Posts Tagged ‘Nox’

Louis Esterhuizen. Die gedig as dansteater

Friday, May 25th, 2012

Die Kanadese digter Anne Carson (foto) is sekerlik een van die mees innoverende en onvergeetlike digters ter wêreld; ‘n digter wat met elke publikasie daarin slaag om die grense van haar genre te herdefinieer. So was dit ook die geval met haar mees onlangse bundel, Nox; ‘n treurbundel oor haar vroeggestorwe broer wat die poësiewêreld ietwat ontkant gevang het weens die toon daarvan, maar veral ook weens die ongewone aanbod van dié intens persoonlike vers; ‘n boks met akkordeonagtige bladsye wat oop- en toe vou.

Nox

Nox

Op Amazon.com se webblad word dié kragtoer soos volg beskryf: “Nox is an epitaph in the form of a book, a facsimile of a handmade book Anne Carson wrote and created after the death of her brother. The poem describes coming to terms with his loss through the lens of her translation of Poem 101 by Catullus “for his brother who died in the Troad.” Nox is a work of poetry, but arrives as a fascinating and unique physical object. Carson pasted old letters, family photos, collages and sketches on pages. The poems, typed on a computer, were added to this illustrated “book” creating a visual and reading experience so amazing as to open up our concept of poetry. 50 color and black-and-white prints.”

In sy inspirerende resensie van Nox het die letterkundige John Rosenwald die volgende te sê gehad: “NOX is erudite, complex, demanding-perhaps not for everyone, but for me immensely stimulating as well as moving. As I write, it has become the new year; we begin the second decade of the twenty-first century. Anne Carson at least, though looking backward, is moving forward. Like its folded pages, NOX both remains private and becomes public, creating the bridge, the hinge, the urn in which we turn the pages of Michael’s ashes and our own. This box, holding both ash and egg, lies before me, unfolding.” (Gaan lees gerus die volledige resensie by Poetry Daily; dit bied terselfdertyd ‘n omvattende kyk op Carson se digterskap.)

Nou het Carson selfs nog verder gegaan deur dié akkordeon van ‘n boek te omskep in ‘n dansteater wat hierdie naweek aangebied word by die Danspace Project te St. Mark’s Church,  131 East 10th Street, East Village, NY. As hoofdanser het Carson besluit op die ervare Rashaun Mitchell, wat saam met Merce Cunningham en Silas Riener in dié produksie te siene sal wees. Mitchell en Riener is vir die choreografie verantwoordelik.

Dansteater

Die gedig op die verhoog

Op die New York Times se webtuiste kan ‘n uitgebreide bespreking van dié teaterstuk gelees word; ‘n bespreking wat met die volgende opsommende kommentaar eindig: “Mr. Riener might be the dead brother, but so might Mr. Mitchell. The fraternal feeling is strong, the ambiguity rich. The church setting – the stained glass, the glowing doorways – nearly overburdens the work, and the electric surges in Benjamin Miller’s score threaten to push past séance into horror-movie territory. Yet the way that a chaotic force seems to break through the classicism of the dancers’ Cunningham training is a fit analogue for the way that grief breaks through Ms. Carson’s erudite attempt to contain it.”

Mmm, inderdaad iets wat my herinner aan die volgende opmerking deur W.H. Auden: “Poetry is language’s discovery that it can dance”; ‘n uitspraak wat in hierdie geval heel letterlik van toepassing gemaak word.

Vir jou leesplesier volg soos gebruiklik ‘n gedig deur Anne Carson hieronder. Gaan kyk gerus ook hier (hoeka oor Nox) en hier vir vorige plasings oor Anne Carson.

*** 

SHE

 

She lives on a moor in the north.

She lives alone.

Spring opens like a blade there.

I travel all day on trains and bring a lot of books-

 

some for my mother, some for me

including The Collected Works Of Emily Brontë.   

This is my favourite author.

 

Also my main fear, which I mean to confront.   

Whenever I visit my mother   

I feel I am turning into Emily Brontë,

 

my lonely life around me like a moor,

my ungainly body stumping over the mud flats with a look of transformation

that dies when I come in the kitchen door.

What meat is it, Emily, we need?

 

© Anne Carson