I’ve been doing a lot of art lately, getting ready for midterm portfolio review. Here’s some of it:

From a photo of my grandparents' friends.

Selfportrait in pencil.

Compilation drawing in charcoal/gesso with a poem by Vasko Popa.

Pencil portrait from black and white photo.

Practice for a giant oil pastel of food.

Three Editors. Three Questions. Three small glimpses into what it means to write the bees knees poem.

These editors were kind to give their keen insight and advice to us, please feel free to leave them thank you notes in the comment boxes.

Our first Honey is the Cats Pajamas. Welcome, Ms. Erin Marissa Russell.

Erin Marissa Russell is a 26-year-old who studies art and writing in Dallas, Texas. She is the founder and co-editor of Moulin Review, a literary journal staffed by students at Brookhaven College. She is also copy editor of the Brookhaven Courier and contributes news articles. Erin recently became junior editor at Open Heart Publishing. Her short story “That’s What It’s All About” won first place in the National League for Innovation in the Community College Contest in 2009.In addition to writing and making art, Erin enjoys singing with The Lewis Family Singers and working on a new project, as yet unnamed.

The Bees Knees is a revision based project; something like a workshop online. We are interested in understanding what makes a poem work. I’m sorry to begin with an (seemingly) impossible question to answer, but what makes a poem work? Can the workings of poetry be compared to, let’s say, a flapper? What does a flapper-poem need to make you do a double take when it dances across your editorial desk?

This is a wonderful question, and one any poet submitting work will do well to consider. Of course, always throw out advice you hear that doesn’t line up with your own artistic vision. But I’ve learned the best criticisms are the ones that still sting after a few days- they still sting because they’re still true.

A good poem, first of all, says something. If your poem is about something as simple as rain, that’s wonderful. But unless you’ve written the most perfect description of rain ever to exist, I’d like your poem about rain to also tell the reader about something else- the world, or how you feel during this particular rain, or what else is like rain.

A good poem is also a poem, and not prose with more line breaks. What is the real difference? I say a poem is written in language different enough from everyday conversation to alert a reader they are hearing a poem without seeing the line breaks. On a related note, a poem should have a clear, well-developed voice. If, in your reading, phrases stand out to you that don’t quite fit with the others, that’s a good place to start revising.

Also, the very best poems do something interesting with language. Any poet will do well to have a basic understanding of prosody and the way poets have traditionally played with spoken and written language. Of course, you shouldn’t try to use all these tricks at once, and may elect to not use any of them sometimes, but your work will benefit from attention to the smallest details.

Do you have a favorite poem / poet? How did this work or artist steal your reading-heart?

The first answer to this question would take a novel to answer, so I’ll give you the second answer. My favorite poem right now is “At the Beginning,” by Vasko Popa. A local poet and friend, Alex Etheridge, recently introduced me to a number of poets I wasn’t familiar with, Popa and some other Serbian poets among them. Popa uses very elemental, archetypal images to elicit visceral reactions in his readers. I like “At the Beginning” so much I incorporated the text into a drawing I just completed. It fit well with the surreal, purgatorial feel of the image.

(Besides writing) how can authors help to maintain the wellbeing of a publication? What (if anything) would you like to change about the writer / author relationship?

Publications’ wellbeing is but a facet of the wellbeing of the writing community. The best thing writers can do, then, to maintain their wellbeing is to get to know other writers, editors, and publishers. Go to local workshops or feedback groups, go to readings, and look up your local small presses and literary journals. Lots of them have events when new issues come out, or open mic affairs. You’ll meet like-minded people and have a lovely time to boot. It’s so easy now to get all the feedback you need online that it’s easy to bypass a local support system, but it’s so integral. In addition, you’ll make valuable connections at these events that will maintain the wellbeing of not just publications, but your own writing career.

For more information on Erin Marissa Russell and the amazing things she makes, please visit these sites.

Erin’s Blog: http://erinmarissa.wordpress.com/
Open Heart Publishing: http://lifeatohp.debrincase.com/
Moulin Review: http://moulinreview.wordpress.com/
Brookhaven Courier: http://www.brookhavencourier.com/
Erin’s Art: http://erinmarissarussell.com/home.html

Ulica mu propije
Sve zelene novčanice
Pištaljke zvoncad i trube
U krošnji mu gnezda svijaju
Proleće mu prste kreše

U šumu bi se izgubio
Ali se uvek pred zoru
U drvored na svoje mesto vrati

Oh, how I love ordering books online. I’ve read the first page of the Diaz book about 15 times in the bookstore. And thank you, Matthew Zapruder for turning me on to Popa.

The little box which contains the world
Fell in love with herself
And conceived
Still another little box

The little box of the little box
Also fell in love with herself
And conceived
Still another little box

And so it went on forever

The world from the little box
Ought to be inside
The last offspring of the little box

But not one of the little boxes
Inside the little box in love with herself
Is the last one

Let’s see you find the world now

– Vasko Popa

O que faremos agora

Realmente o que faremos

Agora jantaremos a medula

Comemos a medula no almoço

Agora o oco dói em mim

Pois toquemos música

Gostamos de música

O que faremos quando os cães vierem

Eles gostam de ossos

Entalaremos em suas gargantas

E gozaremos

        [POPA, Vasko[

IN THE VILLAGE OF MY ANCESTORS
 
Someone embraces me
Someone looks at me with the eyes of a wolf
Someone takes off his hat
So I can see him better

Everyone asks me
Do you know how I’m related to you

Unknown old men and women
Appropriate the names
Of young men and women from my memory

I ask one of them
Tell me for God’s sake
Is George the Wolf still living

That’s me he answers
With a voice from the next world

I touch his cheek with my hand
And beg him with my eyes
To tell me if I’m living too

–Vasko Popa

Translation by Charles Simic

Photo: Deep look by energeticspell

Seguindo com a exposição de amostras da obra e da vida de alguns poetas famosos e influentes da literatura mundial, exponho para vocês o trabalho do sérvio Vasko Popa(1922-1991)

*

DENTE DE LEÃO

Na beira do passeio
No fim do mundo
Olho amarelo da solidão

Cegos pés
Apertam-lhe o pescoço
No abdômen de pedra

Cotovelos subterrâneos
Empurram suas raízes
Para o húmus do céu

Pata canina ereta
Faz-lhe troça
Com o aguaceiro recozido

Contenta-o apenas
O olhar sem dono do passante
Que em sua coroa
Pernoita

E assim
A ponta de cigarro vai queimando
No lábio inferior da impotência
No fim do mundo

.

NO FINAL

Osso eu osso tu
Por que me engoliste
Não me vejo mais

O que tens
Tu é que me engoliste
Não me vejo a mim também

Onde estou agora

Agora não se sabe
Quem está onde quem é quem
Tudo é sonho horrível da poeira

Será que me ouves

Ouço a ti e a mim
O canto do galo canta em nós

.

AULA DE POESIA

Sentamos no banco alvo
Sob o busto de Lenau

Nos beijamos
E de passagem falamos
Sobre versos

Falamos sobre versos
E de passagem nos beijamos

O poeta vê algo através de nós
No banco alvo
No pedregulho do caminho

E silencia
Com seus belos lábios de bronze

No Parque da cidade de Vrchatz
Aprendo lentamente
O cerne da poesia
.

CRÍTICA DA POESIA

Depois da leitura de poemas
No serão literário da fábrica
Começa o diálogo

Um ouvinte ruivo
De face marcada por manchas solares
Ergue dois dedos

Camaradas poetas

Se eu lhes versificasse
Toda a minha vida
O papel ficaria rubro

E pegaria fogo

( tradução: Aleksandar Jovanovic)

.

QUARTZO

para Dúshan Ráditch

Sem cabeças sem membros
Aparece
Com o emocionado pulso das ocasiões
Move-se
Com o passo atrevido dos tempos
Tudo cinge
Em seu terrível
Interno abraço

Tronco liso branco exato
Sorri com a sobrancelha da lua

( tradução: Aleksandar Jovanovic)

.

MONUMENTO AO OXIGÊNIO

um vinho rubro-terra me destina
a este país-braços-abertos
do coração do qual frondeja
a árvore da vida de olhos verdes

respira e assim anima
— exânime — uma estrela

me aterrorizam monumentos
grandes fantoches sobreerguidos
com frio e fogo e outras — invisíveis — armas

em parte alguma jubilou-me
um monumento ao oxigênio

todo armado de folhas
de flores e de frutos
e de outras verdades maduras

( Transcriação de Haroldo de Campos,
com a colaboração do Autor.)

*

PORCO

Só quando ouviu
A faca furiosa na garganta
A cortina vermelha
Explicou-lhe o jogo
E ele lamentou
Ter-se desprendido
Dos braços do lamaçal
E à noite do campo
Tão alegre ter corrido
Corrido para o portão amarelo.

*

Fonte:Cultura Para arte Brasil e Oficina Literária Carlito Azevedo

Padni mi samo na pamet
Misli moje obraz da ti izgrebu
Iziđi samo preda me
Oči da mi zalaju na tebe
Samo otvori usta
Ćutanje moje da ti vilice razbije
Seti me samo na sebe
Sećanje moje da ti zemlju pod stopalima raskopa
Dotle je među nama došlo

1

Vrati mi moje krpice
Moje krpice od čistoga sna
Od svilenog osmeha od prugaste slutnje
Od moga čipkastoga tkiva
Moje krpice od tačkaste nade
Od žežene želje od sarenih pogleda
Od kože s moga lica
Vrati mi moje krpice
Vrati kad ti lepo kažem

2

Slušaj ti čudo
Skini tu maramu belu
Znamo se
S tobom se od malih nogu
Iz istog čanka srkalo
U istoj postelji spavalo
S tobom zlooki nožu
Po krivom svetu hodalo
S tobom gujo pod košuljom
Čuješ ti pretvorniče
Skini tu maramu belu
Šta da se lažemo

3

Neću te uprtiti na krkače
Neću te odneti kud mi kažeš
Neću ni zlatom potkovan
Ni u kola vetra na tri točka upregnut
Ni duginom uzdom zauzdan
Nemoj da me kupuješ
Neću ni s nogama u džepu
Ni udenut u iglu ni vezan u čvor
Ni sveden na običan prut
Nemoj da me plašiš
Neću ni pečen ni prepečen
Ni presan posoljen
Neću ni u snu
Nemoj da se zavaravaš
Ništa ne pali neću
4

Napolje iz moga zazidanog beskraja
Iz zvezdanog kola oko moga srca
Iz moga zalogaja sunca
Napolje iz smešnog mora moje krvi
Iz moje plime iz moje oseke
Napolje iz mog ćutanja na suvom
Napolje rekao sam napolje
Napolje iz moje žive provalije
Iz golog očinskog stabla u meni
Napolje dokle ću vikati napolje
Napolje iz moje glave što se rasprskava
Napolje samo napolje

5

Tebi dođu lutke
A ja ih u krvi svojoj kupam
U krpice svoje kože odevam
Ljuljaške im od svoje kose pravim
Kolica od svojih pršljenova
Krilatice od svojih obrva
Stvaram im leptire od svojih osmeha
I divljač od svojih zuba
Da love da vreme ubijaju
Kakva mi je pa to igra

6

Koren ti i krv i krunu
I sve u životu
Žedne ti slike u mozgu
I zar okca na vrhovima prstiju
I svaku svaku stopu
U tri kotla namćor vode
U tri peći znamen vatre
U tri jame bez imena i bez mleka
Hladan ti dah do grla
Do kamena pod levom sisom
Do ptice britve u tom kamenu
U tutu tutinu u leglo praznine
U gladne makaze početka i početka
U nebesku matericu znam li je ja

7

Šta je s mojim krpicama
Nećeš da ih vratiš nećeš
Spaliću ti ja obrve
Nećeš mi dovek biti nevidljiva
Pomešaću ti dan i noć u glavi
Lupićeš ti čelom o moja vratanca
Podrezaću ti raspevane nokte
Da mi ne crtaš školice po mozgu
Napujdaću ti magle iz kostiju
Da ti popiju kukute s jezika
Videćeš ti šta ću da ti radim
Seme ti i sok i sjaj
I tamu i tačku na kraju mog života
I sve na svetu

8

I ti hoćeš da se volimo
Možeš da me praviš od moga pepela
Od krša moga grohota
Od moje preostale dosade
Možeš lepotice
Možeš da me uhvatiš za pramen zaborava
Da mi grliš noć u praznoj košulji
Da mi ljubiš odjek
Pa ti ne umeš da se voliš

9

Beži čudo
I tragovi nam se ujedaju
Ujedaju za nama u prašini
Nismo mi jedno za drugo
Stamen hladan kroz tebe gledan
Kroz tebe prolazim s kraja na kraj
Ništa nema od igre
Kud smo krpice pomešali
Vrati mi ih šta ćeš s njima
Uludo ti na ramenima blede
Vrati mi ih u nigdinu svoju beži
Beži čudo od čuda
Gde su ti oči
I ovamo je čudo

10

Crn ti jezik crno podne crna nada
Sve ti crno samo jeza moja bela
Moj ti kurjak pod grlo
Oluja ti postelja
Strava moje uzglavlje
Široko ti nepočin-polje
Plameni ti zalogaji a vostani zubi
Pa ti žvaći izelice
Koliko ti drago žvaći
Nem ti vetar nema voda nemo cveće
Sve ti nemo samo škrgutanje moje glasno
Moj ti jastreb na srce
Manje te u majke groze

11

Izbrisao sam ti lice sa svoga lica
Zderao ti senku sa svoje senke
Izravnao bregove u tebi
Ravnice ti u bregove pretvorio
Zavadio ti godišnja doba
Odbio sve strane sveta od tebe
Savio svoj životni put oko tebe
Svoj neprohodni svoj nemogući
Pa ti sad gledaj da me sretneš

12

Dosta rečitoga smilja dosta slatkih trica
Ništa neću da čujem ništa da znam
Dosta dosta svega
Reći ću poslednje dosta
Napuniću usta zemljom
Stisnucu zube
Da presečem ispilobanjo
Da presečem jednom za svagda
Staću onakav kakav sam
Bez korena bez grane bez krune
Staću oslonjen na sebe
Na svoje čvoruge
Biću glogov kolac u tebi
Jedino što u tebi mogu biti
U tebi kvariigro u tebi bezveznice
Ne povratila se

13

Ne šali se čudo
Sakrilo si nož pod maramu
Prekoračilo crtu podmetnulo nogu
Pokvarilo si igru
Nebo da mi se prevrne
Sunce da mi glavu razbije
Krpice da mi se rasture
Ne šali se čudo s čudom
Vrati mi moje krpice
Ja ću tebi tvoje

Charles Simic on Vasko Popa:

“The comic and mythic strategies are similar, if not identical. The trick is to be literal-minded in the world of multiple metaphors, and fabulous in the face of the literal. The aim is to present the known in terms of the unknown and recover its mythical potential. Popa knows all about that.

“What sets him apart is what I can only call his ‘classicism.’ One might be reading Euclid on the triangle here. He is so deadpan. The usual drama of the Self is completely absent. The archetypal forms that emerge are employed for cognitive ends.”

What is this of the Self being absent? Initially, I’m thinking, “Damn! That sounds great! Where can I get some of that?” But then I realize, in considering what that actually entails for me, and for poetry, that maybe that wrecks something important–to remove the “usual drama of the Self.” 

Poetry comes from the self, doesn’t it? I put words down, trying to express a condition I experience, knowing that I have never found it in print before–not exactly–and hoping that if I put the right words down, somebody else will see what I have done, will hold it before them as I hold the poems and books of other writers before me, and say, “Jesus Christ! Absolutely!” or “Yes.” or something quiet and somehow final and personal, maybe even “Ahhh…” Where the moment of recognition not only happens at the moment of reward, but is the reward of struggling to understand. The second act of my hope is that when somebody recognizes something they know but have never seen expressed before, it will validate both our experiences, publish them, illuminate them, and thereby cause them to vanish or diminish so that they don’t matter anymore and we don’t have to worry about them and can enjoy them. As a mode of the erasure of obscure sufferings.

Each successful poem erases a small part of my suffering. I know my poems must be bad because I have ten thousand of them and still suffer plenty. (Talk about the usual drama of the Self…)

Anyway, since poetry has no purpose and only justifies itself in its best moments, I’m not going to try to figure out if the absence of the Self’s usual drama is a good or bad thing, but instead simply insert here a poem of Popa’s that I read tonight on the train and rather liked. It’s called “Seducer” and is from a series called “Games,” each of which appears to be a set of instructions (I mention this because otherwise you wouldn’t see that pattern).

Seducer

One strokes the leg of a chair

Until the chair moves

And gives him a sweet sign with its leg

Another kisses a keyhole

Kisses it O how he kisses it

Until the keyhole returns his kiss

A third stands aside

Stares at the other two

Shakes shakes his head

Until it falls off

Once upon a time there was a mistake
So silly so small
That no one would even have noticed it

It couldn’t bear
To see itself to hear of itself

It invented all manner of things
Just to prove
that it didn’t really exist

It invented space
To put its proofs in
And time to keep its proofs
And the world to see its proofs

All it invented
Was not so silly
Nor so small
But was of course mistaken

Could it have been otherwise

Găsiţi aici fila audio.

Pr. Dorin.

                                                        Petar Milošević (“Službeni glasnik”, Beograd, 2008)

Kolekciju ‘Moderna tradicija’ čine interpretacije prevratničkih,
inovativnih književnih činjenica koje su, istovremeno, i važan segment
moderne evropske književne bastine. U kolekciji će biti objavljivane
studije i rasprave koje, u mnogo čemu, iniciraju i novi, moderni kritički
dijalog o epohalnim poetskim projektima srpske književnosti.

Prva knjiga ove kolekcije POEZIJA APSURDA VASKA POPE autora Petra
Miloševica, studija je o apsurdu u pesničkoj umetnosti velikog pesnika
svetskog formata, dakle o pesniku koji u svojoj poeziji manifestuje sve
bitne osobine književnosti i filozofije apsurda, a istovremeno taj
poetički model obogaćuje specifičnim rezultatima u svetu lirike.
Pristupajuci na potpuno nov način temi apsurda u poeziji Vaska Pope autor
pokazuje da je u svojim stihovima Popa bio radikalniji i od Beketa.

Petar Miloševic je profesor srpske književnosti na univerzitetu u
Budimpesti. ‘Poezija apsurda Vaska Pope’ je njegova doktorska disertacija.
Autor je nekoliko romana i ‘Antologije srpske poezije u Madjarskoj’.

Kniiževnost apsurda  nastupa neposredno posle nadrealizma, poslednjeg značajnog pravca modernizma (avangarde), od četrdesetih do pedesetih godina (Kami, Beket, Popa). Znači, afirmacija književnosti apsurda pada između modernizma i postmodernizma, stoji između njih i možda ne treba odlučiti kojem pripada (više).  Popa sistematski razmatra i odbacuje osnovne umetničke iluzije modernizma (kulu od slonovače, estetizaciju smrti i kult lepote). Time označava kraj modernizma, ali pitanje je da li još iznutra ili već spolja.  Osnovna crta postmodernizma je nepoverenje prema takozvanim velikim pričama (Liotar: Postmoderno stanje).  U Beketovom Kraju partije (1957) jedan od junaka, Ham, ponovo  (u nastavcima) pokušava da ispriča svoju veliku priču, ali uzalud: drugi člam tandema poslednjih ljudi, Klov, ne pokazuje interesovanje za hamovu priču (samo glumi),  a Ham nije u stanju da je ispriča : VELIKA PRIČA NEMA NI GLAVU NI REP, A NEMA VIŠE NI KO DA JE SLUŠA.     U Popinom Sporednom nebu (1986) pesma  Priča o jednoj priči takođe govori o besmislenosti velike priče.  (Bila jednom jedna priča/ Završila se/ Pre svog početka/ I počinjala)

 Popa ne stvara poeziju apsurda pod uticajem drame apsurda jer u doba rađanja njegovog pesničkog modela (dakle tokom 1940-ih godina) drama apsurda još nije postojala. Ovo je možda prvi slučaj da naša književnost ne preuzima svetske modele nego ih stvara.

*

Zavodnik

Jedan miluje nogu stolice

Sve dok se stolica ne pokrene

I da mu nogom slatki znak
Drugi ljubi ključaonicu

Ljubi je kako je samo ljubi

Sve dok mu ključaonica poljubac

Ne uzvrati

Treći stoji po strani

Bulji u onu dvojicu

I vrti glavom vrti

Sve dok mu glava ne otpadne

***

Poetry Dispatch No. 57 | February 27, 2006

SHADOW OF A SHEWOLF by Vasko Popa

They tell how my grandmother
The witch Sultana Urosevic’
Used to have the shadow of a shewolf

She would never leave the house
On moonlit nights

So no one could step on her shadow
Deprive her of secret powers
And kill her instantly

They tell
That I inherited from my great grandmother
These eyes and this tongue

Whether the shadow of a wolf too
I don’t know

In the moonlight
And often in the sunlight
I walk backwards

God forbid

from Selected Poems 1956-75. HOMAGE TO THE LAME WOLF, translated by Charles Simic

Frase de Vasko Popa