Last night was at a Poetry Session about War
Posted: November 16th, 2006, 11:42 pm
So, I submitted 2 poems, in English and translated into Hebrew, and everything was verified via e-mail. And last night, (Thursday November 16th) was the big night.
So, I walked in and found a few familiar faces (Wow, didn't know that the name in the e-mail collection was yours, I said). And I greeted my translator.
And I grabbed the printed booklet to check out the stuff. And lo and behold I was on page 14 and then 15 but no name. Not a trace of who I was and almost worse, my English version of "Boom" was not there - just the Hebrew. The version where all my rhythm and resonance is missing in favour of a literal translation (the best amongst many contenders).
But no matter.
The evening started and we were told that the hostess of the evening was proud to present a Panel of Judges! Judges? Panel? What?
And that there would be firm structure to the evening? Structure? Panel?
And there was. She announced the first set of 3 poets. I was amongst them. (Cool!) The first poet spent inordinate amounts of time pre-talking, mid-talking, and after his short work, which he read twice, he post-talked.
He was hearing impaired and was asked to repeat several of his comments.
Next, another poet read her fine stuff. And then me. I read Boom. I read BOOM and I felt BOOM and I BOOMed Then someone read it in Hebrew and that Boom was a wimp. No BOOM. but rather...boom, boom, boom.
Then the Panel came on and they spoke and they talked and someone in the back couldn't hear (no mic) and they said it all again. And no one related to aesthetics or sound, but rather content and not the content as the poem related it, but rather content as the panel member wished it to be in order to give venue for the panel member to talk his or her own politics.
And this was the poetry gathering. War and Peace philosophies with a small handful of poetry to garnish the Panel's platform.
This is not poetry. This is exploitation. What about the artists who had written their philosophies couched in allusions and metaphor? Used! Draped over an armchair filled by a mouthpiece for personal philosophy.
Damn. Too bad. No warning. Couldn't have guessed that would happen. It was a Political TV show shlepped to a Negev Community Centre. And have I mentioned the Health Club in the same building? Did I speak of the steaming expresso gushes mid-poem? No, none of this did I mention.
Only a feeling of rip-off. And worse, I didn't read Pain Soup and Serenade because I wanted Boom to speak for itself. Yet there it was - in the air and never to be read again. No English version in their take-home booklet.
Yet if anyone listens to the quiet dawn of Friday, they'll be sure to hear the Boom of our lives.
Remind me not to go back to such honorable Poetry Evenings.
So, I walked in and found a few familiar faces (Wow, didn't know that the name in the e-mail collection was yours, I said). And I greeted my translator.
And I grabbed the printed booklet to check out the stuff. And lo and behold I was on page 14 and then 15 but no name. Not a trace of who I was and almost worse, my English version of "Boom" was not there - just the Hebrew. The version where all my rhythm and resonance is missing in favour of a literal translation (the best amongst many contenders).
But no matter.
The evening started and we were told that the hostess of the evening was proud to present a Panel of Judges! Judges? Panel? What?
And that there would be firm structure to the evening? Structure? Panel?
And there was. She announced the first set of 3 poets. I was amongst them. (Cool!) The first poet spent inordinate amounts of time pre-talking, mid-talking, and after his short work, which he read twice, he post-talked.
He was hearing impaired and was asked to repeat several of his comments.
Next, another poet read her fine stuff. And then me. I read Boom. I read BOOM and I felt BOOM and I BOOMed Then someone read it in Hebrew and that Boom was a wimp. No BOOM. but rather...boom, boom, boom.
Then the Panel came on and they spoke and they talked and someone in the back couldn't hear (no mic) and they said it all again. And no one related to aesthetics or sound, but rather content and not the content as the poem related it, but rather content as the panel member wished it to be in order to give venue for the panel member to talk his or her own politics.
And this was the poetry gathering. War and Peace philosophies with a small handful of poetry to garnish the Panel's platform.
This is not poetry. This is exploitation. What about the artists who had written their philosophies couched in allusions and metaphor? Used! Draped over an armchair filled by a mouthpiece for personal philosophy.
Damn. Too bad. No warning. Couldn't have guessed that would happen. It was a Political TV show shlepped to a Negev Community Centre. And have I mentioned the Health Club in the same building? Did I speak of the steaming expresso gushes mid-poem? No, none of this did I mention.
Only a feeling of rip-off. And worse, I didn't read Pain Soup and Serenade because I wanted Boom to speak for itself. Yet there it was - in the air and never to be read again. No English version in their take-home booklet.
Yet if anyone listens to the quiet dawn of Friday, they'll be sure to hear the Boom of our lives.
Remind me not to go back to such honorable Poetry Evenings.