Celanie
Reading these letters doubled with poems is also to delimit the space where Celan habitually deployed his language, and which he referred to – not entirely seriously – as his “Celanie”: the Rue des Ecoles, the Rue de Lota, the Rue de Montevideo, the Rue de Longchamp, the Rue d’Ulm, the Rue Cabanis (Faculty Clinic, Saint-Anne), the Rue Tournefort and Avenue Émile Zola …
– Bertrand Badiou, “Notice Editoriale”. In Paul Celan & Gisèle Celan-Lestrange. Correspondance (1951-1970). 2 vols. Librairie du XXIe siècle (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 2001): 2: 10.
- Lunch
- Three fits
- Mr Lennon
- Substitutes only need apply
- Maggie’s farm
- “The archaeologist of the present day”
- Badlands
- April Fool’s Day
- Leave
Lunch
[After Lady Daibu & Lydia Ginzburg]
Such was the upheaval in our world at the time of Juei and Genryaku that whatever I may call it – dream, illusion, tragedy – no words can possibly describe it: the lull of the siege day.
What can I say, what am I to feel about that autumn when I heard that those whom I knew were soon to be leaving the capital? Lunch was always a break.
None of us had known when it might happen, and faced with the actual event, we were all stunned, those of us who saw it with our own eyes and those who heard about it from afar. The earlier lunches cut across the day.
At that time, when all was in uproar and such disquieting rumours were reaching us, Sukemori was a First Secretary to the Emperor and seemed to have little time away from his duties. Lunch brings with it not only indolence and drowsiness, but also a sense of the onset of decrepitude, old age, exhaustion, the dying of the day.
On these occasions he would tell me, just as though it were a normal thing to say: "These troubles have now reached the point where there can be no doubt that I, too, shall number among the dead." Now that people were in primitive dependence on time, the feeling of the dying day was especially concrete.
In the post-lunch depression the sense of over-satiety was now replaced by disappointment, and an exasperation brought on by the swiftness of lunch. Tears were my only reply.
Three fits
My mother called us
over to the house
because my father
was having a fit
& she couldn’t
lift him
off the couch
When we came in
he was lying
half-on
half-off the floor
so we heaved him
feet-first
into bed
A few hours later
another fit
(my mother thought
he’d gone to sleep)
this time he fell
& hit his
forehead
Bleeding
black eye
lying on the
carpet
half-out
half-under
the wirewove mattress
Later in hospital
another fit
no-one was watching
except my mother
& possibly
they’d never have
known
Later they said
the medication
to stop his mind
deteriorating
was blocking out
the medication
to stop his fits
You don’t have to be
a Solomon
to work out
that one
immediate
need
outweighs
the far-off gain
Mr Lennon
[After Charles Darwin]
Started at midday for Mr Lennon's estate
the road passed through
a vast extent of forest
on the road we saw many beautiful birds
The slaves here appeared miserably over-worked
& badly clothed
we were obliged to have a black man
clear the way with a sword
On arriving at the estate
there was a most violent & disagreeable quarrel
between Mr Lennon & his agent
which quite prevented us from wishing to remain there
(In the evening it rained very hard
I suffered from the cold)
During Mr. Lennon's quarrel with his agent
he threatened to sell at public auction
an illegitimate mulatto child
to whom Mr Cowper was much attached
There's a more sinister way of looking at it
yet I will pledge myself that in humanity
Mr Lennon is above the common run of men
Substitutes only need apply
Lying in an early morning fug
in that old house at Lyttelton
I heard the footsteps
creak up to the room
that I was in
(door open to the hall)
& look inside
There was nothing there
She scoffed at me
Chantal
then
next morning
lying in the same room
in the same bed
at the same time
she heard the selfsame thing
Old houses
lots of noises
unexplained subsidences
contractions
switches going on & off
Is that all that it is?
The fish-smell
perceptible only
at a certain height
in various locations
Grant Road, Wellington
Now again
in Mairangi Bay
A sense of mystery?
Of forces
overpowering
our workaday
depression?
Fear (above all)
of the real thing?
Maggie’s Farm
[After Ian McEwan & Margaret Thatcher]
How can a novelist achieve atonement when, with her absolute power
of deciding outcomes, she is also God?
I have a problem, it is the Government's job to cope with it!
In her imagination she has set the limits and the terms
I have a problem, I will go and get a grant to cope with it!
There is no one, no entity or higher form
that she can appeal to, or be reconciled with, or that can forgive her
I am homeless, the Government must house me!
There is nothing outside
Who is society? There is no such thing!
No atonement for God, or novelists, even if they are atheist
People look to themselves first
It was always an impossible task, and that was precisely the point
Life is a reciprocal business
& people have got the entitlements too much in mind
without the obligations
“The archaeologist of the present day”
When you can say anything
it’s hard
to think of anything to say
In poetry, for instance
theoretically
the sky’s the limit
You can curse, blaspheme
pile scatologies
on all your enemies
So what?
The form exacts its tribute
we demand our
chains
Today, for instance
three movies back to back
a drive through Autumn country
out to Bethells Beach
Chomsky to read
“Don’t you feel discouraged
sometimes?”
“Every evening”
Noam replied
Badlands
[After Jonathan Raban]
Aged 47
he chucked up everything
& just cleared off
Lacking a past of his own
he hoped to find
a history that would fit
A dead woodpecker
on the floor
mud-igloos on the walls
The letters B L M
– Bureau of Land Management –
are recorded several times
On page 3 of the ledger
a ringed figure shows up
like a Homeric epithet
How do you turn
2.54 debit
into five thousand, six hundred & eighty-eight dollars ninety?
To lay a floor like that
was the work
of a true believer
These houses
prairie schooners
lonely derelicts
awash in grass
a nest
for the neighbourhood birds
April Fool’s Day
“Dure plus que fer à mâcher”
– François Villon
Dure plus que fer à mâcher
harder than iron to chew
the nine o’clock start
on the road by five to eight
– You’re sillier than I am
– No, you’re sillier
Farewell to the great kitten of time
– She knows she’ll get disturbed
every quarter of an hour
while I’m around
– Even though she sleeps
for four hours at a time
when we’re not here?
– She’s pining
Security barrier down
reverse to try the other one
A truck in front of it
Drake Security Services
& then the pen / this pen
I keep by the dashboard
in case I have a thought
whilst driving
slips out of my hand
A sign? It’s dangerous enough
to scribble stuff
when the traffic lights are red
but groping for a ballpoint
under the seat
must rate way over that
The certainty of aggravation
To be up & moving, good
The simultaneous lure
of ten more minutes in bed
combined with the cud
of problems to be chewed
& brooded over
Free-floating anxiety
seizing on what’s to hand
Dure plus que fer à mâcher
The day
awaits its – what?
Its spark?
The day awaits its dark
Leave
[After Paul Celan]
the maid’s key on the
chest-of drawers!
Pack the big tartan suitcase
& the big brown suitcase
Leave the coffee & pastries for Harriet
in the kitchen
cigarettes
a bottle of grape juice
Fix the typewriter!
Pack a ream of paper +
1 lined notebook
1 packet of carbon-paper
1 plain notebook
_______________
My Basque beret
My summer gloves
– please return –
the list of people
who’ve telephoned
Pack:
my leather briefcase
my summer scarf
_______________
If you’re going to Moisville, could you please bring back all the
Emily Dickinson collections (especially the French translations)
and the big selection of poems by Supervielle?
Thanks
P.
©Jack Ross |
