocracy whose lives revolved round
plucking, tweezing, averting summer tan;
‘twas only slaves while heeding every sound
from Pharaoh and his concubines enjoyed
the drench of sun on hairy skin. Less buoyed
they were by foremen of the pyramids
who viewed them as dispensable, a grid
whose lines could be replaced, a human gyre
spinning revolt, while inner voices bid:
please refrain from snapping like a tripwire.

II

In times of sooty England when the span
of industry drove youth into the ground,
when coolies and imported lesser man—
dirt cheap—drove spikes of railway iron down
through swampland, clay & stone, could not avoid
the shaming and starvation, they employed
a reddish antidote by which to rid
themselves of all the cruel bosses did.
In whispered ranks they counseled & inspired
how best to send the oligarchs askid.
Please refrain from snapping like a tripwire.

III

Today in grayish cubicles we’re crammed,
to screens of mindless data locked and bound
as viewers and consumers, Idol fans.
Through tainted quests for liberty we’ve found
our problems well described by Jung and Freud,
but none of the solutions that we’ve toyed
with wakes us from the drowsy carotid
that pulses in our craniated lid.
Ask anyone, they’ll tell you, I am tired.
I want to say, as if to spoiled kids,
please refrain from snapping like a tripwire.

IV

And then the day arrived when all my plans
to not unsnap blew up and flew around
like bits of Styrofoam. I ran my hand
through empty air, walked lonely through the town,
my iPod tuned to favourites from Pink Floyd.
I turned them off. What was this, now destroyed?
Beneath a bush, I heard a katydid
sweet-singing, clear and uninhibited.
She was not moaning, Katy should, her fire
held no judgment—the knowing came rapid:
please refrain from snapping like a tripwire.

V

I write these final stanzas from the Cannes
Film Festival where movie stars and hounds
hope movies that they love will not be panned.
The story that I thought had run aground
now stars my favourite actors who’ve deployed
the subtlest of my plot lines from the void
where all that matters must begin. Madrid
is next, and after that, who knows? Amid
the fun of now exists the all, no higher.
I’ve been reminded by a stellerid,
please refrain from snapping like a tripwire.

VI

It’s true, my friends, we’ve all inherited
capacities for joy unlimited;
by seeing what we want in full attire,
Creation’s law attracts the best of it.
Please refrain from snapping like a tripwire.

© Elaine Stirling, 2013

The rhyme scheme for Chant Royal is ababccddedE with the end line repeated in each of the five 11-line stanzas and the final envoi. The envoi can be either five or seven lines, rhymed as ddedE or ccddedE. Christine added the final mind-pretzeling rule: Apart from line E, no repetition of end words!

Virtual Intelligence

Tags

ballade, Elaine Stirling, form poetry, French medieval dancing songs, privacy, reality

Paranoia dressed for a night out

I

The message came from someone I don’t know:
they’ve plans to take away our privacy.
Spit twice and rub your elbow till it glows
then carve your name inside this canopy.
What I’ve just said is utter lunacy,
but paranoia makes me roll my eyes
and cross my tease, for in reality
who hasn’t stolen has no need of spies.

II

By thinking new is how we best can grow
the neurons that surpass redundancy,
so why spend hours chasing, to and fro,
the same complaints through life’s brief tenancy?
We’ve all known random acts of piracy
and plenty you will find who’d patronize
your pain for their own history;
who hasn’t stolen has no need of spies.

III

While nations tangle in each other’s woe
and advertisers claim transparency,
the greater part of you would rather flow
with trust and mirth and sweet serenity.
Through heart and mind aligned, prosperity
knows how to plant the seeds that maximize.
This rhyming ballade you may read for free.
Who hasn’t stolen has no need of spies.

IV

Since I’ve no answers for modernity
I’ll take my chances with the grand surprise
and leave this tiny clue for all to see.
Who hasn’t stolen, has. No need of spies!

~~~

The ballade, as it’s known in form poetry, derives from the medieval French chansons balladée, which were originally dancing songs. Three 8-line stanzas rhyme ababbcbC (C being a repeated line) with a concluding envoi, bcbC.

Image: A costume design for Louis XIV as The Rising Sun from the final entrée of Le Ballet de la Nuit, 1653.

© Elaine Stirling, 2013