It has looked as if it's just about to start to rain for three days now, and it's cold. I put this haiku cycle together about two months ago, and I'm still doubting whether to call it "Come in from the Cold" or "November Snapshots".
For those of you that like the creative-process-is-it-autobiographical bit, I composed the first poem more than a year ago when I was locked out of a little mountain refuge very early in the morning, when my friends were indeed still asleep. The third one I wrote very soon afterwards,but in a very urban setting, after a long, long struggle with the Pink Floyd line. The little boy and girl in the second poem are my brother and I, age 8 and 6; that, and the Elegy to a Fritatta, are my only poems to date inspired or about my brother (I'll post the Elegy sometime soon). The last one is the most recent one: I wrote it in late November 2004. In February 2003, I spent a week in Limerick, Ireland, with two of my best friends who were living there. I loved the look and feel of frosty grass and I remembered it with nostalgia until I went back to live in a cold climate, this school year. Like all my weather poems it has a bit of Alan Spence in it.
1. Alone, out at dawn. The icy wind wraps me up While my friends sleep. Salgo sola, al amanecer. El viento gélido me envuelve Mientras mis amigos duermen.
2 Two fiery dragons: Boy and girl in raincoats, Their breath of steam. Dos feroces dragones: Un niño y una niña con impermeables, Su aliento de vapor.
3 Leaf clings to the tree, Chill autumn. Dont give in without a fight (Pink Floyd) Una hoja se aferra a la rama. Otoño helado. No te rindas sin oponer resistencia.
4 Glittery with frost The grass puts on a costume: a late Halloween. Con purpurina de escarcha la hierba se disfraza: Un Halloween tardío.
The only shade of green Cornell misses: Dull silver of olive trees.
El único tono de verde que falta en Cornell: Plata mate de los olivos.
I havent written enough haiku about trees, considering how much I identify the landscape of towns with the local trees (or their absence). I cant like a town that doesnt have plenty of trees.
This was the first poem I wrote in Ithaca. It took me many weeks to let the impressions of the new place rest for long enough to write poems about them, and then I started writing frantically about people instead of landscapes.
The micro-short story is a very demanding genre. A microstory should not seem a chunk from a bigger thing. It should not have a suspense end as if it was missing one sentence. It is acceptable to begin as if something was missing from the beginning of the story, but ideally, the beginning should not be abrupt. When I wrote prose fiction, I wrote little vignettes to work on interesting sentences that I couldnt weave into proper stories, but I never tried to compose real microstories back then. This is my second one. According to my own rules, its not very good; ¿do you think it needs a couple of sentences in the beginning to explain This man and woman had an affair and then broke up?
It is dedicated to a friend of mine, who often writes about infidelity, absence, and break-ups. I think hed rather stay anonymous, but he knows who he is.
Six months later, he said I wrote a poem about you, back then. She answered, oh, thats alright. I also write about people I know. It was exactly then that he decided that what he felt for her was not tenderness for an old lover, but despise. What a relief.
Seis meses más tarde, él le dijo: Escribí un poema sobre ti, aquellos días. Ella contestó: Ya, yo también escribo sobre gente que conozco. Fue justo entonces cuando él decidió que lo que sentía por ella no era ternura por una antigua amante, sino desprecio. Qué alivio.
It was only a matter of time until the haikus blended with the culture shock and I started to write comedy of manners in verse. Wow.
Killed by your beauty, Little tag hanging from my lips: Coffee or something?
Tu belleza me ha matado. Una etiquetita cuelga ahora de mis labios, Y dice Quedamos para tomar café, o algo?
Would you like us to go out some time? is a date. Would you like to go out for a coffee? might be a date or might be friends going out together.
Dyou wanna g out for a coffee or smthin? is the last resource of the too shy to ask for a date, too impatient to wait to be asked, and too nervous to get a sentence straight without a tag hanging from it. I sincerely believe that asking people for a coffee or something brings bad luck.
Id love to have an illustration for this one, something like a dead body lying on an autopsy table or a morgue with a sheet up to the shoulders and a tag hanging from the mouth instead of from a toe. Wow, I can be morbid sometimes.
Los siete puentes abrazando la ciudad, a todos nosotros.
Our seven bridges Hugging the city, hugging us all.
The mantra goes:
Alamillo, Barqueta, Chapina, Triana, San Telmo, Delicias, Quinto Centenario. A harp, a leap, a ship, a dance, a park, a road, a tower. To Grans, to bars, to walk, way back, to class, to park, and trucks.
I think Ive made myself very clear. If you know any towns where the North is to the left, of course.
A poem to order you to go out, have fun, and find love. I don't want to hear how many exams or papers you have to prepare.
1. Dance with your eyes closed. The smell, the music, the heat Are all you need to see. Baila con los ojos cerrados. El olor, la música, el calor son todo lo que necesitas ver.
2. I like your blond skin I want your blond smile. Im looking for some blonde fun. Me gusta tu rubia piel Me atrae tu rubia sonrisa Quiero divertirme rubiamente.
3. How can we know the dancer from the dance? (W. B. Yeats) Do I dance better if you watch? ¿Cómo distinguir el baile de la bailarina? ¿Bailo mejor cuando me miras?
4. Dawn sets the sky on fire. Day comes to stop all parties. Survivors crawl out. El amanecer prende fuego al cielo. El día llega para acabar con todas las fiestas. Los supervivientes se van, arrastrándose.
I think that Aurora said once that she liked to be as inside as possible the creation process of other writers, so for her and anyone else who wants gossip this is the biographical note of these little babies. The only one of the four poems that didn't just come tome as a flash of inspiration was number 4. Numbers 2 and 4 came first chronologically; Number 2 I actually composed (that is, I made it up, but I wrote it down the morning after, of course) during an alcohol-soaked party and it does express the way I felt about the friend of a friend. The mutual friend, Virginia, helped the morning after with the translation, mostly with word order. Number 4 mixes the exhausted feeling after that party, which was in Limerick (Ireland), with a photograph of the sunset over Aberdeen (Scotland) and it is my attempt to turn Björk's song Pluto into a haiku. Number 1 I composed while I was dancing in a bar in Granada with my oldest friend, Irene francés; that one had been waiting to come out for ever and ever because I do dance with my eyes closed, at least when I'm really happy and relaxed. This happened a whole year after the original two party haikus, ad since I already had three I shuffled them a lot trying to compose a fourth to balance a party cycle. The answer came nearly a year afterwards, not at a party but at a Belly Dance class recital, the first time I ever danced for others to see. I composed the poem a few days afterward, and the "you" is the only friend of mine who came to see the recital. I didn't really steal the quote from Yeats, but from an analysis of him by the philosopher Paul de Man. After that it was only a question of arranging them in the order that nights out usually take: Dance, lust, dance and lust put together, home.
I first posted this haiku sequence in December. It is still called The Friday Cycle, a title I wasnt too happy with. Im still trying to get used to it. Any suggestions for a change?
No, no voy a poner mi corazón en un poema. No, No en un poema como en una bandeja. Pues entonces ese pedacito de mí quizá tuyo lo leerán otros, y otros se lo contarán a alguien. Mi corazón que empezó mío y luego fue tuyo acabará repartido. Cortado con tenedor y cuchillo. Todos podrán compararlo con los que ya conocen: Los otros corazones puestos en bandejas, Pinchados sobre un panel, Intimidades que otros incautos (no yo) Pusieron en un poema para compartirlo. Yo no, prefiero no ponerlo. No. En un poema, no. No es en un poema donde puedo darte mi corazón.
Heart on a tray. No, Im not going to put my heart into a poem. No, Not into a poem as if on a tray. Because then That piece of me maybe yours Will be read by others And others will tell someone else. My heart initially mine And then yours Will end up spread Cut up in little pieces with knife and fork Everyone will be able to compare it with others they know The other hearts set on trays Pinned onto a board Innermost thoughts that the naïve (not me) Put into a poem they would share. Not me, Id rather not. No. Not in a poem. Its not through a poem that I will give you my heart.
So this is what I wrote when I wanted to put into a poem what now I call "The Therapy Effect". The initial intention was to satirise a very dominant style among the poets in my hometown, maybe in my country as a whole, a certain melancholy-surreal mode. The effect was not exactly what I had planned.
No sólo los árboles tienen raíces. Es raíz lo que te sujeta. Raíz lo que apoya. Raíz, origen. Hasta los números tienen raíces, quien diría que algo tan frío tiene un principio. También los dientes tienen sus raíces. Algunas sólo se pueden recordar cuando duelen. Cuando no se tienen. Si las rompes. Si se van.
Decido separarme de mis raíces, marcharme, y dejarlas aquí. Que les vaya bien. Roots
Not only the trees have roots. Root is what supports you. Root what holds you. Root, origin. Even numbers have their roots, who wouldve thought that something so cold has a beginning. Teeth are born from roots too. Some are remembered only when they hurt. when you lose them. When broken. When gone.
I decide to sever off my roots, go away, and leave them here. Fare them well.
I wrote this one very soon before coming to Ithaca. I still dont know it is good enough to compensate for being so self-indulging.
Curse your uniqueness. After you left me, Each passing face looked like yours.
Maldita seas, por ser distinta. Desde que te fuiste, Cada cara que pasa se te parece.
Heh. This one was a tanka, which means it was twice as long. It was an embarrassing mess that no shuffling about of synonyms would mend (desperation in poems, à la Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer, is a very poisonous thing). It took me quite a lot of drafting and ruthless criticism from someone else (thanks, Jhoe) to realise that the problem was that the speaker should hate the beloved. No ambiguity there.
After knowing that the atmosphere in Mars is less that 1% as dense as the Earths, so even the fastest winds can hardly be felt at all. Wild, fast and pointless. Looking for a cheap love cure. Like the winds in Mars.
Cuando supe que la atmósfera de Marte tiene menos del 1% de densidad que la de la Tierra, por lo que los vientos huracanados ni se sienten. Rápido, salvaje, sin sentido. Buscando un vulgar remedio amoroso. Como los vientos de Marte.
Some time ago I said that "last summer I attended a sort of conference for poets, which publishers and other interested people attended too". Actually, I lied. I didn't attend the conference, I was only there because I won a prize in a poetry by text message competition and I'll give you that poem on another occasion (you find a fraction of it if you google my full name, Eugenia Andino Lucas, but I hate that website's layout). Anyway, there was a dinner and I had the chance to talk with a few professionals, amateurs like me, and publishers, and someone quite ruthless said a way of telling apart the bad amateurs from the promising ones:
Lots of young people write poetry. They are easy to sort out because the mediocre ones stop writing when they get into a steady relationship.
That fits nicely into the usual male-oriented explanations of the creative impulse as something nearly sexual. There is the Sheherezade model: being creative makes you sexy. There is the Sublimation model: you put into creating the energies that you'd put into sex if there was an available partner. There is the Oedipal model, the idea that you write because you want to beat your influences (your influences are your ather and Art is your mother: apply Oedipus to the triangle)
I havent had the opportunity to see if that critic's theory applies to me, but I doubt it. Not because I believe I am above mediocrity, but because I think I write faster and better when I have an audience. I think it's very funny (in the "strange" and in the "amusing" senses) how some of my most creative spells, the ten-poems-a-week fits, have taken place in that bubbling ground at the very earliest stages of relationships. I am curious about whether, if I ever have a steady relationship again, that person (or me getting lazy and comfortable) will kill my Muse. I hope not.
By the way, is anybody interested in a post about the Muses? Any fans of obscure mythology reading this?
A flame, a firework, Red fans, a surprise. Banana tree in a garden.
Una llama, fuegos artificiales, Abanicos rojos, una sorpresa. Una platanera en un jardín.
I love trees. A childhood in an industrial town without trees makes you appreciate them better later. When I came back to Spain from my first trip to Scotland, I summarised my misery as No cherry trees here and no palm trees there. Later, I have learnt to enjoy living in two or three countries at once, but I still associate certain trees (bananas, citrus, palm trees) with home.
So imagine my happiness when I saw that a beautiful garden in Cornell had a banana tree.
I have a week of holidays and I'll be in Washington until Wednesday, so don't expect any updates in a few days. These days are important in my hometown, so rather than talking about the hows and whys here you have (again) a poem about it.
El Río de Norte a Sur (para ciudades que tengan el norte a la izquierda).
1. Presos del suelo, Me envidian si patino. ¡Mira cómo vuelo! (Grafitti anónimo en el puente de Chapina)
Prisoners of the ground They envy me when I skate Watch me fly!
2. Sobre el río, paz verde, Cruzan tres flechas. Piraguas blancas.
On the river, green stillness, Three arrows crossing. White kayaks.
3. Los siete puentes abrazando la ciudad, a todos nosotros.
Our seven bridges Hugging the city, hugging us all.
4. Jardines del Cristina. Mi abuelo no está. Pero yo sí.
Cristina Gardens. My grandfathers gone. But here I am.
5. Niebla y gorrillas. Siete de la mañana, Lunes de frío.
Beggars on heroin. Fog, seven a. m. As cold as Mondays can be.
Like frozen flowers (paralysed beauty), the friendship of ex-lovers.
Como flores congeladas (belleza paralizada) la amistad de antiguos amantes.
I dont know if I like this one, because it is too me. Succinct, ambiguous, sentimental but impersonal. It refuses to say if the friendship of ex-lovers is a good or a bad thing, and it is so detached there is not even an I. Still, better a poem like an icicle than line after line of exhibitionism, ewwwww.
Cinnamon shoulders, your waist is a reed. You can't be snapped by the wind.
Hombros de canela, tu cintura es un junco. No puede romperte el viento.
Me: I couldn't write poetry even if I tried. Him: Oh yes you can. I wrote a haiku about him, to prove him wrong. And then another. And another. He might deny his responsibility, but he was the one that made a poet of me, my own personal Erato-and-Polymnia in male form.
English is easier for haikus because the words are shorter. I translated the first few just because my readers were Spanish. To me, the real version was the original one, the Spanish one just a crutch for readers. About six months and twenty poems later, I wrote my first translation that was not a gloss to the English haiku; by that time, I was already considering the English and the Spanish versions of each poem as a pair that should not be broken.
Hay una sola palabra: primavera, Pero no hay una sola primavera. Yo conozco dos. Necesitamos dos palabras para las dos primaveras. Una primavera fría, Esquiva, Primavera que muestra pero no da. Beatrice, Dark Lady, Laura, Stella, Elisa, De blanco cuello blanco que no puedes besar. Primavera de escalofrío y lluvia, Una flor al día. Cada tierno brote una semana de anhelo, Cielos azules que prometen brisa suave Pero engañan. Cuatro meses de súplica y diez días de calor, Conozco primaveras (¿o eran mujeres?) así. Y otra primavera ardiente, Colores que estallan, Toda entregada entera, Flores y fruta y luz, De golpe. Y de repente te trae el verano, Ahogo, sofoco, bochorno, treinta y siete grados, Exigencias. Te dio placer y te hará sudar. Conozco primaveras (¿o eran mujeres?) así.
There is one word: spring, But there isnt just one spring, I know two of them. We need two words for two different springs. A cold spring, Aloof, Spring that shows but does not give. Beatrice, Dark Lady, Laura, Stella, Eliza, Daphne, With a white neck white she wont let you kiss. Spring of chills and rain, A flower a day. Every tender new leaf after a week of desire, Blue skies that promise a soft breeze: They lie. Four months begging on your knees and ten days of warmth, I have known springs (or were they women?) like this. And a hot fiery spring, Colours that burst, All for you, completely, Flowers and fruit and light, At once. And suddenly she brings summer, Stifling scorching sweltering thirty seven degrees*, Demands. She gave you pleasure, shell make you sweat. I have known springs (or were they women?) like this.
This poem is a lot longer than I had planned at first! Sometimes I think Im writing free verse because Im losing the discipline to stick to haiku constraints. Maybe in a few days or weeks Ill be able to take all these ideas into fifteen syllables (and I will probably prefer that version to this one).
I wrote this one after a whole day of walking on slush, looking at the tiny grey shoots that will become leaves on the trees on campus. If this weather was a woman it would be The Teaser From Hell, some sort of Renaissance protagonist of a sonnet.
The night lies ahead. Cup of tea full to the brim. The poem doesnt come.
Toda la noche por delante. Una taza de té llena hasta el borde. El poema no llega.
Let' say this again: Every artist that has stopped to theorise about Art in the abstract, about What Art Ought to Be, reaches a simple and easy conclusion. Art ought to be what I do. I am, of course, no exception. What I like and dislike is dictated by what I do or cant do.
So: If I say that haikus offer the perfect balance of form and freedom, it means that what I can and cannot write gives me that opinion. First of all, I love haikus because they dont rhyme. Rhyme is an unnecessary constraint that forces the poet to look for a word that fits form instead of meaning. Rhyme for its own sake, especially when it is difficult as in Spanish rap, is an interesting device. In poetry, is often superfluous, and whats worse, distracting. And the most important thing: para rimar tiempos verbales, mejor no escribas. That is, youd better not write at all if you intend to rhyme grammatical suffixes or particles.
Good. We have one principle: use excellent, original rhyme for its own sake, or dont rhyme at all. Now, the distinction between poetry and poetic prose is in rhythm. Of all the non-rhyming traditional poetic forms, haikus are interesting because they must be concise: you cannot waste a syllable. Forms that dont have a line count run the risk of heading straight into explanation. This is what happened slipping into and this is the way it made me feel. A haiku is the photograph of a feeling, not its description.
The last question is why not free verse. Free verse is the hardest of all because there are no rules and that makes mistakes so much easier. The balance is no longer between form and meaning but between freedom and self-indulgence. The old saying master the rules before breaking them applies. A good poem is one that is fresh and original even if it sticks to the rules. But, what makes a good free verse poem? Nobody knows. Yet.
A flame, a firework, 
I have a week of holidays and I'll be in Washington until Wednesday, so don't expect any updates in a few days. These days are important in my hometown, so rather than talking about the hows and whys here you have (again) a poem about it.