Raymond Carver / An Afternoon

A Nude Woman doing her Hair before a Mirror
by Christoffer Wilhelm Eckersberg

An Afternoon

by Raymond Carver

BIOGRAPHY

 As he writes, without looking at the sea,
he feels the tip of his pen begin to tremble.

The tide is going out across the shingle.

But it isn't that.
 No,
it's because at that moment she chooses
to walk into the room without any clothes on.

Drowsy, not even sure where she is
for a moment.
 She waves the hair from her forehead.

Sits on the toilet with her eyes closed,
head down.
 Legs sprawled.
 He sees her
through the doorway.
 Maybe
she's remembering what happened that morning.

For after a time, she opens one eye and looks at him.

And sweetly smiles.

Raymond Carver / My Crow and other poems
Raymond Carver / Your Dog Dies
Raymond Carver / Happiness
Raymond Carver / All Her Life
Raymond Carver / Fear
Raymond Carver / Poems
Raymond Carver / Late Fragment
Raymond Carver / An Afternoon

Don Paterson / Reading Shakespeare’s Sonnets / Review

40 Sonnets review – the perfect vehicle for Don Paterson’s craft and lyricism

The poet tugs and stretches a demanding form to its limit in work of vividness and potency


Sarah Crown
Saturday 26 September 2015

D

on Paterson has a thing for sonnets. Back in 1999 he brought out an anthology of 101 of his favourites, and in 2012 he delved deeper into their history with Reading Shakespeare’s Sonnets, a passionate, personal response to the great man’s form-defining sequence. Nor has he confined himself to curation and criticism: in 2006, he produced a warm, responsive reworking of Rilke’s 55-sonnet cycle, Orpheus, while his original collections are punctuated by his own efforts, some of which (such as Landing Light’s superlative “Waking with Russell”) count among his finest poems. “The square of the sonnet exists for reasons which are almost all direct consequences of natural law … and the grain and structure of the language itself,” he said, attempting to explain the form’s abiding appeal – and his own fascination with it – in an article in this newspaper. “Or to put it another way: if human poetic speech is breath and language is soapy water, sonnets are just the bubbles you get.”

Juana Inés de la Cruz / She expresses her loving respect

She expresses her loving respect, explaining what she means when she says Her Ladyship the Vicereine, Marquise de la Laguna, belongs to her.

by Juana Inés de la Cruz

Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz / Expresa su amoroso respeto

My divine Lysis
pardon me if I dare
then to address you thus,
since to be called yours exceeds my merit

and to this I cannot presume. 
To call you mine I would be placed
at the mercy of your sovereign darting rays
if in my boldness I have overreached, and dared.

It is an error of the tongue
when that which is called imperial
and mastered, and of the dominion
appear to be the slave’s possessions.

“My king” declares the vassal,
“My prison” claims the prisoner, 
and the most humble slave
without the slightest offense can claim her master as her own.

Thus when I call you mine
I am not in the least pretending
that you will be adjudged to belong to me, 
but solely that I wish to be yours.

I saw you – but just stop there:
in order to say there is a fire
it is sufficient to show the cause
there is no need to affix blame on anyone for the result.

To see you so elevated
does not impede my audacity, 
for there is no deity who can remain beyond
the reach of  lofty flights of cogitation.

And yet there are those, more deserving – 
in their proximity to heaven – 
equally placed is the humble valley
as the superbly high mountain.

Finally, I must be confessed
of this sin, which is my adoration –
and if you wish to chastise me,
your chastening will be my reward.

Antonio Cicero / Perplexity

Portrait of a Dead Man
by Damien Mammoliti

 PERPLEXITY

by Antonio Cicero

Translated by Emiliano Battista

Antonio Cicero / Perplexidade (Pessoa)

Not sure just where I lost my way,
Or whether I lost it at all.
Still, I can't help thinking it odd
That this had always been my lot.

John Ashbery / The Art of Poetry

John Ashbery

BIOGRAPHY

The Art of Poetry 

No. 33

Interviewed by Peter A. Stitt

Winter 1983
No. 90

The interview was conducted at John Ashbery's apartment in the section of Manhattan known as Chelsea. When I arrived, Ashbery was away, and the doorman asked me to wait outside. Soon the poet arrived and we went up by elevator to a spacious, well-lighted apartment in which a secretary was hard at work. We sat in easy chairs in the living room, Ashbery with his back to the large windows. The predominant decor was blue and white, and books lined the whole of one wall.

Ted Hughes / The Art of Poetry

Ted Hughes

Ted Hughes

The Art of Poetry 

No. 71

Interviewed by Drue Heinz

Spring 1995
No. 134

Ted Hughes lives with his wife, Carol, on a farm in Devonshire. It is a working farm—sheep and cows—and the Hugheses are known to leave a party early to tend to them. “Carol’s got to get the sheep in,” Hughes will explain.

He came to London for the interview, which took place in the interviewer’s dining room. The poet was wearing a tweed jacket, dark trousers, and a tie whose predominantly blue color matched his eyes. His voice is commanding. He is often invited to read his work, the flow of his language enlivening the text. In appearance he is impressive, and yet there is very little aggression or intimidation in his look. Indeed, one admirer has said that her first thought sitting opposite him was that this was what God should look like “when you get there.”

E.R. Kennedy / Jean Rhys

Jean Rhys
Illustration by Triunfo Arciniegas

Jean Rhys

BY E. R. KENNEDY

I'm preparing myself for an extended period of loneliness

That will begin very soon I think

I've illegally downloaded two new depressing songs

I've placed a copy of Good Morning, Midnight under my pillow for easy reference

I've printed out the tablature for every Morrissey song I know so I can sing them to myself

Alone in my room

Just a few things are needed really

To make me calm

While I figure out a simple, clean, and effective way to kill myself,

With minimal stress for the person who has to find and dispose of my body

But I'll probably never think of a way

Because I'll probably never kill myself

I'll just lie in my bed suffocating myself with my pillows

While listening to the four songs you said were your favorite

And maybe burn myself a little with the iron

On special occasions

And the next time I'm in a subway station,

I'll stand a little further on the yellow line

Or maybe the next I'm at your apartment

I'll try a little harder

Ellen Kennedy, 
Sometimes My Heart Pushes My Ribs.
Muumuu House, 2009)

Elizabeth Bishop / Manners

Illustration by Nicoletta Ceccoli

MANNERS

by Elizabeth Bishop

For a Child of 1918

Elizabeth Bishop / Maneiras

My grandfather said to me

as we sat on the wagon seat,

"Be sure to remember to always

speak to everyone you meet."

We met a stranger on foot.

My grandfather's whip tapped his hat.

"Good day, sir. Good day. A fine day."

And I said it and bowed where I sat.

Then we overtook a boy we knew

with his big pet crow on his shoulder.

"Always offer everyone a ride;

don't forget that when you get older,"

my grandfather said. So Willy

climbed up with us, but the crow

gave a "Caw!" and flew off. I was worried.

How would he know where to go?

But he flew a little way at a time

from fence post to fence post, ahead;

and when Willy whistled he answered.

"A fine bird," my grandfather said,

"and he's well brought up. See, he answers

nicely when he's spoken to.

Man or beast, that's good manners.

Be sure that you both always do."

When automobiles went by,

the dust hid the people's faces,

but we shouted "Good day! Good day!

Fine day!" at the top of our voices.

When we came to Hustler Hill,

he said that the mare was tired, 

so we all got down and walked,

as our good manners required.

Katherine Mansfield / The Storm

The Storm 

by Katherine Mansfield
BIOGRAPHY

I ran to the forest for shelter,

Breathless, half sobbing

I put my arms round a tree

Pillowed my head against the rough bark

Protect me, I said. I am a lost child.

But the tree showered silver drops on my face and hair.

A wind sprang up from the ends of the earth

It lashed the forest together

A huge green wave thundered and burst over my head.

I prayed, implored, "Please take care of me!"

But the wind pulled at my cloak and the rain beat upon me.

Little rivers tore up the ground and swamped the bushes.

A frenzy possessed the earth: I felt that the earth was drowning

In a bubbling cavern of space. I alone--

Smaller than the smallest fly--was alive and terrified.

Then for what reason I know not, I became triumphant.

Well kill me – I cried – and ran out into the open.

But the storm ceased: the sun spread his wings

And floated serene in the silver pool of the sky.

I put my hands over my face: I was blushing

And the trees swung together and delicately laughed.

Katherine Mansfield / Loneliness

Loneliness 

by Katherine Mansfield
BIOGRAPHY

Now it is Loneliness who comes at night

Instead of Sleep, to sit beside my bed.

Like a tired child I lie and wait her tread,

I watch her softly blowing out the light.

Motionless sitting, neither left or right

She turns, and weary, weary droops her head.

She, too, is old; she, too, has fought the fight.

So, with the laurel she is garlanded.

Through the sad dark the slowly ebbing tide

Breaks on a barren shore, unsatisfied.

A strange wind flows... then silence. I am fain

To turn to Loneliness, to take her hand,

Cling to her, waiting, till the barren land

Fills with the dreadful monotone of rain.

Unknown poems by Katherine Mansfield found in a Chicago library

Katherine Mansfield
Illustration by Triunfo Arciniegas

Unknown poems 

by Katherine Mansfield 

found in a Chicago library

BIOGRAPHY

‘I couldn’t believe my eyes’ says Mansfield scholar as she uncovers a cache of ‘literary gold’

Cameron Robertson
Thursday 11 June 2015 10.00 BST

Nearly 30 unknown poems by Katherine Mansfield have been discovered in a US library, giving fresh insight into the writer’s most painful and difficult period, the evidence for which she had later destroyed.

Gerri Kimber, senior lecturer in English at the University of Northampton and chair of the Katherine Mansfield Society, made the discovery at Chicago’s Newberry Library in May this year. The collection’s significance had remained undetected until now because it was marked with a name similar to the New Zealand-born writer’s previously published poems.

“I had already looked at the Newberry’s Mansfield collection, and the folder said, ‘The Earth Child and other poems’. The poem ‘The Earth-Child in the Grass’ (its full title) had been published already,” said Kimber, who was attending a conference about Mansfield. “I had three days to spare so I wanted to go through every single thing the Newberry has pertaining to Mansfield. I thought, ‘I don’t recognise this one. Or this one. Or this one …’ I couldn’t believe my eyes!”

Kimber, series editor of the Collected Works of Katherine Mansfield, soon realised the folder in fact contained 26 unpublished poems (alongside a further nine that had been published already), two handwritten letters from Mansfield to a publisher, Mansfield’s calling card, and an auction dealer’s sale entry for the entire collection.

“Between 1909 to 1911 she destroyed as much personal material as she could find, I think because she was embarrassed and possibly ashamed of much of her conduct,” said Kimber. “We know she once smoked hashish with Aleister Crowley, had one – possibly two – abortions, as well as a traumatic stillbirth alone in Bavaria in June 1909, and an intense affair with a Polish émigré Floryan Sobieniowski, and then another affair when back in England in 1910, with young schoolmaster William Orton. This was a really difficult time for her. She was addicted to Veronal [barbiturates], and experimenting with life, her sexuality, all sorts. You could call this period hedonistic. As a result, uncovering any material from this period is literary gold for Mansfield scholars.”

In 1909, Mansfield was sent to Bavaria by her mother who believed a bizarre water treatment would turn her daughter away from lesbianism, explained Kimber. “I think her mother didn’t know that Katherine was pregnant and, while she was in Bavaria, she gave birth to a stillborn child.”

Mansfield stayed in Bavaria for another six months and Kimber says elements of the writer’s love affair with Sobieniowski are chronicled in this unpublished poetry. “Some of these poems are directly written for or about him,” said Kimber. “For example, number XXII begins, ‘In the swiftly moving sleigh / We sat curled up under the bear skin rugs / And talked of the dangers of life’, it is almost certain that this sleigh ride depicts Mansfield and Floryan. I do think these remarkable poems are going to offer new biographical detail.”

The business card in the folder also notes the writer’s name as “Katharina Mansfield”, a Slavic-influenced version that Kimber said Mansfield had signed on documents discovered previously, but no such calling card was known to exist.

The newly discovered poems represent a lost collection by Mansfield. The folder’s two letters, dated 8 November 1910 and 15 January 1911, chronicle her failed efforts to persuade publisher Elkin Mathews to print the poems. The second letter is written in a tongue-in-cheek style, pleading with the publisher to put her out of her misery on whether her material will be accepted or not. But the manuscript was never published and, if Mansfield did receive a note of rejection, it has not survived.

Katherine Mansfield’s follow-up letter to Elkin Mathews
Photograph: Courtesy the Newberry Library, Chicago

Handwritten by Mansfield to Elkin Mathews, the second letter reads:

Dear Mr. Mathews
May I hear from you soon the fate of my poor ‘Earth Child’ Poems – I really am worrying about her immediate future – yea or nay.
Love her or hate her, Mr. Mathews, but do not leave her to languish!
Sincerely yours
Katharina Mansfield

“It’s an amusing letter,” said Kimber. “She’s saying, ‘Look, I’ve sent you my manuscript. Are you going to do something with it or are you not? Let me know’, he may have sent her a rejection slip. Authors tend to bin them because they’re too painful to hang on to. She probably binned that, but he held on to the manuscript with these poems.”

The material was later put up for auction and subsequently bequeathed them to the Newberry library in 1999.

Although further research will be carried out, Kimber and the Newberry Library have no doubts the material is authentic. “It took a researcher [Kimber] with considerable knowledge of Mansfield’s published poems,” said Martha Briggs, the Newberry’s Lloyd Lewis curator of modern manuscripts, “and the patience to look carefully at what most people assumed was a manuscript copy”

“Although they’ve been catalogued,” said Kimber, “I don’t think any experienced Mansfield scholar has gone through them and realised what they had in their hands.”

The UK-based scholar thinks that these unpublished poems would have possibly earned Mansfield early recognition as a poetry writer.

Kimber said: “These poems show her early maturity as a poet. They could have been a lovely little book that could have enhanced her reputation and set her off on the road to being a poet, not just a short-story writer. But Elkin Mathews clearly didn’t like them, so they didn’t get published. As well as Mansfield being one of the most famous modernist short-story writers, I believe there is a case to be made for reassessing her as a poet.”

Despite her “hedonistic” behaviour of that period, kimber said “there are some really lovely poems, full of metaphors about children and love”.

“There’s a very touching poem about her beloved grandmother. I would say they are as good as any other poems she would go on to write,” she said.

In 1911, Mansfield went on to loosely fictionalise her adventures in Bavaria with her first published collection of short stories, In a German Pension.

Children’s writer Jacqueline Wilson, most famous for her Tracy Beaker series, is patron of the Katherine Mansfield Society and has loved Mansfield since she read The Doll’s House as a child, being engrossed by the “truth and sharpness” of the story.

“I admire Gerri’s diligent and patient scholarship, and it’s wonderful that she’s discovered a thick folder of Katherine’s unpublished poems. I can’t wait to read them all,” said the former children’s laureate. “The one extract I’ve seen looks fascinating.”

The poems will be available to the public in the Newberry Library and made available online. Next year, the final volume of the Collected Works of Katherine Mansfield – The Diaries and Miscellany – will publish the new poetry collection in full for the first time.

Mansfield died in 1923 aged 34 following a haemorrhage, in Fontainebleau, France, where she was also buried. Mansfield’s second husband, John Middleton Murry, went on to publish much of her work following her death.

THE GUARDIAN

Katherine Mansfield / Butterfly Laughter

Butterfly Laughter

By Katherine Mansfield
BIOGRAPHY

In the middle of our porridge plates

There was a blue butterfly painted

And each morning we tried who should reach the

butterfly first.

Then the Grandmother said: "Do not eat the poor

butterfly."

That made us laugh.

Always she said it and always it started us laughing.

It seemed such a sweet little joke.

I was certain that one fine morning

The butterfly would fly out of our plates,

Laughing the teeniest laugh in the world,

And perch on the Grandmother's lap. 

Vinícius de Moraes / Sonnet to Katherine Mansfield

Sonnet to Katherine Mansfield
BIOGRAPHY

by Vinícius de Moraes
Translated by Regina Werneck

Vinícius de Moraes / Soneto a Katherine Mansfield (Pessoa)

Your perfume, beloved — in your letters
Reborn, blue...— it's your afflicted hands!
I remember them white, light, withered
Pending along abundant corollas.

I remember them, I go... in lands gone through
I inhale it again, here and there awakened
I stop; and so close I feel you, so close
As if in one we had two lives.

Weeping, so little pain! so much I wished
So much to see you again, so much!... and the spring
Already comes so close!... (will you never part

Spring, from dreams and from prayers!)
And in the imprisoned perfume in your letters
To the spring appears and evanesces.

Katherine Mansfield / To L.H.B.

Illustration by Elena Odriozola

To L.H.B.

By Katherine Mansfield
BIOGRAPHY

Last night for the first time since you were dead
I walked with you, my brother, in a dream.
We were at home again beside the stream
Fringed with tall berry bushes, white and red.
"Don't touch them: they are poisonous," I said.
But your hand hovered, and I saw a beam
Of strange, bright laughter flying round your head
And as you stooped I saw the berries gleam.
"Don't you remember? We called them Dead Man's
Bread!"
I woke and heard the wind moan and the roar
Of the dark water tumbling on the shore.
Where--where is the path of my dream for my eager
feet?
By the remembered stream my brother stands
Waiting for me with berries in his hands...
"These are my body. Sister, take and eat."