Rexroth & thoughts on books
So, I have this copy of Kenneth Rexroth's 100 Poems From the Chinese (I'm quite fond of Rexroth as a translator and as a poet). I got it used somewhere - ordered it online, I think - so was pleasantly surprised when a nice little hardback book showed up, looking reasonably old (no date imprinted with the publication info) and with nice calligraphy scattered throughout. The inscription is upside down, on the last page of the book, and reads:
For Dick and Eleanor
With fond regards
and everlasting gratitude
- Jim
Drexel Hill,
September 12th, 1958
Which got me thinking: woquinoncoin once joked that with our gifts to each other (which always include books), we'll be able to build little libraries over the years - and indeed, it's true. Eventually those books will be dispersed - who will look at our inscriptions and what will they think? It's such a lovely record to have. I write my name and month/year of purchase (or acquisition, if ordered) in each book, just to have a sense of time; but my books that were given to me are such little treasures, and I occasionally peek into gifted volumes just to read what was written to me. wunderbaum gave me a trilingual edition of Le Petit Prince & I get a little teary eyed reading that dedication, and all the other books on my shelf that have been thoughtful gifts ....
"XXII: Farewell Once More: To My Friend Yen at Feng Chi Station"
Here we part.
You go off in the distance,
And once more the forested mountains
Are empty, unfriendly.
What holiday will see us
Drunk together again?
Last night we walked
Arm in arm in the moonlight,
Singing sentimental ballads
Along the banks of the river.
Your honor outlasts three emperors.
I go back to my lonely house by the river,
Mute, friendless, feeding the crumbling years.
(Du Fu/trans. Rexroth)
I usually cry when I read his "When We With Sappho" - so elegant and lovely, caught up in the headiness of a great love affair - but I wrestle with my own feelings, as I guess, in a way, I've been pining for the great literary love affair for years and years:
Rest. Wait. We have enough for a while.
Kiss me with your mouth
Wet and ragged, your mouth that tastes
Of my own flesh. Read to me again
The twisting music of that language
That is of all others, itself a work of art.
Read again those isolate, poignant words
Saved by ancient grammarians
To illustrate the conjugations
And declensions of the more ancient dead.
Lean back in the curve of my body,
Press your bruised shoulders against
The damp hair of my body.
Kiss me again. Think, sweet linguist
In this world the ablative is impossible.
No other one will help us here.
We must help ourselves to each other ....
See. The sun has fallen away.
Now there are amber
Long lights on the shattered
Boles of the ancient apple trees.
Our bodies moved to each other
As bodies move in sleep;
At once filled and exhausted,
As we, with Sappho, move towards death.
My eyelids sink toward sleep in the hot
Autumn of your uncoiled hair.
Your body moves in my arms
On the verge of sleep;
And it is as though I held
In my arms the bird filled
Evening sky of summer.
--
I am a fan of any poet who can make the ablative sexy. Must be the classicist in me.
For Dick and Eleanor
With fond regards
and everlasting gratitude
- Jim
Drexel Hill,
September 12th, 1958
Which got me thinking: woquinoncoin once joked that with our gifts to each other (which always include books), we'll be able to build little libraries over the years - and indeed, it's true. Eventually those books will be dispersed - who will look at our inscriptions and what will they think? It's such a lovely record to have. I write my name and month/year of purchase (or acquisition, if ordered) in each book, just to have a sense of time; but my books that were given to me are such little treasures, and I occasionally peek into gifted volumes just to read what was written to me. wunderbaum gave me a trilingual edition of Le Petit Prince & I get a little teary eyed reading that dedication, and all the other books on my shelf that have been thoughtful gifts ....
"XXII: Farewell Once More: To My Friend Yen at Feng Chi Station"
Here we part.
You go off in the distance,
And once more the forested mountains
Are empty, unfriendly.
What holiday will see us
Drunk together again?
Last night we walked
Arm in arm in the moonlight,
Singing sentimental ballads
Along the banks of the river.
Your honor outlasts three emperors.
I go back to my lonely house by the river,
Mute, friendless, feeding the crumbling years.
(Du Fu/trans. Rexroth)
I usually cry when I read his "When We With Sappho" - so elegant and lovely, caught up in the headiness of a great love affair - but I wrestle with my own feelings, as I guess, in a way, I've been pining for the great literary love affair for years and years:
Rest. Wait. We have enough for a while.
Kiss me with your mouth
Wet and ragged, your mouth that tastes
Of my own flesh. Read to me again
The twisting music of that language
That is of all others, itself a work of art.
Read again those isolate, poignant words
Saved by ancient grammarians
To illustrate the conjugations
And declensions of the more ancient dead.
Lean back in the curve of my body,
Press your bruised shoulders against
The damp hair of my body.
Kiss me again. Think, sweet linguist
In this world the ablative is impossible.
No other one will help us here.
We must help ourselves to each other ....
See. The sun has fallen away.
Now there are amber
Long lights on the shattered
Boles of the ancient apple trees.
Our bodies moved to each other
As bodies move in sleep;
At once filled and exhausted,
As we, with Sappho, move towards death.
My eyelids sink toward sleep in the hot
Autumn of your uncoiled hair.
Your body moves in my arms
On the verge of sleep;
And it is as though I held
In my arms the bird filled
Evening sky of summer.
--
I am a fan of any poet who can make the ablative sexy. Must be the classicist in me.