Desmond Painter. Tony Hoagland: Kan jy my blameer as ek ‘n scene maak?
Tony Hoagland
Ek het onlangs Tony Hoagland se jongste bundel, Unincorporated Persons in the Late Honda Dynasty, gekoop. Dit is ‘n fantastiese bundel. Ongetwyfeld een van die beste boeke wat ek hierdie jaar gekoop het. Hoagland is oorspronklik, intelligent, snaaks, vreesloos, deernisvol, ag, hy is gewoon een van die mees opwindende hedendaagse digters waarvan ek weet.
Unincorporated Persons is ‘n bundel vir lees en herlees. Dit is ‘n boek wat ‘n mens laat skater, kwaad word, hunker en huil; dit is ‘n boek vir die aande en die jare wat kom. Arme Claire moet die heeltyd vir my daaruit voorlees, sodat ek die gedigte ook kan hoor. Dit is eintlik onmoontlik om gunstelinge onder die gedigte uit te sonder, maar daar is een waarna ek telkens terugkeer. Dis ‘n geloofsbelydenis, ‘n agitasie, ‘n beswering, ‘n lewensfilosofie in die kleine, ‘n poem to live by:
Personal – by Tony Hoagland
Don’t take it personal, they said;
but I did, I took it all quite personal—
the breeze and the river and the color of the fields;
the price of grapefruit and stamps,
the wet hair of women in the rain—
And I cursed what hurt me
and I praised what gave me joy,
the most simple-minded of possible responses.
The government reminded me of my father,
with its deafness and its laws,
and the weather reminded me of my mom,
with her tropical squalls.
Enjoy it while you can, they said of Happiness
Think first, they said of Talk
Get over it, they said
at the School of Broken Hearts
but I couldn’t and I didn’t and I don’t
believe in the clean break;
I believe in the compound fracture
served with a sauce of dirty regret,
I believe in saying it all
and taking it all back
and saying it again for good measure
while the air fills up with I’m-Sorries
like wheeling birds
and the trees look seasick in the wind.
Oh life! Can you blame me
for making a scene?
You were that yellow caboose, the moon
disappearing over a ridge of cloud.
I was the dog, chained in some fool’s backyard;
barking and barking:
trying to convince everything else
to take it personal too.
‘n Lekker inskrywing, Desmond! Maar waar het jy die bundel gekry? Ek het dit ook al geoek, maar Louis vertel my dat hy onsuksesvol was om die bundel uit VSA af in te voer … Het toe ‘n ander bundel “What narcississm means to me” gekoop. ‘n Bundel wat net so genotvol is.
Hallo Ivan. Ek het my kopie laasmaand in Londen gekoop (die Britse uitgawe, maar ek neem aan dis presies dieselfde as die Anerikaanse uitgawe), maar jy kan dit wel op http://www.loot.co.za bestel. Gewoonlik is ingevoerde digbundels durerig, maar tans verkoop hulle hom vir slegs R103. Jy moet Protea natuurlik ondersteun wanneer jy kan, maar indien hulle iets nie het nie, Loot is veilig en doeltreffend. http://www.amazon.co.uk hanteer ook nog bestellings uit SA, maar dan betaal jy natuurlik belasting by die poskantoor; met Loot betaal jy nie ekstra belanting nie, net die posgeld, en as jy meer as R250 se boeke bestel is aflewering verniet.
As Protea Hoaglands bestel, kom koop ek met die volgende trip S’bosch toe. Of nog beter, die Hatfield-tak kan ‘n plan maak!
As jy van Tony H se verse hou Desmond, sal jy dalk ook die humor & aweregsheid van hierdie digter waardeer. Dis ‘n gedig wat ek raakgeloop het op die internet, van ‘n jong digter wat nog ongepubliseerd is. As iemand ‘n skrywersblok het tans, mag dit dalk ook help …
The Poem Speaks To Ever
“The first thing to do is inspect your room.
Let in a little air, let the window stay ajar
like someone listening on their elbow.
As for noises outside, let them come
because finches are welcome in any poem
and might land elegantly somewhere.
Chance is crucial. Don’t underestimate
the day that is a blue and white marble
muddled in with many others.
No thing is more noteworthy than another.
Greet earthworms and fridge alphabets
as you would an exciting foreigner.
Be particularly nice to the earthworm-
their soft forms will be your final readers.
As for interests: best to have more than
the one that has you up nights at this desk.
Play a field sport that allows you to launch
something into the wild question of sky.
Cultivate a little mould or sea monkeys
to know the scale of what’s outside.
Listen constantly. Don’t be bitter
or be bitter entirely, like a white dwarf
before she supernovas among famous stars.
Envy is fine if it sharpens your teeth.
As for making things up, being a fantasist,
grow an astonishing fish, paint it any colour.
But stripe it with gills. Swim it in cold water.”
© Matthew Gregory
Dankie Marlise, ek hou daarvan! Veral “that allows you to launch / something into the wild question of sky” en “Envy is fine if it sharpens your teeth.” Terloops,is daar, dink jy, iets soos “skryf-emosies”? Ek kan bv. vanuit plekke van woede en aggressie skryf wat vir my ongeveer onmoontlik is om te wys, of selfs te voel, wanneer ek in persoon met mense omgaan. Ander ervaar dalk iets soortgelyk met weerloosheid en brutaliteit. ‘n Mens het soms as “skrywer” ‘n emosionele register, outentiek beleef en nie bloot ‘n retoriese arsenaal nie, wat jy nie noodwendig het as alledaagse, gewone mens tussen ander mense nie. Of nie?
Desmond, of ek jou nou reg verstaan, weet ek nie, maar ek sou dink natuurlik is daar ‘skryf-emosies’. Gedigte is die landskap van emosie ook, en sal jou eie register van emosies reflekteer. Miskien probeer die digter ook verby die super-ego se polisiëring te reik, as ek nou Freudiaans mag praat, (hoewel ek Jung verkies!), met sy ‘veilige’ woordkonstruk, met fantasie, verbeelding, metafore, ens. Iets wat dan nie noodwendig tussen mense tot gestalte [of uitvoering] kom nie. Ek weet nie of dit is wat jy bedoel nie?
Hier nog gedig vir jou:
In the forests of my mind one evening
Super Ego turned to Id
Lets run away and leave that conceited self behind
We can go play in the fields on the other side of time
Id looked thoughtful
Sounds good, but there’s a problem there
You are me, and I am you
and we are us it’s true
If we leave our self behind
what am I to do?
For we are all of those ourselves
Plus me and myself as well
Without all of combined, my friend
No one is left behind
We have strayed through old Death’s door
And we all know he’s a bore
So lets not stray from who we are
Because there is not a soul left behind
To carry on in life
© Sharon Pribble
Marlise, ek wonder juis oor ‘n emosionele register wat wel outentiek en natuurlik tot die skrywer is wanneer hy/sy skryf (bv. woede), maar nie wanneer hy/sy andersins met mense omgaan nie. Sodat die emosionele register van hulle skryfwerk juis nie hulle emosionele register andersins reflekteer nie. Jou Freudiaanse verklaring is sekerlik een manier om sin te maak hiervan… Ek verkies juis Freud bo Jung, maar dis ‘n ander gesprek!