tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18584545381874320372024-03-13T12:19:24.829-07:00ein klage-himmel<br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br>
<p align="right"><b>The word that fits<br> would mime<br> the genesis.<br>
<i>--Michel Deguy</i></b></p>James Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07614935078978354375noreply@blogger.comBlogger312125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1858454538187432037.post-47531952451472747712021-03-04T13:40:00.003-08:002021-05-22T06:03:06.362-07:00love alone is credible<p> </p><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dRRCmagXObc/YEFRfgcFGxI/AAAAAAAACao/oEtQTJ7R8dI3ccSot0LdchygvziarZh7wCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/eliot%2Blake%2B11-19%2Bresize.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="666" data-original-width="1000" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dRRCmagXObc/YEFRfgcFGxI/AAAAAAAACao/oEtQTJ7R8dI3ccSot0LdchygvziarZh7wCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/eliot%2Blake%2B11-19%2Bresize.jpg" /></a></div>
<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Love alone is credible; nothing else can be believed, and nothing else ought to be believed.</span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>--Lars Urs van Balthasar</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I’ve abandoned all hope that we can think our way out of the mess we’ve made of the world. The pathology that besets us in this cultural moment is a failure of imagination, specifically the failure to imagine the other as neighbor. Empathy is ultimately a feat of the imagination, and arguments are no therapy for a failed, shriveled imagination. It will be the arts that resuscitate the imagination.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>--James K.A. Smith, philosopher and theologian</i></div></span><br /><br />
James Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07614935078978354375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1858454538187432037.post-29781858890160445902020-10-25T07:30:00.003-07:002020-10-25T07:32:24.917-07:00two poems at EcoTheo Review<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MwvEx7gvLMw/X5WK6Q5h5YI/AAAAAAAACY8/RzZVLF2CgFka3KaSQ1_O3F0w20TeIkDvQCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/social%2Bjustice.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="900" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MwvEx7gvLMw/X5WK6Q5h5YI/AAAAAAAACY8/RzZVLF2CgFka3KaSQ1_O3F0w20TeIkDvQCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/social%2Bjustice.jpg" /></a></div>
<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Two poems in the "Social Justice" section of <i>EcoTheo Review</i>:</span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.ecotheo.org/walking-past-a-farm-on-the-first-day-of-spring/" target="_blank">Walking Past a Farm on the First Day of Spring </a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.ecotheo.org/unrest/" target="_blank">Unrest</a>
</div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br a="" href="http://www.ecotheo.org/walking-past-a-farm-on-the-first-day-of-spring/" target="_blank" /><br />James Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07614935078978354375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1858454538187432037.post-68728621537664173082020-10-19T12:18:00.001-07:002020-10-19T12:18:43.028-07:00two poems in translation<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cxeTvTSS0G0/X43k2kzbUrI/AAAAAAAACYs/xU_xgrxzjqcxnmdSlBAKcDXuGjYpa-NBwCLcBGAsYHQ/s673/dido.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="673" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cxeTvTSS0G0/X43k2kzbUrI/AAAAAAAACYs/xU_xgrxzjqcxnmdSlBAKcDXuGjYpa-NBwCLcBGAsYHQ/s600/dido.jpg" width="600" /></a></div>
<i><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The Death of Dido</i> (Henry Bone, 1755-1834</span>)</div></i><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Two poems translated from Latin are online</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">at <a href="https://wildcourt.co.uk/translations/two-translations-by-james-owens/">Wild Court</a></span>
</div><br /><br>James Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07614935078978354375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1858454538187432037.post-25379698979318807582020-10-14T08:28:00.004-07:002020-10-14T10:41:51.839-07:00Basement Poetry Podcast<span style="font-size: medium;">There is a generous and perceptive reading and discussion of my poem "Kind" on Wayne Benson's <i>Basement Poetry Podcast</i>.<br /><br />
Click <a href="https://www.listennotes.com/podcasts/basement-poetry/kind-by-james-owens-wbkXpMNqmAV/#community" target="_blank">here</a> to listen. If you go, stay to hear some of the other episodes. He is doing good work there.<br /><br />
"Kind" appears also in my book <i>Family Portrait with Scythe</i> (Bottom Dog Press, 2020). It is available from Bottom Dog Press's website and from Amazon or Barnes and Noble, in paperback or digital formats. Please consider ordering a copy.
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James Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07614935078978354375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1858454538187432037.post-76759563785228126622020-09-07T13:56:00.001-07:002020-09-07T13:56:38.687-07:00feeder<br>
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<br><br>James Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07614935078978354375noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1858454538187432037.post-83984047724213572522020-04-08T07:37:00.000-07:002020-04-08T07:43:09.121-07:00My new book<br><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0iTPrM1Lc08/Xo3dLOSunEI/AAAAAAAACTo/A2RcGRWSqpoOloz_Qocvhyif4fCQlRFCACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/scythe%2Bcover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="648" data-original-width="432" height="640" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0iTPrM1Lc08/Xo3dLOSunEI/AAAAAAAACTo/A2RcGRWSqpoOloz_Qocvhyif4fCQlRFCACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/scythe%2Bcover.jpg" width="427" /></a></div>
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James Owens's <i>Family Portrait with Scythe</i> is the sort of book I crave: a lambent poetry with sensuous detail, imagery that explores the microcosm and macrocosm of (and behind) human perception, a poetry that revels in a diction so beautifully arranged that to read it aloud induces something akin to a waking dream. The poems about family and the natural world refuse the reductive and often reach into the vatic. They luminesce. They are speculative yet confident, as in "Looking Back," a poem in which "the afterlife, if there is one, / will be like the window / when you are out here in the dark, / where you've come to investigate / a noise and have found / yourself so perplexed by stars / that you are strange now / under the vastness." Rich, sonically textured, beautifully wrought, these are poems I will read and re-read for years to come.
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— William Wright, author of <i>Tree Heresies</i> and <i>Night Field Anecdote</i>
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I’ve long been drawn to poets whose works—defined by precision, by transcendence—create moments of intense possibility in uncovering the exquisite nature of the ordinary. James Owens, author of <i>An Hour Is the Doorway, Frost Lights a Thin Flame,</i> and <i>Mortalia,</i> is one of them. His writing deftly mingles all lyrical and narrative threads into bursts of vision, beauty, clarity—wholly remarkable and singular. Owens is a poet who carries, in the words of Alan Tate, “the secret wisdom around the world” —placing his work firmly in the lineage of Virgil to Donne to Elizabeth Bishop, Paul Celan, Charles Wright, Kathryn Stripling Byer.
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In <i>Family Portrait with Scythe,</i> his latest book, Owens writes of relationships and place—in striking blends of Appalachia, northern Indiana, Ontario, in a scattering of histories—with a fixated need for all truths hidden in the land —its deep veins of coal and death, its skies full of silent birds, its riverbanks always revealing something new. The voices in these poems are convincing, familiar, thoroughly bent to mission: “I walked on, heavy, and carried this only world” (from “Last Thoughts Cooling Like an Abandoned Cup”). Their stories, which do compel the poet, also stir the reader, as in the stunning “Imagine a Woman Behind Razor Wire”: “you must tell it speak it write it”. This collection will unsettle your ease, but that’s what it was meant to do.
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—Sam Rasnake, author of <i>Cinéma Vérité</i> and <i>Inside a Broken Clock,</i> editor of <i>Blue Fifth Review</i>
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Order from</div>
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<a href="https://smithdocs.net/harmony_series">Bottom Dog Press</a>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Family-Portrait-Scythe-James-Owens-ebook/dp/B086KSRWYP/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=owens+portrait+scythe&qid=1586356169&sr=8-1">Amazon</a>
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<a href="http://barnesandnoble.com/w/family-portrait-with-scythe-james-owens/1136706697?ean=9781947504202">Barnes & Noble</a>
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<br><br>James Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07614935078978354375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1858454538187432037.post-83209856571171423092019-08-26T19:50:00.000-07:002019-08-26T19:50:13.215-07:00So disappearing is the destiny of destinies.<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jvWCE--0AzQ/XWSYL6lTbzI/AAAAAAAACRs/F4RG4I9QjDMD_H__hzVe-lOnhjWxW_PzQCLcBGAs/s1600/floarea%2Bsoarelui%2B2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="900" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jvWCE--0AzQ/XWSYL6lTbzI/AAAAAAAACRs/F4RG4I9QjDMD_H__hzVe-lOnhjWxW_PzQCLcBGAs/s1600/floarea%2Bsoarelui%2B2.JPG" /></a></div>
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Bring me the sunflower, let me plant it</div>
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in my field parched by the salt sea wind,</div>
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and let it show the blue reflecting sky</div>
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the yearning of its yellow face all day.</div>
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Dark things tend to brightness,</div>
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bodies fade out in a flood of colors,</div>
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colors in music. So disappearing is</div>
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the destiny of destinies.</div>
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Bring me the plant that leads the way</div>
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to where blond transparencies</div>
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rise, and life as essence turns to haze;</div>
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bring me the sunflower crazed with light.</div>
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Eugenio Montale</div>
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(translated by Jonathan Galassi)</div>
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(Erin's sunflower, Massey, Ont., Aug. 2019)</div>
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James Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07614935078978354375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1858454538187432037.post-46451603530081522762019-07-24T12:02:00.000-07:002019-07-28T05:17:26.089-07:00Paul Valéry: The Lost Wine<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fTBW4l_O3X4/XTipFCqmofI/AAAAAAAACRM/1OT901kCxiMc1IpwmbSqsbJ-68znge8SQCLcBGAs/s1600/valery%2Bby%2Bblanche.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="516" data-original-width="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fTBW4l_O3X4/XTipFCqmofI/AAAAAAAACRM/1OT901kCxiMc1IpwmbSqsbJ-68znge8SQCLcBGAs/s1600/valery%2Bby%2Bblanche.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>drawing by Jacques Emile Blanche, 1923</i></span></div>
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It is the eternal question that keeps all the cool kids up at night: should a translator of poetry be more interested in reproducing form or content? (Yes, even to ask the question, we have to pretend that we can separate the two, and that we know which aspects of a poem are "form" and which are "content.")<br />
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I think the useful answers are completely <i>ad hoc</i>; that is, we can only consider how a particular translator might best arrive at a version of a particular poem. A bit more abstractly, I figure it pays to think about how well known the source poem already is in the target language. If it isn't already well known --- the early versions of <i>Duino Elegies</i>, for example, or Middle Kazakh epics (if there are any) -- then it might be a good idea to give priority to the prose sense. On the other hand, if there already exist many versions of the source poem, then focus perhaps shifts to the translator's production of a crafted object, and aspects like rhyme and meter, those qualities we call "musical," gain in importance. It is, sure, all very subjective (I'm glad to say).<br />
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Paul Valéry's short lyric poems are very well known in English translation (and I think you should always read as many versions of any translated poem as you can find). To my thinking, this opens space for hewing more tightly to the shape of the poem -- though without straying too far from the sense, one hopes.<br />
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All of which goes to say that this morning spent trying to translate "Le Vin Perdu" has reminded me that all versions are <i>only</i> versions, provisional and compromised and cobbled together out of scraps. I've managed to approximate the rather difficult rhyme scheme and a lot of Valéry's syntactical oddity, but at the cost of metrical regularity and of the original's rich music (e.g., the leaden clunk of my closing rhyme!). But, after all, there is no final word, but only this attempt and then the next attempt ....
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>The Lost Wine</b></span><br />
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I, one certain day, on the Ocean,<br />
(I forget under what starry sign)<br />
Threw in, as if the void's oblation,<br />
A dram of vintage, rich and fine.<br />
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Who ordained your loss, my potion?<br />
Perhaps I obeyed someone divine?<br />
Or was it my own heart's devotion,<br />
Thinking of blood and pouring wine?<br />
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The purifying sea<br />
Regained its usual clarity<br />
After the briefest misting of rose ...<br />
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Lost that wine, the waves drunken! …<br />
I saw – into the bitter air arose<br />
Ciphers, from where they lay sunken …<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Le Vin Perdu</span></b><br />
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J’ai, quelque jour, dans l’Océan,<br />
(mais je ne sais plus sous quels cieux),<br />
Jeté, comme offrande au néant,<br />
Tout un peu de vin précieux…<br />
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Qui voulut ta perte, ô liqueur?<br />
J’obéis peut-être au devin?<br />
Peut-être au souci de mon coeur,<br />
Songeant au sang, versant le vin?<br />
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Sa transparence accoutumée<br />
Après une rose fumée<br />
Reprit aussi pure la mer…<br />
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Perdu ce vin, ivres les ondes!…<br />
J’ai vu bondir dans l’air amer<br />
Les figures les plus profondes…<br />
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<br />James Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07614935078978354375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1858454538187432037.post-43307454464033877602019-07-10T05:49:00.004-07:002019-07-10T05:49:57.430-07:00Rilke, two poems from French<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xOccvQOozak/XSXeIjKxwAI/AAAAAAAACRA/sJCUjahbrwUjVzQ8ezUQvy-oUm72x1WyQCLcBGAs/s1600/Rilke-kind.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="711" data-original-width="500" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xOccvQOozak/XSXeIjKxwAI/AAAAAAAACRA/sJCUjahbrwUjVzQ8ezUQvy-oUm72x1WyQCLcBGAs/s1600/Rilke-kind.jpg" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Rilke, about 1880</span></i></div>
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Two poems translated at <a href="https://www.belleombre.org/rilke-translations-from-french/" target="_blank">Belle Ombre</a></div>
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<br />James Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07614935078978354375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1858454538187432037.post-1530927466387386712019-06-03T08:23:00.000-07:002019-06-05T05:34:44.498-07:00What Are Poets For?<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Im1fQ6B9KsA/XPU6e9l1rrI/AAAAAAAACQo/sEYB3QZE8pEnHmTnBnKxBi9zbxS9gCh_ACLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_0087.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="900" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Im1fQ6B9KsA/XPU6e9l1rrI/AAAAAAAACQo/sEYB3QZE8pEnHmTnBnKxBi9zbxS9gCh_ACLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_0087.JPG" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">wozu Dichter in dürftiger Zeit?</span></div>
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But meanwhile too often I think it's<br />
Better to sleep than to be friendless as we are, alone,<br />
Always waiting, and what to do or say in the meantime<br />
I don't know, and who wants poets at all in lean years?<br />
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-- “Bread and Wine,” Friedrich Hölderlin (trans. Michael Hamburger)<br />
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Albert Hofstadter, in his marvelous translation of Martin Heidegger's 1946 essay “What Are Poets For?” renders Hölderlin's phrase “wozu Dichter in dürftiger Zeit?” as “what are poets for in a destitute time?” and I think that is better than Hamburger's “lean years." For sure, it is closer to Heidegger's reading of the poem, which is what Hofstadter is after.<br />
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Halfway through the essay, Heidegger veers close to an answer. Anyone might have written what he writes here, but he has just spent twenty-five pages in meticulous argumentation to build the terms of what he will say (and this is followed by twenty-five more pages of equally careful work in explanation). That is, Heidegger earns it.
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From Hofstadter's translation in <i>Poetry Language Thought: </i><br />
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<i>This day is the world's night, rearranged into merely technological day. This day is the shortest day. It threatens a single endless winter. Not only does protection now withhold itself from man, but the integralness of of the whole of what is remains now in darkness. The wholesome and sound withdraws. The world becomes without healing, unholy. Not only does the holy, as the track to the godhead, thereby remain concealed; even the track to the holy, the hale and whole, seems to be effaced. That is, unless there are still some mortals capable of seeing the threat of the unhealable, the unholy, as such. They would have to discern the danger that is assailing man. The danger consists in the threat that assaults man's nature in his relation to Being itself, and not in accidental perils. This danger is</i><b> the</b><i> danger. It conceals itself in the abyss that underlies all things. To see this danger and point it out, there must be mortals who reach sooner into the abyss. </i><br />
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But where there is danger, there grows
also what saves.<br />
– Friedrich Hölderlin
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James Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07614935078978354375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1858454538187432037.post-65648203990833941052019-05-28T06:16:00.000-07:002019-05-28T06:18:59.260-07:00brief turns of weather<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hH1pAVwL6w0/XO0z5gmdu0I/AAAAAAAACQM/3fRdFFI59XEBOMBGWWJAVMfkk8dRKuDsQCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_brief.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="466" data-original-width="700" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hH1pAVwL6w0/XO0z5gmdu0I/AAAAAAAACQM/3fRdFFI59XEBOMBGWWJAVMfkk8dRKuDsQCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_brief.JPG" /></a></div>
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a poem at <a href="https://www.valpo.edu/valparaiso-poetry-review/2019/05/21/james-owens-brief-turns-of-weather/">Valparaiso Poetry Review</a>
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<br />James Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07614935078978354375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1858454538187432037.post-48717577115724332802019-05-25T10:14:00.000-07:002019-05-25T10:14:48.310-07:00érotisme du printemps<br>
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James Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07614935078978354375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1858454538187432037.post-48638497284963761892019-05-24T10:32:00.000-07:002019-05-24T10:32:30.833-07:00orioles<br>
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<br><br>James Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07614935078978354375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1858454538187432037.post-58682102173288851272019-01-07T08:37:00.000-08:002019-01-07T08:37:04.197-08:00a dream of raptors<br><br>
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<br><br><br><br>James Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07614935078978354375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1858454538187432037.post-61223398611016881682019-01-06T09:02:00.000-08:002019-01-06T09:02:44.929-08:00Hofmannsthal, Ballad of the Outer Life<br />
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<div style="text-align: right;">
<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Petroleum, Indiana, March, 2016
</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Ballad of the Outer Life</span></b><br />
<br />
And children grow older deep in their eyes,<br />
Who know nothing of the world, but age and die,<br />
And the living proceed on their ways.<br />
<br />
And green fruits sweeten on a strip of sky<br />
And fall like birds that perish in the nights,<br />
And, a few days on, they rot where they lie.<br />
<br />
And ever the wind turns, and we follow its whims<br />
And repeat the words we've heard or mis-heard.<br />
We feel pleasure, then weariness weighs down our limbs.<br />
<br />
And paths go through the grass and lead toward<br />
Noble places with arbors and ponds and torches,<br />
While others are menacing and deathly withered.<br />
<br />
Why were they built? Why is it one never matches<br />
Another? And so many that our counting fails?<br />
Why is it a man laughs, then weeps, then blanches?<br />
<br />
Why are we in this game where nothing avails,<br />
Where, great as we are but forever alone, we go<br />
Wandering and wandering, seeking without goals?<br />
<br />
Why have we seen so much, and no good comes?<br />
And yet he speaks a truth who says “Evening,”<br />
A word from which wisdom and mournng flow<br />
Like heavy honey from the hollow combs.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Hugo von Hofmannsthal</b><br />
<i>(my translation)</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Ballade des äußeren Lebens</span></b><br />
<br />
Und Kinder wachsen auf mit tiefen Augen,<br />
Die von nichts wissen, wachsen auf und sterben,<br />
Und alle Menschen gehen ihre Wege.<br />
<br />
Und süße Früchte werden aus den herben<br />
Und fallen nachts wie tote Vögel nieder<br />
Und liegen wenig Tage und verderben.<br />
<br />
Und immer weht der Wind, und immer wieder<br />
Vernehmen wir und reden viele Worte<br />
Und spüren Lust und Müdigkeit der Glieder.<br />
<br />
Und Straßen laufen durch das Gras, und Orte<br />
Sind da und dort, voll Fackeln, Bäumen, Teichen,<br />
Und drohende, und totenhaft verdorrte ...<br />
<br />
Wozu sind diese aufgebaut? und gleichen<br />
Einander nie? und sind unzählig viele?<br />
Was wechselt Lachen, Weinen und Erbleichen?<br />
<br />
Was frommt das alles uns und diese Spiele,<br />
Die wir doch groß und ewig einsam sind<br />
Und wandernd nimmer suchen irgend Ziele?<br />
<br />
Was frommt's, dergleichen viel gesehen haben?<br />
Und dennoch sagt der viel, der "Abend" sagt,<br />
Ein Wort, daraus Tiefsinn und Trauer rinnt<br />
Wie schwerer Honig aus den hohlen Waben.<br />
<br />
<br />James Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07614935078978354375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1858454538187432037.post-67281905067935851312018-10-14T06:07:00.003-07:002018-10-14T06:07:59.252-07:00above the waterfall<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GH7gyK-cm4Q/W8M9-5R7zfI/AAAAAAAACMM/AxmoPwvyXdg0ATtDymlKyRBAytQhJmrMwCLcBGAs/s1600/aux%2Bsables%2Btall%2Bbw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1050" data-original-width="700" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GH7gyK-cm4Q/W8M9-5R7zfI/AAAAAAAACMM/AxmoPwvyXdg0ATtDymlKyRBAytQhJmrMwCLcBGAs/s1600/aux%2Bsables%2Btall%2Bbw.jpg" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Aux Sables River, 12 Oct. 18</span></i></div>
James Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07614935078978354375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1858454538187432037.post-88743338935607001802018-10-13T19:43:00.000-07:002018-10-13T19:43:34.399-07:00last light<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Aux Sables River, 12 Oct. 18</span></i></div>
<br />James Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07614935078978354375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1858454538187432037.post-34569692337844501792018-09-15T09:39:00.000-07:002018-09-15T09:39:52.151-07:00Paul de Roux: September 15<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">September 15</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">After rain, the burst
figs,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">red wounds in the trees,
or flowers,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">a yellow leaf announces
autumn,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">a face that approaches to
skim the gold-sequined</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">day where grapes ripen,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">mornings the jackdaws
drone and caw</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">from the high rocks and
leave</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">in search of provision
through the fields,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">wasps watch over a thin
lingering</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">of summer around puddles</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">that soon dry away in the
wind.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>(my translation)</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><br /></i>
</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Le 15 Septembre</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Figues éclatées après
la pluie,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">dans l'arbre rouges
plaies, ou fleurs,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">une feuille jaune annonce
l'automne,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">visage qui s'approche
jusqu'à toucher le jour</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">pailleté d'or où
mûrissent les grappes,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">au matin les choucas
égrènent leurs cris</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">sur les hautes roches et
partent</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">en quête de provende par
les champs,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">les guêpes veillent à
une présence</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">ténue de l'été à
l'entour des flaques</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">bientôt asséchées par
le vent.</span></div>
<br /><br />
<b>Paul de Roux</b><br />
<i>La Halte Obscure</i>, 1993<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />James Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07614935078978354375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1858454538187432037.post-61894352498199794062018-08-18T09:49:00.000-07:002018-08-18T09:49:13.739-07:00Paul de Roux: Les Roses<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KMujVL1VZjE/W3hJ-X3teVI/AAAAAAAACLk/orv-OGJSySMqt8x4PVgogS8A8Gc2OpG9QCLcBGAs/s1600/0%2B0%2B0%2Bbutterfly%2B1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="466" data-original-width="700" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KMujVL1VZjE/W3hJ-X3teVI/AAAAAAAACLk/orv-OGJSySMqt8x4PVgogS8A8Gc2OpG9QCLcBGAs/s1600/0%2B0%2B0%2Bbutterfly%2B1.JPG" /></a></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">The Roses</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
A man lives on regret and rehashed
spites,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
knowing how foolish and ugly he is.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
One day, he finds hmself among yellow
roses,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
just barely sulphurous, a cloying
perfume,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
and they prove the coral in oceanic
deeps</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
and that the riddles and myths have all
been true.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
Only beauty, he discovers,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
has the power to speak, and perfume</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
to hold back the rash riposte.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b>Paul de Roux</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<i>(my translation)</i></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Les Roses</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
Un homme vit de regrets, d'envies
recuites,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
conscient de sa sottise et de sa
laideur.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
Un jour il rencontre des roses jaunes,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
à peine souffrées, au parfum
insinuant,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
qui prouvent le corail au fond des
océans</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
et la vérité des énigmes et des
mythes.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
Seule la beauté, découvre-t-il,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
a le pouvoir de parler, le parfum</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
de retenir la réponse imprudente.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
[these are not roses, of course, mais quand même ...]</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
James Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07614935078978354375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1858454538187432037.post-82235081988867468392018-07-19T07:00:00.001-07:002018-07-19T07:00:42.996-07:00damselfly<br><br>
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James Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07614935078978354375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1858454538187432037.post-41700056760039019572018-07-10T08:18:00.000-07:002018-07-10T08:18:22.630-07:00flight<br><br>
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<br><br>James Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07614935078978354375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1858454538187432037.post-36027151652200953582018-07-08T04:10:00.000-07:002018-07-08T04:10:43.519-07:00Scythe<br />
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i have a poem, "Scythe," in the summer issue of<br> <a href="http://www.westtexasreview.com/2018/6/scythe.php" target="_blank">West Texas Literary Review</a> </div>
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James Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07614935078978354375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1858454538187432037.post-85072491245457920812018-06-30T12:11:00.003-07:002018-06-30T12:11:56.938-07:00Lascaux<br />
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A new poem at <a href="http://www.theamericanjournalofpoetry.com/v5-owens.html" target="_blank">The American Journal of Poetry</a></div>
<br />James Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07614935078978354375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1858454538187432037.post-67188036954327703372018-06-26T19:01:00.001-07:002018-06-26T19:01:42.245-07:00heron (6)<br><br>
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James Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07614935078978354375noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1858454538187432037.post-33318561916831488072018-05-05T08:08:00.003-07:002018-05-05T08:12:28.315-07:00three poems from Rilke's French<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DNwLXyafwRs/Wu3H2fDG-sI/AAAAAAAACGY/SjakjdneeUoEw-ShwZ-oVgSRKNy-pWSDwCLcBGAs/s1600/rilke-balcon-accueil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="695" data-original-width="467" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DNwLXyafwRs/Wu3H2fDG-sI/AAAAAAAACGY/SjakjdneeUoEw-ShwZ-oVgSRKNy-pWSDwCLcBGAs/s1600/rilke-balcon-accueil.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Rilke on the balcony at Muzot, 1923</i></span></div>
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<b>three poems at <a href="http://www.belleombre.org/translations-from-rainer-maria-rilke/" target="_blank">Belle Ombre</a></b></div>
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<br />James Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07614935078978354375noreply@blogger.com0