Poets’ Roundtable
Welcome
No word on absentees today.
News and Jabber
From Where The Ages Sleep... - Poem by Borys Oliynyk
From where the ages sleep
in tombs along the Nile,
From jungles tropical
where blooms the tamarisk -
Birds flying high, do tell
where do you fly the while,
Why are you flying there
where cold blue rime exists?
Here lies first paradise
and cinnamon's spiced air,
Here copper-visaged Ra
has lips of fire that burn -
But there above the lake
the calico sky is bare,
There sedge and wormwood grows
and knot-grass taciturn.
But does your leader know
the hard way you must roam,
And know ye, brothers mine,
what number falls and dies
Before you get half-way
unto your fathers' home
And skies of ultramarine
fade out before their eyes?
The leader silent grows
and looks into his soul.
His biding weariness
is gone like a broken chain…
A sudden wave of wings!
and up to heaven's scroll
Arises slow but sure
his secret sign of the skein.
How many generations
sought that secret sign:
Both oracles and priests.
From common man to kings.
Still, flying wedge-skeins use
the zodiac‘s design
That's hidden secretly
beneath their left-side wings.
Our planet has often known
a global shift of ice,
And many a star in space
in flames has gone to rest.
But still the skeins return
by prophecy concise,
Through weariness and time
at the secret call of the nest.
Borys Oliynyk
Song About Mother - Poem by Borys Oliynyk
She richly sowed cornfields of life
with the years of her living,
Bowed low to the earth,
in the steppe gathered slow swaying grasses,
Her children she taught well
to live with their conscience untroubled,
Soft she sighed to herself
and silent set out on her way.
'Mum, where are you going? '
her children cry running behind her.
'Gran, where are you going? '
her grandchildren shout at the gate.
'I'm not going far, dears…
past the sun if I'm only not late there.
Time to go now, my darlings…
May long life and sweet joys you await'.
'What life's left without you?
How can you just go, dearest Mummy? '
'And who then, dear Grandma,
will read fairytales when we're good? '
'I'll leave you the rainbows,
the silver of dew at day's dawning,
The gold of the cornfields,
pale palm, and the bird in the wood'
'We don't want bright rainbows,
we don't want fine silver, gold riches,
If only for ever
you'll welcome us home at the gate.
Oh, dearest, will do
all the work in the house and the meadow,
Oh, stay with us, Mummy,
the sun will not mind if you're late.'
She turned away, smiling,
her face with grave pain cast in shadow,
Waved her hand,
and the cloth on her arm gently trembled.
'May joy shower upon you',
she said, and lives on in fields pensive,
In the silver of dew at day's dawning,
pale palm, and the bird in the wood.
with the years of her living,
Bowed low to the earth,
in the steppe gathered slow swaying grasses,
Her children she taught well
to live with their conscience untroubled,
Soft she sighed to herself
and silent set out on her way.
'Mum, where are you going? '
her children cry running behind her.
'Gran, where are you going? '
her grandchildren shout at the gate.
'I'm not going far, dears…
past the sun if I'm only not late there.
Time to go now, my darlings…
May long life and sweet joys you await'.
'What life's left without you?
How can you just go, dearest Mummy? '
'And who then, dear Grandma,
will read fairytales when we're good? '
'I'll leave you the rainbows,
the silver of dew at day's dawning,
The gold of the cornfields,
pale palm, and the bird in the wood'
'We don't want bright rainbows,
we don't want fine silver, gold riches,
If only for ever
you'll welcome us home at the gate.
Oh, dearest, will do
all the work in the house and the meadow,
Oh, stay with us, Mummy,
the sun will not mind if you're late.'
She turned away, smiling,
her face with grave pain cast in shadow,
Waved her hand,
and the cloth on her arm gently trembled.
'May joy shower upon you',
she said, and lives on in fields pensive,
In the silver of dew at day's dawning,
pale palm, and the bird in the wood.
Song About Mother - Poem by Borys Oliynyk
We struggle with the translator's art but a couple of things strike me about these poems. One is the apparent love of his family and homeland. The other is how close he comes to the overly sentimental. I don't think this is great poetry but I think it is really good poetry and it reminds us that sentimentality is a useful tool.
The Ukrainian poet, translator and songwriter Borys Oliynyk has died in Kyiv, according to journalist Mykhailo Masliy. Oliynyk was 81.
Masliy noted on his Facebook page that Oliynyk had died on April 30 at noon, after suffering a long and severe illness.
In his lifetime, Oliynyk published over 40 poetry compilations, as well as numerous essays and journalistic articles, and translations of texts from many Slavic languages into Ukrainian.
From 1991-2006, he was a member of parliament for Ukraine’s Communist Party, although he was eventually suspended from the party in 2005 due to his support for the Orange Revolution of 2004.
In October 2005, Oliynyk was awarded the title of Hero of Ukraine.
“Ukrainian culture has suffered a grievous loss,” Ukrainian President Petro Poroshenko said in his official statement of condolences on April 30.
“(Oliynyk) did a lot to maintain the nation’s language and culture.”
Now, for a little experiment:
I'm going to ask you some questions about the following lyrics:
another version of this reads I saddled my pony and rode straight away
So I cut off my hair and I rode straight away
For the wild unknown country where I could not go wrong
So I cut off my hair and I rode straight away
For the wild unknown country where I could not go wrong
Describe the "wild unknown country"
[Verse 2] I came to a high place of darkness and light
Dividing line ran through the center of town
I hitched up my pony to a post on the right
[Verse 2] I came to a high place of darkness and light
Dividing line ran through the center of town
I hitched up my pony to a post on the right
The point of the exercise is to understand what the reader brings to the page. We all have different images of the same thing. The poet is trying to manage our images to a point where we see something she sees. As poets we guide the reader's application of her own images to an understanding we share. When we both arrive there we are both surprised.
The Current Assignment
Who did the current assignment? I found it a little more difficult than I expected, for a couple of reasons. One is that I'm not that skillful at it, out of practice. The other is that I'm in a rut that while not dry isn't as resonant as I want.
The Next Assignment
Write a poem a day for 10 days straight .
The Next Meeting
The next meeting will be on May 18, 2017.
Other Jabber
