azul 6 international literary magazine azul 6 international literary magazine october

azul 6 international literary magazine

azul 6 — international literary magazine october 2013

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azul

october 2013 – number 6 azul will be published at least twice a year and is available for free from Azul Press. Apply via e-mail: [email protected] azul publishes poetry and prose, but in the future also expects to include criticism and essays. Every issue of azul will include a portfolio of art.

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Editors Hennie Jetzes , Hans van de Waarsenburg Design and cover Edwin Smet ISBN 978-94-90687-68-7 All other information www.azulpress.com

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Table of Contents John Ashbery > page 4 Jan Baeke > page 8 Rudolf Geel > page 12 Aurélia Lassaque > page 16 Jack Poell > page 20 Uri Hollander > page 30 Arne Rautenberg > page 40 Todd Swift > page 44 Menno Wigman > page 50 David Winwood > page 54 Contributors > page 58 New books > 62

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John Ashbery USA

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DOMANI, DOPODOMANI

Once in a while a message arrives here from friends we haven’t seen in some time. Family members try to reach us to ask about old questions. Finally, each of us has some concern or other. I can hear the signs breaking up. To have half-lived in a balloon to Akron solves it, at least for now. Different… at home. After we’ve been in town a few days and may have moved, anywhere but within easy reach, this is kissing’s only surface. Midday suction, easier than most. It’s savory—let’s devour, or do something about it, rusty at the bottom before we came to this past. It was a moment, what can I say.


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DUMB EFFIGY

It was time to move on. Here’s what kept him alive: smoked fish, his balaclava, his subscription to Golf Digest, an abundance of fresh greens, his unformulated conviction that a piece of God animates every man. Maybe women too, but he didn’t formulate that. Haven’t you tried this yourself, once or twice? Excuse me, I I couldn’t mix him up with early practices of mine, such as when I am asleep

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HOMESCHOOLED

That was never an issue. That is, it was and it wasn’t. I’m supposed to be angry about something. Only you know what it is, born ahead of time. Headbangers, all. You have to have some Elmer’s crayon juice. Did you want to hang out a little bit first at my house we were just talking about? The quiet street is flagged. He gets into everything. I used to sing a song. He tried a few months ago, explains Billy. No, it just happened that way, the new boxy silhouettes. I’m in touch with you and I’m not going to let you go. Stay off that leg.


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Jan Baeke The Netherlands

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WHAT HAS STIRRED IN THE GRASS

What stays in the elder? What has stirred in the grass and the hills? Does it help that the wind has slipped away and not silence but a noisy bush has taken the reins? Or that the figure standing there came out of the house and now you see there are indeed several more figures waiting on the garden path. What shakes itself free from this apparition? The misprision that everything around us has something to say? Maybe the same care as in the one feeding bread and water to birds as in the one who just now stood before the door and in that garden over there, between packing cases and wreckage strewn in a circle.


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SUCH IS THE SEA

The sea fills up stories fills the defeated lashes bystanders eliminates. The sea makes no attempt to arouse curiosity. Away from it goes the sand go the dunes and the village and everything goes from it. From the line of dunes a car. Chosen ones who inspect us on the beach. I remember how the sea was. Men grew taller cars more numerous more business-like and more mortal. The sea was all we wrote about. The rest is memory. I walked off the street to beat the man who would later become my lover. A man grew sick because of the sea. The sea had a loud voice. What came next was inside me. It can’t be completely right but such is the sea.

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SUMMER’S SIDE (4)

How to stay ahead of the heat? Sweat, sit still, think of one’s duty to keep thoughts empty, be light for example or embrace the murmur of creation see god crossing, on his way to chop down a tree or silently write each tongue in a notebook. A column of ants marches up the country lane without emphasis, without a message without offspring or firm. Across the same country lane farm labourers and the survivors of a pitch-black era had walked into the village. The cherries had been picked, wood lay in piles next to houses the stoves were kept burning with unread proclamations. The mayor stood in the pub’s doorway. ‘Have you had anything to eat?’ ‘Yes, plenty,’ spoke the only one who still had a tongue. * Children’s voices call out kiss me kiss me. No smoky voices.

Translation Willem Groenewegen


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Rudolf Geel The Netherlands

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Rudolf Geel’s new novel Perfect Men: a summary On receiving news that the South African government plans to shoot five thousand elephants, early retiree/former zookeeper Wim Waterman ignites in rage, which makes him a welcome guest on radio and television programs. But after a long and, to him, bewildering trek through the media, he wonders whether he has actually managed to convince a single listener or viewer that the mass-scale killing of animals is criminal. Gradually it dawns on him that he is no more than entertainment to the media; their deep concern for the fortunes and misfortunes of others merely serves as a pretext for the core business— their own survival. Waterman, one of the main characters in Rudolf Geel’s new novel Perfect Men, seeks a justification for his life. Some meaning, as an antidote to the meaninglessness of existence. In this respect he finds his match in friend and partner Wally, a professional speechwriter who has to sell his talent to politicians, for whom public appearances are generally little more than a necessary evil. Outside his work Wally, longing to be part of bygone worlds, becomes engrossed in and inspired by the notion of time. Wally, too, has a desperate aversion to meaninglessness. Clashes between Wim and Wally intensify and eventually result in their estrangement from each other, especially when Wally unexpectedly disentangles himself from their once passionate love affair. azul 6 — international literary magazine october 2013

Wim and Wally are in close touch with Tim Bremer who, no longer able to put up with blasé pupils, has just given up his teaching career. He also seeks a new purpose that can give his life value. In that sense he is no different than his friends Wim and Wally. Tim is constantly haunted by the memory of his deceased parents, while he himself is getting on in years. His brother Boris, a successful real estate developer, dies in an accident at the start of Perfect Men. But even in death Boris continues play a dominant role in Tim’s life. He blames him for the break up of his marriage and his all-too-easy retreat from life as a teacher. Boris still has a few surprises up his sleeve for his surviving brother, as well as for his life companion Neil, first violinist in the Great Vienna Orchestra, who has always had a habit of seeking brief interludes with trumpet players and second-rate tenors. Perfect Men is a sometimes bitterly ironic but ultimately warm novel about five men whose lives are emotionally intertwined. Each of them raises life’s expectations to a level just beyond reach. But then again: might they actually manage to stop the decline, dismiss demoralization and venture boldly into the final phase of their lives? As far as this is concerned, Wim Waterman sets the tone by carrying on, undaunted in his search for a place where he can keep on living, in peace and dedication, until his death. First, however, he needs to find an answer to the question: dedication to what? Translation Beth O’ Brien

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Fragment volmaakte Mannen Met slaap in de ogen parkeerde ik de auto bij de studio, trok de sleutel uit het contact en maakte aanstalten de auto te verlaten. ‘Ga jij maar alleen,’ zei Wim. ‘Ik blijf zitten.’ Ik keek opzij; Wim zat lijkbleek naast mij. Ik stak het sleuteltje weer in het slot en startte. ‘Wat ga je doen? We staan toch goed.’ ‘Je dacht verdomme toch niet dat ìk dat interview ga geven.’ ‘Heb ik dat gezegd?’ ‘Je wilt dat ik naar binnen ga.’ Wim sloot zijn ogen, legde zijn handen in zijn schoot en zei met een klein stemmetje: ‘Ik durf niet.’ ‘Jezus ik breng je niet naar de dierenarts.’ ‘Ik durf niet,’ herhaalde Wim. ‘Ik weet niet wat ik moet zeggen. Straks zit ik met die stomme microfoon voor mijn snuffert en dan weet ik niet wat ik moet zeggen.’ ‘Stel je niet aan. Je bent een aansteller, weet je dat.’ ‘Ik wil dat een ander het doet. Er zijn toch genoeg anderen die voor ze willen opkomen. Waarop moet ik dat godverdomme weer doen?’ Het gegeven dat hij voor de radio mocht optreden, beschouwde ik als een buitenkans. Op dat moment realiseerde ik mij nog niet dat dit eerste optreden een domino-effect kon bewerkstelligen. Had je er een, dan kon je ze ook allemaal hebben, maar dan moest je wel iets aparts vertellen. ‘Kom op, je weet toch wel wat je moet zeggen. Oen.’ ‘Dat ze geen olifanten moeten vermoorden. Wie kan het wat schelen? Ze vermoorden overal ook mensen. Daar kom je tegenwoordig niet eens meer mee in Sesam Street.’ ‘Dit is anders. Dit zijn dieren. Dieren zijn momenteel hot. Daarmee kun je je ook nog eens profileren als een weldoener op het gebied van groot uitgevallen beesten. Dat is jouw niche. Doe niet zo schijterig.’ ‘Vind je mij echt een schijtert?’ ‘Een enorme.’ Wim keek strak voor zich uit.. ‘Weet je wat je doet?’ vroeg ik. ‘Je zegt: de mens is een allesvernietigend monster. Daar begin je mee. En dan roep je: “Maar dat laat ik godverdomme niet over mijn kant gaan.” Je moet de lui van dat programma iets geven.’ ‘Het is voor de EO.’ ‘Dan vervang je “godverdomme” door “In de naam van alles wat mij heilig is.”’ ‘Krijg nou helemaal de tering. Hoe denk je dat dat klinkt? Bovendien is niets mij heilig.’

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‘Je gaat naar binnen en je antwoordt op hun vragen. Zeg dat de olifant een doodonschuldig dier is.’ ‘Een olifant is helemaal niet doodonschuldig. Waarom moet ik dat soort onzin erbij verzinnen?’ ‘Oké, je zegt: “De olifant is een killer. Maar de mens is gevaarlijker. Werk met overdrijving en contrasten. En nu de auto uit.’ ‘Ik durf niet,’ herhaalde Wim. ‘Ik sta voor schut.’ ‘Jij zorgt ervoor dat het Afrikaanse schoftentuig voor schut staat. Als je ze de oren hebt gewassen.’ Wim leek mijn woorden te overwegen. ‘Denk je echt dat ik het kan?’ ‘Jij zit er meteen bovenop: “De echte dikhuiden in deze wereld zijn de mensen.” En dan zegt die interviewer: “Legt u dat eens uit, meneer.” ‘En als het een of andere stomme wijf de vragen stelt?’ ‘Vrouwen hebben meer met dieren op dan mannen.’ ‘En als ze vraagt: “Zetten nichten zich eerder voor dieren in dan normale mensen?’” ‘Dan zet je een zware stem op. Je spreekt heel langzaam en nadrukkelijk. “Mevrouw,” zeg je. “Jarenlang heb ik de stront van olifanten opgeruimd. Maar nog steeds gaat mijn totale liefde naar ze uit. De olifant is het meest indrukwekkende dier op de aardbodem. Onze laatste herinnering aan de oertijd, toen de aarde niet verpest was door de uitstoot van CO2 gassen. Toen er nog mammoeten rondliepen die hun strijdkreet door de dalen lieten schallen. Toen wij nog niet benauwde door de overheid gereguleerde mensjes waren – leg de nadruk op mensjes – , maar zelf ten strijde trokken met onze knotsen en speren.’ Tijdens deze korte voordracht haalde Wim een bloknootje en een ballpoint uit zijn zak en begon druk te schrijven. ‘Hoe schrijf je “gereguleerd”?’ ‘Zeg het gewoon. Met het aplomb waarmee een olifant door iemands achtertuintje dendert. Als je er maar iets mee DOET. Vreet ze op daarbinnen. Ik zit naast de regisseur en steek mijn duim op als het goed gaat.’


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Aurélia Lassaque France

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Als een verwaarloosde tuin

Jouw huid Als een verwaarloosde tuin Met daarin veel bloemen. Je zegt: Ik vind je lange haar leuk – Je hand verbergt De sleutel van een onbekend huis; Dat van je voorouders. Je zegt dat de luiken geen verf meer hebben, Net als die oude schildpadden overal in de zee. Je hebt je ogen wijd geopend Op mijn schouder. Tijdens het gebedsuur Hebben we vogels getekend Met de schaduw van onze handen. Jij vertelde me van bomen Die hun bladeren openen In het maanlicht. En ik luisterde niet. Ik zag je handen al niet meer Die weldra ver van mij De kale luiken van een huis Zouden openen, Vlak aan een rivier Die je niet eenmaal hebt genoemd.


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Aarzelend, als een kind in een kerk

De wind huilt door de straten En mengt het zeeschuim met het bloed van de laatste maagden. De oude meiden Die voor hun deur zitten Sommen de namen op Van minnaars die ze nooit hebben gehad. Aarzelend, als een kind in een kerk Pak je mijn hand beet – Je grijpt hem als een amulet die je gepikt hebt – Je kletst wat over de baobab van Saint-Exupéry, Over mijn joodse kapsel, Over rum die je met twee rietjes moet drinken. En ik laat niet blijken Dat die vurige blik En die nostalgische glimlach Bij minnaars behoren Die elkaar nooit krijgen Aan het slot van een oude film.

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Recife

De stad houdt de adem in. Kinderen, met glanzende lichamen, Springen van de rots En kwaken daarbij als kikkers. De zeewind verspreidt Het geritsel van dorre bladeren Over het asfalt. Katten, op weg naar het strand, Laten hun prooi liggen. Dit is de nacht van de volle maan De nacht van bloed in het zand, De nacht die niet vergeet, De nacht dat slinkse boeven verdwijnen in het holst van een kerk De nacht waarin moeders terugdenken aan hun minnaars De nacht die met open ogen waakt, met een hand voor de mond De nacht van gedekte tafels in de ruimte De nacht van het lege circus De nacht van de landengte van Cruz do Patrão Waar onder het maanlicht De volmaakte schedels glanzen van de kinderen van Afrika.

Vertaling Peter Boreas


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Jack Poell The Netherlands portfolio

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Muur I, Oil on canvas.


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Muur II, Oil on canvas.

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Muur III, Oil on canvas.


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Muur IV, Oil on canvas.

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Muur V, Oil on canvas.


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Muur VI , Oil on canvas.

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Blinde muur, Oil on canvas.


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Venster, Oil on canvas.

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Zink , Oil on canvas.


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Uri Hollander Israël essay

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Of Epos and Kitsch in Ronny Someck’s Poetry Epos and pathos have long ago existed in a dangerous proximity; the manipulative essence of the pathos forever threatens the patience required from the epos, especially as those characteristics – the emotional extortion and the deep breath – are in themselves culture, space and time dependent. In Someck’s post-modern world, it seems that the question of the existence of that “deep breath” – the last relic of the epic golden age – becomes of further importance. Is it so in our world, which is saturated with ideological, theological and gender “schizophrenia” – a world that smashed all types of canon and left us among heaps of ruins? How could epos appear in this world? Every epos needs a hero, and every hero –according to the poet Octavio Paz– has a genealogy that is bound to lead to the divine; the hero is super-human by his very nature. Has the time of the epic hero gone from the world? Seemingly, a man of the new world can never perceive Achilles, Gilgamesh and El-Cid as they were perceived by the men of the ancient or the medieval worlds. And indeed, in many instances the hero has vanished from the modern poetic epic. The immortal hero was replaced in general by three typical expressions of a poetic epic. One expression is the T.S. Eliot style of impersonality, meaning the literary-existential fusion of languages and quotations, which testifies to the disintegration of their subjects. That “fusion of languages”, as it spreads across many lines and pages, becomes a cohesion that accumulates new powers and qualities. Another manner of the expression of a poetic epic is the rendering of independent life to quotes, snippets of facts and fragments of existence, which may appear in the poetic sphere in a concise and dense manner, and without palpable connections between one “fact of existence” to another. Guillaume Apollinaire’s “Lundy rue christine” may be the most typical example of that: a non-random collection of random phrases that the poet’s ear heard on that street. Not coincidentally, this way leads to the collage – with Apollinaire it was, of course, the calligram, the medieval picture poem, that was granted a new development, and that was expressed in the visual aspects of the poem. A third way to express a poetic epos characterizes poets who differ from one another such as SaintJohn Perse, Hart Crane, Dylan Thomas, Ted Hughes, Seamus Heaney, Octavio Paz, Derek Walcott and others – in their poems the epic spirit derives from the personal mythology, whose seed, in most instances, is clear and identified. That mythology is closely bound to the birthplace of those writers and to their travels as exiles to and from it. Those travels, towards the personal-mythic past and from within it, may present themselves as the direct or the imagined continuation of the ancient epos – as in Derek Walcott’s epic poem Omeros – or to indicate the non-feasibility of such a continuous tradition, as in Allen Ginsberg’s “A Supermarket in California”.


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Throughout its history, Hebrew poetry knew various kinds of epos – ditty, balladic, macabre, even fascistic. From the second half of the 20th century, fascinating forms of epos grew within it, and yet one of the most interesting and impressive expressions of epic writing in Hebrew – the poetic world of Ronny Someck – is nothing but a new kind of epos; the short poem epos. In his 1976 essay about the extensive poem (“Telling and Singing: On the Extensive Poem”, in: The Other Voice, 1992, pp. 7–30), Octavio Paz set out two principals for defining that poetic genre: variation within the boundaries of unity and a combination of repetition and surprise. Surprisingly, those two principals exist in most of Someck’s poems: his poetry manages to design an intense aesthetic experience, which fastens the collage’s diversity within hermetic boundaries. That intensity is achieved mainly through that poetry’s routine raw materials, which confront the sweet with the violent, the nostalgic with the futuristic, the harmonious and homogenous with the fragmented and the frenetic. According to Paz, the symbolic poem attributed the aesthetics of the short poem to the extensive poem, and similarly in Someck’s poetry, the epos of the extensive poem transmigrated into a post-modern character by its intention – that of the short poem. The kind of reality that is experienced through that poetry, and which is enabled by its prominent characteristic – the game of intermingling semantic fields – is designed to cope with a fragmented realism that may be called post-modern, and manages to break through towards an experience of unity and cohesion. In this context, it should be emphasized that writing in the first person – the appearance of the speaker in the poem – that is not rare for Someck, invites the reader into its aggregated world, as it wraps the collage of similes and quotations with the intimacy of the human voice. This is also the feeling of the potential reader of Someck’s poetry, who is once again becoming a hero within it, a reader who participates in the intimate game of reading the poem, whose familiar materials serve initially to invite him to partake. In addition, the complexity of the treatment of those materials is supposed to evoke within the reader the memory of the existence of the epic breathing space, that is revealed beyond the collage-like appearance. As aforementioned, the epos is closely tied to the pathos, and indeed, at the gate of the two main characteristics of the extensive poem as defined by Paz, lurk two essential attributes of the kitsch phenomenon, as defined by Walther Killy (in his Deutscher Kitsch, 1962). The constant variety, which safeguards the liveliness and character of the epos, is tangential to the kitsch principal of accumulated stimulation, and the principal of repetition is relevant to them both – in the epos it is a motif-esque repetition, whereas with kitsch it is literally a constant replication. It is appropriate to examine the foundations of Someck’s poetry against the backdrop of those dangers, as the epic itself – and even more so when

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his world is open to the enchanting, the lyrical and the romantic – walks on a thin rope above an abyss. Moreover, the deliberate lingering of Someck’s epos in the twilight zone that constantly confronts “high” and “low” materials, and his vast usage of mass-culture references – present a further danger in the face of this poetry; that twilight zone is the living space of the sophisticated kitsch, which Eco and others called Midcult, which makes manipulative usage in the materials of “high” culture, by converting the quality of the higher aesthetic experience to an appearance of elitism. How does Someck’s poetry react to those dangers? Hereinafter is a discussion of the three ways in which this poetry copes with the traps of pathos and the obstacles of kitsch: usage of effect and the creation of a poetic collage, designing poetic stimuli and the creation of a spatial logic. The combination of those three components will clarify the meaning of the epic spirit of Someck’s poetry and its methods of designing an epos.

1. The usage of effect and the creation of a poetic collage It seems that the greatest sacrifice of Someck’s poetry, which is out-rightly guided by the Yehuda Amichai-inspired ideal of “taking poetry down to the street”, lies in its need for an effect. This is undoubtedly a conscious sacrifice. It is possible to perceive the “taking poetry down to the street” as one way of rebelling against Nathan Zach’s introverted poetry or, alternatively, a continuation of a trend that began before him – the open-tothe-world poetry in the spirit of Yehuda Amichai and Amir Gilboa. In any event it is as a descent for the sake of an ascent – the ascent of the readers for whom reading poetry is not obvious. It is a poetic perception that assumes that the mentality of the potential reader may be subject to change, and aspires to instigate such a change. Its uniqueness – as well as its charm – lies in knowing how to dismantle kitsch into its components and tackle it on its own ground with its own weapon – first and foremost through its unique usage of effect. In Someck’s poetry, an effect may be created, for example, by a surprising integration of a quotation from a known ditty, like the one in “Love Poem with a Ceiling Fan”: “If loving you is wrong, / I don’t want to be right” (Bloody Mary, 1994) or by using a character that is between the mythic and the stereotypical, such as Johnny Weissmuller, who famously played Tarzan. At times a Someck poem concludes with a linguistic brilliancy, such as in “Hawadja Bialik”: “And from faraway the muezzin’s call / is slung like a frayed rug over a donkey / at the end of its rope” (Bloody Mary), and at other times a poem opens with one such as this: “Stilettos were invented by a girl / who always got kissed on the forehead” (The Revolution Drummer, 2001). Sometimes the effect is manifested through a dazzling role play between the poetic likening and the likened, which does not cease until


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the poem’s refined ending, as in “Poem from the Umbilical Cord” (Bloody Mary) or in the ars-poetic poem “Bloody Mary”. An interesting use of effect is found in the following poem, which reflects a thorough and quiet treatment – already evident in the poem’s title – of the subject of “The Other Germany”: Tractors The sons of Doctor Mengele sell tractors On the road between Munich and Stuttgart, Whoever buys them will plow the land, Water a tree, Paint his roof tiles red, And during Oktoberfest will watch the band March in the square like tin soldiers in a shop window. In the beauty salon of history, they know how to comb a forelock Even in the hair Of a monster. (Bloody Mary) The emotional effect of the first three lines is immediate, yet this strong main point – the combining of a beauty salon and history, and therefore the combing of the forelock in the meaning of cleansing the atrocity – renders in the entire poem another dimension, which is experienced only upon rereading it. That which at first is perceived as a sequence of objective facts – a kind of new history, laid out in rural tranquility far away from Doctor Mengele’s atrocities – is now colored by the strong metaphor of the beauty salon, which in fact illustrates the essence of Nazi kitsch, by powerfully inserting this aesthetic into the realpolitik atmosphere of the poem. In his book Reflections of Nazism: an Essay on Kitsch and Death (1984), Saul Friedländer indicates that nostalgia is the binding component between kitsch and Nazi romanticism within an ideological framework that perceives the “model of future society” as “a reflection of the past”. Through the nostalgic tinting of the “future society” landscape – that post-war calm, when all return to their daily activities, and soldiers are but tin soldiers – the landscape in this poem illustrates what Friedländer called “a remedy for digesting the past”. Yet after reading the last three lines of the poem, the combination of kitsch and death cries out from the landscape description that preceded them, whilst the words “man” [“adam”] and “blood” [“dam”] echo from “land” [“adama”] and “red” [“adom”], the square and the band are reminiscent of old squares and bands, marchpasts are also becoming threatening and so forth. Thus, in one stroke of the combing of

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a forelock, the poetic tranquility has been eclipsed by a pestering and tainted mood, and even more so – as the ending of the poem leaves the reader in the lap of the strong image of the monster seated in a beauty salon. The mode of reception of the integration of the linguistic-visual fields and the surprising transitions from one semantic field to the next, is somewhat reminiscent of Walter Benjamin’s fondness of the post-aortic cinematic medium, and of his aspiration to bring the masses closer to autonomous art through the heart-warming corners of a new kind of aesthetics. Whether Benjamin’s attitude towards the mass culture of his time – and to the one widely spread after it – was right or not, one undebatable key element of his view is being realized in practice reading Someck’s poetry: whomever was tempted to read the poems due to their attraction to the enchanting and the familiar, discovers that in order to fully comprehend them they are required to perform acts of artistic deciphering and judgment. The dismantling of the familiar associations related to the poetic object, meaning its removal from simple meaning, may end up in Someck’s poetry in the amplification of the plain associations out of a new point of view, or alternatively in an entirely new experiential encounter. Either way, the reader is required to cope with an unusual something within seemingly familiar territories. That being the case, the collagelike fabric utilizes the mode of reception that has been instilled in the internet generation, the flashes and the flickering images, and tries to channel that reception to its needs – that is to say, encouragement of activation of an artistic judgment, which also includes a critical aspect. In this poetry, not only are seemingly-understood works often found out to be, following their analysis, multi-layered – in many instances the deciphering of the poems exposes beyond the enchanting the existence of a highly violent reality. A meticulous examination reveals that the blood, the gun shot, the fist and the preying animal appear in Someck’s poems no less than guitar strings, bras, trains of orgasm and boxes of sweets. Furthermore, those poems always have at their center an individual, whether it is the poet dubbing his own voice or whether it is a figure drawn from the crowd. The urban mass of a crowd of individuals yearning for entertainment and the amorphous aspirations of greatness of progress itself, forever surrender in this poetry to the living and the “authentic” – to “the technology of the camel” (Bloody Mary). In many instances, the sensation of the photogenic intimacy that is seemingly created by the imagery collage and the materials of “pulp” culture, is intended to lead the eye towards the flickering neon signs at the entrance of night clubs, to forlorn urban tunnels, to the dissatisfaction that becomes immanent in a city “that is drawn like a gun”, and to the streets that are thirsty for love – which are the real center of gravity of the poems.


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In this context it is worthwhile noting the moving poem “Secret”, a love poem to the poet’s mother, who wept when hearing Abd el-Wahab’s “Cleopatra”, a poem that copes – in its own words – with the memory of a tear: “Maybe I shouldn’t tell this / about my mother, but she wept whenever she heard / “Cleopatra” […] It’s a long time since I crowded together the words nostalgia, / tears, or memories, but these words are the teeth of a comb / with which I, not some Egyptian handmaid, run through your hair” (The Revolution Drummer). The coping with the kitsch is conscious and up front. In this poem, depicting the mother weeping upon hearing “Cleopatra” effectively cancels out the false authenticity of the work; that is to say, something reminiscent of the other culture – which “Cleopatra”, as a ‘pulp’ product masquerading as autonomous work, represents – and shifts – by developing the Pharaoh-esque metaphor (“but these words are the teeth of a comb / with which I, not some Egyptian handmaid, run through your hair”) – to the regions of real pain. Kitsch, which appropriated the mother’s experiences, suddenly lays down its pretension, and loses its kitsch aspiration. In its new poetic context, “Cleopatra” becomes part of the existential aspiration of an artistic whole that has the power to convey through kitsch, and in effect from within it, that which was once swallowed up in the kitsch nostalgia.

2. Designing poetic stimuli The poetic stimuli of Someck’s poetry – in complete contrast to those bound by the rules of “commodity fetishism” – are not interchangeable, and with that they celebrate their triumph over kitsch. A typical example is found in the poem “For Marilyn Monroe”, taken from Someck’s first book, Exile (1976): For Marilyn Monroe So many sleeping pills spill from Marilyn’s torn-out eyes. They speed past the barrier of her red lips like boxcars, dissolve like gravel under the tracks at her body’s hot stops. Only her breasts remain, discarded on the sidewalk like ticket stubs punched out in places conductors from long ago used to love. If we were to swap “Marilyn’s torn-out eyes” for example with “Madonna’s torn-out eyes” – the poem would lose all its meaning. This is a poem that utilizes the pop-art halo

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that encompassed the starlet – and especially her act of suicide, which became the symbol of the transformation of the goddess of the masses into the entire imagery of herself. This tension between the human and its commercialization is expressed in the poem through never ending analogies between the parts of the body, which undergoes a decentralization process (eyes, lips, breasts, hot body stations) and fetishization, and the motion of the train – perhaps the mechanical motion of mass production, a motion onset by an accident (that is intuitively demonstrated by the scattered pills, the torn-out eyes and the red of the lips that melt like blood). It is a poem that points at a chronicle of a death foretold, which is the outcome of the encounter of a human being with the human being as his own imagery – an encounter that is brilliantly illustrated by the integration of two semantic fields: the human, in which it is possible to describe only body parts rather than a whole body, and the mechanical, according to which the beginning of the train’s motion is in the torn-out eyes – in the static death. It is possible to address this imagery whirlpool of body parts and train motion as the movement of the gaze of those observing the “hot stops” – the gaze of the public, which is the one tearing apart the body and separating it into its parts. As the body had already become an imagery of a body, those “conductors” who yearn for the nipple will find none but “punched out” breasts, breasts that were caressed by the fetish, lacking a real nipple. Within that, we must also observe the epic aspect the poem equates to that worshiping of the starlet, which is also the worshiping of a startlet’s death – an aspect that is manifested through the repetition of phrases such as “a long journey” or “from long ago”, in the depiction of the journey itself and in the inner rhyming of the couplet that closes the poem: “like ticket stubs punched out / in places conductors from long ago used to love”. Those stimuli in Someck’s poetry – including, on the one hand, the use of words taken from the epic dictionary, such as names of heroes of modern myths, and on the other hand in nouns with clear spatial connotations such as god, wind and border – indicates at times the poetry and magic of the world, that are still obtainable, even within the boundaries of realism. The existential fragmentation – that which was “torn out of the body”, as in the poem “A Pirate Love Poem” – is also the source of longings that have always accompanied Someck’s poetry, starting with the first poem in the book Exile, “Poem of Longing”. Alongside the plucked feathers that are longing for the body, or the shoes that dream of the animal skin torn from it, appears the trigger that awaits the digital pulp of the finger to pull it. In one way this fragmentation is written about as: “Celluloid and handcuffs. You can make romance out of anything, / even out of a love that hangs on a washing line” (Panther, 1989); and in another way it must be declared: “Let there be no mistake: I am a defector from the army of nostalgia” (Asphalt, 1984). Those are the two ends of Someck’s poetry, and probably also its poetic boundaries. From the urban and Israeli end,


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the “celluloid of romance” is revealed to the eye – anything that appears as it is along a time section that bleaches out, for the sake of its own daily survival, the remnants of gun powder. And in the desert, universal end, in which “the nostalgia poker” (The Revolution Drummer) deceives the actors of memory, stands the defector, the exile, who smokes a cigarette below his Marlboro hat, while knowing he is not really a cowboy: “And I speak Bedouin with a Tel-Aviv accent” (Solo, 1980).

3. The creation of a spatial logic Alongside the use of a collage technique and poetic stimuli, Someck’s world demonstrates a spatial logic, which renders the act of collage combination and the compilation of fragments their epic character. This character is the breathing space that enables the creation of an intense unification experience, a sequence of temporalities in which the reader may immerse themselves. This experience encourages the act of cognitive mapping that Someck’s reader can transpose onto their surrounding reality, through the unique usage that these poems make of the materials or expositions of the multinational capital space, and in particular of the materials of the culture industry. The demilitarized, differential self, so typical to post-modern poetry and thought, is exposed here to a principal possibility for a social status and political definition of their place in the world. Understandably, these poems are but the first stage on the road to such a definition, yet through their unique perception of “the relationship between culture and pedagogy” (in the writings of Fredric Jameson) – between a world that needs poetry and a poetry that needs the world – and by means of the attributes of that poetry, the reader makes their first emancipatory step. It is interesting to note in this context two poems by Soemck that correspond with Yona Wallach. Although Wallach’s influence on this poetry merits a separate study, it seems that a fundamental element in Someck’s world could definitely have derived from her poetry. Meaning, the manner of coping with that same differentiation of the self. With Wallach the split – the existential, gender, linguistic – lies with the speaking subject, whereas Someck’s poetry assumes the existence of such a differentiation in its readers, as if it has internalized the split into the core of its poetic foundations. It may be that the act of fusing quotations, linguistic registers and different semantic fields in Someck’s poems is a kind of reaction to the never-ceasing transformation of Wallach’s subject. Already in his first book, Someck turned this fragmented subject into a whole subject: “Pigeons, / now pigeons, / the tiles lusting in the fence of her house are painted the color of a postcard / from San Marco, / bordeaux colored clouds / an electrocuted segment of sky / and at the end of

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the square more than a thousand pigeons are screwed in like nightlights. // Whoever covered in her belly feather after feather did a nice job” (Exile). Apart from the act of the stitching together of the feathers we should note the similarity between the thousand pigeons that are screwed in like nightlights and the effect of a line like “Marilyn’s tornout eyes”. In both instances it is a reference to the fragmentation of the self – in the poem for Marilyn Monroe its tragic split was described, whereas here the description is of the act of its stitching together. From a later poem, which corresponds with Wallach more openly – “Indian Yona” – we may learn how Someck’s poetry turns fragmentation into epos. Similarly to the poem about Marilyn Monroe, this poem deals with a chronicle of a death foretold, which involves the confronting of a man with his self imagery. However, Wallach’s marks of transformative states – the snow in Kiryat Ono, the grizzly she-bear and the birds that talk from different throats and a princess’s delusions of kingdom – are rendered in this poem with a new meaning through the unifying title “Indian Yona”. Once it is crowned with this title, the tortured self becomes a part of the Winnetou stories. In the place of Wallach’s great yearnings for a wholeness beyond identity and gender – and, as an outcome, also beyond language – Someck’s poetry positions a world that widens the boundaries of the self, a world that has pre-decided to “not behave as a part, / behave as a whole”. Through this spatial-epic logic, this poetry declares that everything which rages, which is wounded and which celebrates within its poetic boundaries – the flyovers, the victims, the carnivals – is a demonstration of freedom at the affirmation square. The unity of experience and existence, and its consequent definition of the place of a human being in the world – that poetry reader who becomes a hero – are the typical epic elements of this poetry. This epic poetry does not look back, but rather around. The whole and unified world that is constructed each time within the tiny boundaries of another poem, is made possible due to its inherent openness to the living, and to its motivating will to involve the reader whoever they are in the poetic game, to afford them the breathing space that seemed to have been lost from the world. Whomever is not deaf to the alarm sirens of their existence; whomever’s days conspired with them among bricks, cranes and tractors; whomever chose to bravely scout the love deserts of their life – all those will find in Someck’s poetry something that can ignite their dreams with jet fuel.

Translated by Shir Freibach


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Arne Rautenberg Germany

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vasen mit sonnenblumen

nichts leuchtet kostbarer als die vase mit drei sonnenblumen dennoch lege ich hand an die vase mit fünf sonnenblumen zähle die stunden vor der vase mit zwölf sonnenblumen flechte die nächsten zwei wochen in die vase mit fünfzehn sonnenblumen wachse empor neben der vase mit zwölf sonnenblumen lausche der stillen musik um die vase mit fünfzehn sonnenblumen entkleide mich wieder vor der vase mit fünfzehn sonnenblumen


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die zigarettendreherinnen von surabaya

fern schlägt die glocke zwölfmal in den weichen himmel bleiern und leicht falb von der windstillen nacht in kiel caprivistraße vierzehn fein zieht der rauch aus dem mund ein hauch von art deco windet sich in der luft zieht lang davon zu den zigarettendreherinnen von surabaya gelbe kittel rote schirmmützen zu hunderten bemenscht von ladys mittleren alters auf weißen plastik schemeln sitzen sie der goldnen hände wegen angeheuert wie blendwerk fahren ihre fingerspitzen in den tabak drehen schneiden endlich bündeln im takt weniger atemzüge von der hohen scheibe aus betrachtet lösen sich die zackigen bewegungen erstaunlich flüssig ja wie fleischlich ist denn aller automatismus süß und betäubend worken sie für den planeten kretek die nelkenzigarette und wenn das gebündelte zu packungen verpackt erneut gebündelt wird 42

heißts bon voyage bis sonstwo hin bis hin nach kiel in die caprivistraße vierzehn so steh ich draußen die kretekzigarette locker zwischen den victoryfingern vor der efeuwand fern schreien die möwen doch mein sinn horcht dem schweigen nach das folgt und währt ein grundrauschen vielleicht ein e-werk fährt seine leistung ab die irgendwer grad braucht ein käuzchen schreit wie zum beweis dass danach stille ist und bleiben will

Aus: vasen mit sonnenblumen, In de Bonnefant, Banholt (NL), 2013.


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Todd Swift UK

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De veilige jaren

De veilige jaren liggen nu achter ons, dus bereid je voor op wat nog komt zei ze, en de wind woei alsem- en essenbladeren om onze tafel, waar een vrouw met rood gestifte lippen groene thee bracht – de kamer werd tot een andere kamer, Augustinus beleerde de tijd, moeilijk, en ruw gebeiteld, vol emoties, zoals verwacht – na onze dood is er geen bestaan – roem, of gedachtenis zijn enkel waan – de jaren vorderen, en vervallen tegelijk – zoals een piloot het vertreksein krijgt waarna de arm met één beweging daalt – en Seneca benam zich van het leven; koningen wilden zonen, wilden een linie – geen familielijn vult de lijnen achter de vijandelijke linies – waar al de doden zijn – Ja, man en vrouw aan tafel in het café, jullie ruziën, niet met elkaar, niet, zoals je denkt, vanwege je onvruchtbaarheid, die angsten en verloren zaken, futiele dromen,

beuzelarijen die de hoop moeten vervangen (we klooien maar wat met die futiele dromen van kleine dingen, zoals een hele reeks kinderen; ceremoniekleding; uitgestrekte armen naar mamma, pappa) – jullie worstelen met je eigen lichaam, 45

met een automatisch besluit, schijnbaar toevallig gemaakt, maar ongetwijfeld rationeel, iets genetisch, een of andere hindernis, het aan en uitklikken van een chemisch proces met het gevolg dat je vliegtuig niet landt – vertrokken op een mooie dag, uiteengereten – je hart vult zich zoals een storm opkomt na een mooie dag, over de leegte trekt, tot het stilvalt, en jij en je vrouw samen begraven worden, kinderloos, berustend: vredig in liefdes grote stilte, grote eind.

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Toen ik weer van de roltrap kwam

Om het horloge, een Swatch voor de tweede, derde keer te ruilen, vanwege een krasje op de wijzerplaat

en beschadigd in een onderdeel van het raderwerk, een tandwieltje dat tegen een ander radertje tikt

of omdat de datum was vastgelopen, zwierf ik door het winkelcentrum almaar ongelukkig met een aankoop

weer is vastgelopen, onder de loep ligt, niet is los te wrikken – verdriet is slechts een urenlange

en kwam altijd vergezeld terug – daarheen gebracht door mijn vrouw die van me houdt en bezorgd is over

reis, maar soms zijn er seconden net zo goed als voorheen, echt fijne rustpunten voor jou en mij.

de pijn die blijft tikken in de klokkenkast van mijn zelf-twijfel maar dat is nog niet alles: ik ga naar boven en geef elk kapot of half-volmaakt voorwerp aan de vriendelijke horlogeverkoper die op een kleine Paul Simon lijkt wat kleiner is dan je voor mogelijk zou houden; ondertussen is het buiten zondag in Londen onder een betrekkende lucht, binnen is er de tijdeloosheid van een kleine attente handeling niet geheel als gevolg van het uitwisselen van geld, en ik ben verliefd


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De praatkuur

Je knipte je haar heel kort precies drie uur nadat Ik gezegd had hoe leuk ik je met lang haar vond. Brutaal. Stout. Maar die pagekop staat je. Maakt je zelfs knapper. Je wilde dans op ons Perzisch tapijt doet me denken aan psychoanalyse. Je beweegt als zo’n lepe alternatieve meid in een club In Montreal die ik nooit gezien heb, maar toch. Foei. Je bent gek met je uitzinnige gedans, je voeten Kunnen zo een gat branden naar de Id, Wenen, Waar we ruzie maakten of ik een boek zou kopen in De museumflat van Freud. Ik wilde eigenlijk de Hele beschikbare serie kopen. Dus, mijn dreamgirl, Mijn trauma op muziek, aan het werk, hup, snel, Doorgaan en bewegen op Tegan en Sara, waarin Iedere letter van je naam zit plus T. Vreemd? Als je iets wilt beginnen kun je het net zo goed Met mij doen. Je haar wervelt in een blonde storm, Het lijkt wel Oud Egypte in onze privé salon, met Als enig teken op ons tapijt het offer van jouw geflirt, Jouw wild-geraffineerde muzikale lichaam.

Translation: Peter Boreas

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Menno Wigman The Netherlands

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MONOGRAM

Once, long ago, at a turning point in my century, I pissed my initials in the snow. It was the sort of winter night that had a touch of mission: the moon as if in heat, above me petticoats that rustled in the sky and I stood there in unsuspecting snow thinking about the woman who saw through me. She came. That spring she came. In the morning we stared at clapped-out curtains. She came and could not stay. She said. Said she. That whole summer she stayed with me. Her initials pounded in my breast. Sometimes I looked for hours at stockings, ankles, dresses and voluptuous curtains. And her who looked through me, who knew what sort of things I wished, she who could not stay The rest is quickly told. So quickly that you can just forget it. I pay the price. Worst maybe are the dreams where full of lust I wrench a woman’s head as in a vice.


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RORSCHACH

There comes a woman, one that’s tall and slim. She speaks the language. Then a bed. Just right. She fits just right. Still often needs repeating. So often that she owns your daily bed, and you the diary that’s inside her head. There comes a white-coat with a rorschach test. Who I might be. What I see in the blot. What does that smartarse know of dirty tricks? When I was made I wasn’t even there. (It was a woman, one that’s tall and slim. Nervous. Hung up. And idler than a rose. She spoke with mud. She had to leave my life.) I follow murder cases in the press. I had a will. Read blots. Weigh up my skin.

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HEROSTRATOS

Wood lice galore are ticking in my head. They’re busy needling up my thoughts. For days I’ve thought now of a deed so great, so violent and dramatic that my name is banner headlines everywhere. Napoleon, I read, was colour-blind and blood to him was green as grass. And Nero, quite short-sighted, watched the games in his arena through an emerald. Stop for a moment. Just listen: I’ll now go up the street, I’ll dare, I’ll shoot myself empty, paint the festive town green. Before the party’s over I will be the search term of all history.

Translation: John Irons

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David Winwood The Netherlands

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KNOCKING

New Year’s Eve party. A wild howling; wind rattled the shutters and the heavy door banged between bolt and post, then the doorknocker tapped a demand for entry too. With all guests arrived, we joked about a storm shivering wet on the doorstep, begging for shelter from itself. So I opened up and suddenly you were around me. With an inexplicable warmth for one who failed to defend you. Welcome, invisible one, welcome, I thought, welcome home. There was great clarity in the air and from across the field the smell of burning peat.


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DID DARWIN CREATE THE EARTH?

‘Did Darwin create the Earth?’ my teacher asks. Ball-testing beautiful she is. I always hide in the car park’s bushes after school; no, not to watch her, or to attack. I’m there to protect her in case anybody tried, as I’m sure everyone who has ever seen her (or heard her grainy voice) has been equally sorely tested in the groin. ‘Did Darwin create the Earth? Well, does anybody know the answer...?’ She’s really vexed after her recent row with some religious parents. Right nutters. I know, I listened at the door. She’s breathing heavily. (I would never dare to do that on my mobile; I would cry out, and she would recognise me, or they would trace me). Did Darwin ever kiss you in the neck? But that’s not what she is asking. From the second row I can’t un-focus from her nipples. ‘Let’s gets this sorted. Did Darwin create the Earth?’ ‘Oh, no miss, no. Darwin was a scientist.’ But one thing is for sure, I think (silently without moving my aching lips), it’s God that’s created you.

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THE SUN HOT; SHE CROSS-EYED,

she stretched out her arm. Hand missing. Accident unexplained. It happened in a market place - surfing the waves of lust, there she was - Athens, Corinth, Thebes, she didn’t mind. All the brain was a-froth with one image only. ‘Love is hate diverted,’ she would declare. ‘Love is hate otherwise engaged. But I digress. Did you see a hand around? A loose hand, a hand in sleeve, hand in glove, a hand tucked in a pocket; a handler of hands, and all of them sturdy, anyone who could give me a hand catching dreams -Athens, Corinth, Thebes, I am a tourist, always under way. Hand me your heart, young man. Hand it to me, quickly. I am an old hand at diverting hate. Hand me, hand me your heart young man.’ She cackled: ‘You will do!’ Then stretched out her arm. Hand missing. And pulled him in.


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Contributors John Ashbery (1927) is recognized as one of the greatest twentieth-century American poets. He has won nearly every major American award for poetry, including the Pulitzer Prize, the National Book Award, the Yale Younger Poets Prize, the Bollingen Prize, the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize, the Griffin International Award, and a MacArthur “Genius” Grant. Ashbery’s poetry challenges its readers to discard all presumptions about the aims, themes, and stylistic scaffolding of verse in favor of a literature that reflects upon the limits of language and the volatility of consciousness. In the New Criterion, William Logan noted: “Few poets have so cleverly manipulated, or just plain tortured, our soiled desire for meaning. [Ashbery] reminds us that most poets who give us meaning don’t know what they’re talking about.” The New York Times Book Review essayist Stephen Koch characterized Ashbery’s voice as “a hushed, simultaneously incomprehensible and intelligent whisper with a weird pulsating rhythm that fluctuates like a wave between peaks of sharp clarity and watery droughts of obscurity and languor.” Recent books: A Worldly Country (2007), Notes from the Air: Selected Later Poems (2007), John Ashbery: Collected Poems, 1956-1987 (2008). 58

Jan Baeke (1956). Besides being a poet and translator, Baeke works for the Amsterdam Film Museum. In a note to his fourth collection, Groter dan de feiten (Larger than the Facts, 2007), he lists a number of people who inspired him during his writing process. This list shows that the work of international film makers such as Andrej Tarkovski, Federico Fellini, Michael Haneke and Luis Buñuel are as important to Baeke’s poetry as writing of poets like János Pilinszky, Wallace Stevens and Ann Carson. Both Baeke’s imagery and technique seem to be fuelled and formed by film and poetry alike. His publications include: Nooit zonder de paarden (Never without the Horses) 1997, Groter dan de feiten (Larger than the Facts) 2007, Iedereen is er (Everyone is Here), 2004, Zo is de zee (That is the Sea) 2001, Iedereen is er (Everyone is Here), 2004, Het tankstation op de route 2013.

Rudolf Geel (1941) publiceerde vele romans en verhalenbundels, zoals De Weerspannige naaktschrijver (1965), De ambitie (1980), Ongenaakbaar (1981), De vrouwenbron (1986), De paradijsganger (1988), Dierbaar venijn, De vervoering (1995) en Bloedmadonna (1998). In 2005 verscheen onder het pseudoniem Jakob van Riel zijn roman De achtste hoofdzonde. Van 1986 tot 1997 maakte hij onder meer als voorzitter deel uit van het bestuur van het Nederlandse Centrum van de internationale schrijversvereniging de P.E.N. Momenteel is hij voorzitter van het P.E.N Writers Emergency Fund. Zijn

poëtische novelle Engelenspel werd in 2010 door Azul Press gepubliceerd, gevolgd door Twee (2011). Najaar 2013 verschijnt bij Azul Press zijn nieuwe grote roman: Volmaakte Mannen.

Uri Hollander (1979) is a poet, translator, musican, literary critic and journalist. He graduated summa cum laude from the Israeli Music Conservatory in Tel Aviv in 1997. His publications include Notes from the Miracle Fair: Essays on Modern Poetry (2003), a Hebrew translation of E. E. Cummings: Selected Poems (2003), a book of poetry The Wandering Piano (2005), selected poems in Hebrew translation Max Jacob: Les vrais miracles (2006), Portrait on the Edge of Darkness: Essays on the poetry of Israel Har (2007), poems and a classical music CD Days of the Tel Aviv Conservatory (2007). He is currently working on selected poems in Hebrew translation Eugene Guillevic: Parenthèse and Lattices: Essays on Dan Tsalka. He is the recipeint of several awards including the Metula Poetry Festival Prize and the Israel Ministry of Education Prize for Young Poets. He lives and works in Tel Aviv, Israel.


Aurélia Lassaque (1983) is an Occitan and French poet. She is keenly interested in the relationship between poetry and music and has collaborated with musicians for numerous music and poetry shows. Her poems have been translated into several languages. She regularly takes part in international festivals of poetry. Her publications include Cinquena Sason (2006), Ombras de Luna − Ombres de Lune (2009, 2010, 2011), E t’entornes pas − Et ne te retourne pas Aurélia Lassaque (2010), Lo sòmi d’Euridícia – le rêve d’Eurydice (2011), Lo sòmi d’Orfèu – le rêve d’Orphée (2011), Solstice and Other poems (2012). Forthcoming: Pour que chantent les salamandres. De zang van salamanders

Jack Poell (Nederweert, 1948) woont en werkt sedert 1973 in Maastricht. Hij is beeldhouwer en schilder. Hij studeerde aan o.a. de Akademie voor Industriële Vormgeving (Eindhoven), de Akademie voor Beeldende Kunsten (Tilburg) en de Akademie voor Toegepaste Kunsten (Maastricht). Werken van hem in de openbare ruimte zijn te vinden in Maastricht, Voorburg, Den Haag, Venlo, Scheveningen, Heerlen en Haarlem. Poell exposeerde in Maastricht (Bonnefantenmuseum, 1983),Eindhoven Technische Universiteit, 1989), Haarlem (Provinciehuis Noord-Holland, 1994) en in Tokyo (Nederlandse Ambassade, 1995). 59

Arne Rautenberg (1967, Kiel, Germany) settled in his town of birth as a freelance writer, artist and cultural journalist after his studies at the Christian-Albrechts University in Kiel. He writes esays, poems, plays for radio, short stories and novels, although he sees writing poetry as his main occupation. His poetry is characterized by not following any programme, by experimenting with rhythms and different styles, diction and intonation. His most recent publications are Gebrochene Naturen (2009) and Der Wind last tausend Hütchen fliegen (2010, poems for children).

Todd Swift (1966, Montreal, Canada) is de auteur van acht goed ontvangen poëziebundels waaronder Budavox, Cafe Alibi, Rue du Regard, Winter Tennis en England is mine. Hij heeft zeven internationale poëziebloemlezingen samengesteld, verzorgde in 2005 een speciale sectie The New Canadian Poetry voor New American Writing. Zijn gedichten zijn in vele kranten en tijdschriften verschenen, waaronder Poetry, Poetry Review, Poetry London en The Guardian. Hij behaalde een PhD aan de University of East Anglia te Londen. Sinds 2012 is hij directeur van Eyewear Todd Swift Publishing in de veilige Londen. jaren Gedichten 1990-2010

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Menno Wigman (Beverwijk 1966) works as a poet, translator and writer of essays. His highly praised first collection ’s Zomers stinken alle steden was published in 1997. For his second collection Zwart als kaviaar (2002) he received the Jan Campert prize. He is a first-rate translator of German poets, such as Rainer Maria Rilke, Gottfried Benn, Georg Trakl, Jakob van Hoddis and Elske Laske-Schüler. After the publication of Dit is mijn dag in 2004 there was a long silence before a new collection appeared. In early 2012 he published My name is Legioen, which was reprinted within weeks. Here ‘the dandy of disenchantment’, as he has been called by a critic, looks back upon the first ten years of the twenty-first century in uncompromising, moving and sometimes frankly painful poems – as a large national daily put it in a review of Mijn naam is legioen – ‘One of the greatest Dutch poets of his generation.’

David Winwood has published in magazines and anthologies in Australia, Belgium, Canada, Ireland, the Netherlands, New Zealand, the UK, and USA. An early (bilingual) e-book, Erasmus in Stepanakert, was e-publised by Blesok in Skopje, Macedonia. The same firm produced a tri-lingual collection, In Praise of Innocence in 2009, while Dutch versions were published by Azul Press shortly thereafter. A new collection will appear by Eyewear Publishing in London in 2014.


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> now published by Azul Press

Rudolf Geel Volmaakte Mannen ISBN 978-94-90687-70-0 / 332 pag. / Prijs € 17,90 62

> now published by Azul Press

Diana Scherer & Menno Wigman De vrede moe – The Peace Weary Foto’s - Diana Scherer, voorwoord en gedichten - Menno Wigman Tweetalig / bilingual) ISBN 978-94-90687-67-0 / 32 pag. / Prijs € 17,00 azul 6 — international literary magazine october 2013

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> azulpress.com > expected Todd Swift (UK) Bert Schierbeek (NL) Aurélia Lassaque (F) Aurélia Lassaque De zang van salamanders

Todd Swift de veilige jaren Gedichten 1990-2010

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azul 6 international literary magazine azul 6 international literary magazine october

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