Poetry Soup – Ep. 13: “There Was Earth Inside Them” by Paul Celan Transcript: Hello, and welcome to Poetry Soup! I’m your host, Emma Catherine Hoff. Today, I’ll be reading the poem, “There was Earth Inside Them,” by Paul Celan. Paul Celan was born on November 23, 1920, in what was formerly Cernăuți, Kingdom of Romania, and is now Chernivtsi, Ukraine, into a Jewish family. Despite being born in Romania, Celan mainly spoke German. His father was adamant about Celan’s education in Hebrew and about Judaism in general. Around the time Celan graduated from preparatory school, he began writing poetry. Celan went to France in order to study medicine, but he went back home a year later to study language and literature. During World War II, while Celan was away from home, his parents were sent to a concentration camp, where they both died. This is the reason why so much of Celan’s poetry is about the Holocaust. In 1952, Celan married Gisèle Lestrange, who was a French graphic artist. Paul Celan drowned himself on April 20, 1970. Much of his work was later translated by Michael Hamburger, who translated the poem I will be reading today. There Was Earth Inside Them, and they dug. They dug and they dug, so their day went by for them, their night. And they did not praise God, who, so they heard, wanted all this, who, so they heard, knew all this. They dug and heard nothing more; they did not grow wise, invented no song, thought up for themselves no language. They dug. There came a stillness, and there came a storm, and all the oceans came. I dig, you dig, and the worm digs too, and that singing out there says: They dig. O one, o none, o no one, o you: Where did the way lead when it led nowhere? O you dig and I dig and I dig towards you, and on our finger the ring awakes. “They Had Earth Inside Them” is one of my favorite poems, and Paul Celan one of my favorite poets – all of his poetry has beautiful rhythm and metaphor. This poem is an extended metaphor, filled with beautiful language that paints images in the minds of the readers – such as a ring “awakening,” or shining on a finger. The poem is about trying to find meaning in existence. In the poem, a group of people referred to simply as “they,” dig to discover this meaning. As “they” dig, time passes by, and they invent no “song” or “language.” In this way, the first part of the poem seems to show the search for meaning as negative. The lines, “And they did not praise God,/ who, so they heard, wanted all this,/ who, so they heard, knew all this,” suggest that religion is a sort of search for meaning as well, God being a stand-in for the meaning of life. After the line, “there came a stillness and there came a storm,” everything changes. This line is the turn of the poem. All of a sudden, Celan breaks the parallelism, making it so not only “they” are digging, but also “I,” “you,” and, of course, the “worm,” a symbol of death, showing that life is short and that we are all trapped in the search for meaning. In the end of the poem, the ring “awakens” on a finger, almost as if it has been shined by the digging and scraping of the hands in the dirt. This line disperses all the negativity at the end of the poem – the ring symbolizes the little things that we live for, it symbolizes finding the “earth inside of them,” or the meaning that is in them, perched on their finger. The image of the poem does remain mixed, however – the ring shines, but it could also be covered in dirt from the repeated digging. Celan managed to create this beautiful poem in just four stanzas – the power of a short poem. I hope you enjoyed this episode of Poetry Soup, and I’ll see you soon with the next one!
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Poetry Soup Ep. 12 – “An Ox Looks at Man” by Carlos Drummond de Andrade
Poetry Soup – Ep. 12: “An Ox Looks at Man” by Carlos Drummond de Andrade Transcript: Hello, and welcome to Poetry Soup! I’m your host, Emma Catherine Hoff. Today I’ll be talking about the poem, “An Ox Looks at Man,” by Carlos Drummond de Andrade, which inspired my own poem. Carlos Drummond de Andrade was born on October 31, 1902 in Itabira, Minas Gerais, Brazil. He went to a school of pharmacy, but did not enjoy it. Rather than a pharmacist, de Andrade was a civil servant. As well as writing poetry, de Andrade became director of history for the National Historical and Artistic Heritage Service of Brazil and, later, during World War II, started editing the official newspaper of the Brazilian Communist Party, Tribuna Popular, for a short while. The famous poet Mark Strand (who is one of my favorite poets!), translated a lot of de Andrade’s poetry, and his first English language translator was Elizabeth Bishop, whose villanelle, “One Art,” is featured in Poetry Soup. De Andrade wrote poems on many subjects, but every one of his poems exudes the same gracefulness and beauty. They are more delicate even than shrubs and they run and run from one side to the other, always forgetting something. Surely they lack I don’t know what basic ingredient, though they present themselves as noble or serious, at times. Oh, terribly serious, even tragic. Poor things, one would say that they hear neither the song of the air nor the secrets of hay; likewise they seem not to see what is visible and common to each of us, in space. And they are sad, and in the wake of sadness they come to cruelty. All their expression lives in their eyes–and loses itself to a simple lowering of lids, to a shadow. And since there is little of the mountain about them – nothing in the hair or in the terribly fragile limbs but coldness and secrecy — it is impossible for them to settle themselves into forms that are calm, lasting and necessary. They have, perhaps, a kind of melancholy grace (one minute) and with this they allow themselves to forget the problems and translucent inner emptiness that make them so poor and so lacking when it comes to uttering silly and painful sounds: desire, love, jealousy (what do we know?) – sounds that scatter and fall in the field like troubled stones and burn the herbs and the water, and after this it is hard to keep chewing away at our truth. Rather than writing a poem from the point of view of a human being, Carlos Drummond de Andrade instead writes his from the point of view of an ox looking at humans (referred to as “man” in the title of the poem). The ox seems to feel pity for the humans because they feel so much (“desire, love, jealousy”), and therefore suffer so much. Though the ox can somehow name these feelings, it does not truly know them – “(what do we know?)” The ox thinks humans are fragile and pathetic, that they are lacking in something because they are not strong, because they don’t always get along, because they have feelings that are depressing. But the ox does not know of bravery or friendship, other traits among humans. It only sees sadness, because it cannot really imagine happiness. It has never been happy, trapped in the same daily routine. And so it sees humans as a way of showing itself that its life is not so bad. This is the result of a life without true meaning. The ox does not only comment on itself, however, as de Andrade’s main point is to critique humans. Man to man, there are things we do not see – no matter what things we do, we still think of ourselves as the superior race. But we can counter these feelings in the way de Andrade does – through the eyes of a different animal, such as an ox. The ox says, for example, that “little of the mountain is about them,” showing that humans are somewhat abstracted from their environment. While other animals live in peace with nature, we sometimes even destroy it. This poem shows us that because humanity is so complex, looking at it almost disturbs the ox’s calm demeanor. The ox is not used to this level of intricacy. I wrote my own poem based on “An Ox Looks at Man,” from the point of view of a horse. It goes like this: What the Horse Saw They lack hooves, and they have straw falling from their heads. They have cast a spell to make it soft, like my mane, but not as elegant. I gallop gracefully, and they crouch down, panting, calling me. The beauty of my ballet is countered only by the humor of their jig, which they dance so insistently. They stand there only to make me laugh. I respond to no name. Not the name of the horse, not the name of the animal. They tried to give me a name, and they called me by it, but it was all a part of their play, where they doubled over, running off their grassy stage after me. They made my escape more pleasurable than I thought it would be. Now I have only bushes to talk to, and they make bad companions. They think my eyes are small, that because I do not recognize red, I do not recognize them. My laughs stay secret and joyous, like my leap from the stable to the world. The flies stayed inside, and I became free. They called my name. I respond to no name. Maybe if they named me for my beauty, if they named me for my laughter. If they named me for my feelings or for my color, I might yield. But they gave me someone else’s name. I know the horse they called Onyx, a blank canvas, but black,
Poetry Soup Ep. 11 – “A Painter’s Thoughts (1)” by John Yau
Poetry Soup – Ep. 11: “A Painter’s Thoughts (1)” by John Yau Transcript: Hello, and welcome to Poetry Soup! I’m your host, Emma Catherine Hoff. Today I’ll be talking about the poem, “A Painter’s Thoughts (1),” one of many poems of the same title by the American poet John Yau. John Yau was born on June 5, 1950, in Lynn, Massachusetts. His parents emigrated from China, and Yau’s Chinese heritage is a constant theme in his poetry, especially in his O Pin Yin sonnets, featured in his book of poetry, Genghis Chan on Drums. This book was published in 2021, and includes the poem I’ll be reading today. In addition to being a poet, Yau is a critic, and writes a lot about art. He also teaches art history. He is a recipient of the Academy of American Poets Lavan Award and the Guggenheim Fellowship. He was once the arts editor of the publication The Brooklyn Rail, but now he is an editor at Hyperallergic. He also runs a publishing press called Black Square Editions. As well as speaking about “A Painter’s Thoughts (1),” I will also comment on Yau’s poem “The Philosopher (1).” Yau also has many poems by the name of “The Philosopher.” After William Bailey (1930-2020) I want to paint in a way that the “I” disappears into the sky and trees The idea of a slowed down, slowly unfolding image held my attention Variations on a theme are of no interest. A bowl and cup are not ideas. I want my painting to be what it contains: it should speak, not me The idea of a slowed down, slowly unfolding image held my attention I paint things made of clay, just as the pigments I use come from the earth I want my painting to be what it contains: it should speak, not me Brown and ochre stoneware bowls beside a white porcelain pitcher I paint things made of clay, just as the pigments I use come from the earth I place the pale eggs on a dark, unadorned tabletop and let them roll into place Brown and ochre stoneware bowls beside a white porcelain pitcher The dusky red wall is not meant to symbolize anything but itself I place the pale eggs on a dark, unadorned tabletop and let them roll into place I want to paint in a way that the “I” disappears into the sky and trees The dusky red wall is not meant to symbolize anything but itself Variations on a theme are of no interest. A bowl and cup are not ideas. “A Painter’s Thoughts (1)” is after William H. Bailey, a realist artist. Bailey’s art often features still lifes, which Yau shows in his poem by saying, “I paint things made of clay…” Yau also says that Bailey’s art is not meant to symbolize anything, it is simply meant to convey the beauty of ordinary things ( “a bowl and cup are not ideas”). In a way, his art shows that things don’t have to have meaning in order to be wondrous. This is also shown when Yau says, “The dusky red wall is not meant to symbolize anything but itself.” Bailey’s “thoughts” also show that every viewer should be able to interpret art in their own way, based on what the painting tells them, not the artist (“I want my painting to be what it contains: it should speak, not me”). Something that stands out about this poem is the form. First of all, each stanza is two lines, and there is lots of interlocking repetition. The last line of the first stanza is the first line of the third stanza, the last line of the second stanza is the first line of the fourth stanza, etc. Because each stanza is very brief, the lines are long, showing the reader how a painter thinks. I wrote my own poem based on “The Painter’s Thoughts,” My poem is called “The Lecturer,” about one of the characters in one of my favorite movies, “Karnavalnaya Noch,” or “Carnival Night.” The movie makes fun of the lecturer, as it is a Soviet movie making fun of such bureaucratic figures as himself. It goes like this: Lecture notes crisp in his pocket, he is given the choice to enjoy the party or ruin it. He becomes drunk on good intentions – this is the man we all know. He is given the choice to enjoy the party or ruin it. He calls out from backstage for signs of life. This is the man we all know, pointing to the stars. He calls out from backstage for signs of life, both in the crowd and on Mars. Pointing to the stars, he finds nothing but another glass of wine. Both in the crowd and on Mars, organisms cannot resist parties. He finds nothing but another glass of wine, lecture notes crumpled in his fist. Organisms cannot resist parties, he becomes drunk on his happiness. My poem has the same structure as John Yau’s poem. However, it describes the lecturer as an outside viewer might, which is not what Yau does. In his series of poems, every one modeled after a different painter, Yau is brave enough to enter the painter’s mind just by looking at their work. This is a very unique form of ekphrasis. Rather than describing the art, it uses it to show what the painter was thinking when making it. This, I think, can be done even with poetry. Because the narrator in John Yau’s poem is the painter, it manages to convey much more feeling, makes the reader wonder what the painter was really thinking about when creating their paintings, and almost combines the poet and the painter as one person – one artist. John Yau does something similar in his series of poems, “The Philosopher.” The point of both series of poems is to
