http://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2008/08/are-there-still-sky-and-earth/ Thu, 12 Jan 2012 08:40:04 +0000 hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.2.1 http://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2008/08/are-there-still-sky-and-earth/#comment-4878 Linh Dinh Sat, 16 Aug 2008 01:24:58 +0000 http://pf/harriet/?p=1002#comment-4878 Hi Antoine, Very interesting your observation about "dictators who come in from the periphery--a different country or etnia even--and construct the most artificial and inhuman of nations and regimes." The Georgia situation also makes me think of the heightened, almost paranoid sense of history that comes from being born into a country that's always in the shadow of a great power. So far from God, so close to the United States, Russia or China, etc. Hi Antoine,
Very interesting your observation about “dictators who come in from the periphery–a different country or etnia even–and construct the most artificial and inhuman of nations and regimes.” The Georgia situation also makes me think of the heightened, almost paranoid sense of history that comes from being born into a country that’s always in the shadow of a great power. So far from God, so close to the United States, Russia or China, etc.
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]]> http://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2008/08/are-there-still-sky-and-earth/#comment-4877 Antoine Cassar Fri, 15 Aug 2008 23:46:06 +0000 http://pf/harriet/?p=1002#comment-4877 Thanks for a very interesting post. Indeed, Stalin's real name was Iosef Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili... and under his rule, millions of people from the Caucasus were "exported" to Siberia. There appears to be a certain pattern in dictators who come in from the periphery -a different country or etnia even- and construct the most artificial and inhuman of nations and regimes. How ironic indeed that Stalin was from Gori... Of all poets I have read and grown up with, Whitman and most especially Neruda are the ones who took abode in my heart. Still today I read Neruda avidly and translate his poetry frequently into Maltese. As García Márquez once said, translation is the deepest form of reading; by re-expressing Neruda's poems and making them partly my own, his rage, tenderness and planetary spirit seep deeper into my consciousness. However, despite a latent affinity to the socialist ideal (far, far from the parafernalia of nations, flags and superiority of race), there are a number of poems for which I find it difficult to forgive Neruda, such as his infamous "Canto a Stalingrado". But he was an idealist, naively unaware of the dangers of state control until learning of the gulags and other Soviet brutalities during his final years. It must have been quite a hard fall, particularly after the incredible geographical and human broadness of Canto General, the Elemental Odes and Extravagario. Indeed, it appears from Neruda's posthumous books that he recoiled into the shell of cynicsm, which is not the best mood for a poet (or anyone) to die in. Thanks for a very interesting post. Indeed, Stalin’s real name was Iosef Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili… and under his rule, millions of people from the Caucasus were “exported” to Siberia. There appears to be a certain pattern in dictators who come in from the periphery -a different country or etnia even- and construct the most artificial and inhuman of nations and regimes. How ironic indeed that Stalin was from Gori…
Of all poets I have read and grown up with, Whitman and most especially Neruda are the ones who took abode in my heart. Still today I read Neruda avidly and translate his poetry frequently into Maltese. As García Márquez once said, translation is the deepest form of reading; by re-expressing Neruda’s poems and making them partly my own, his rage, tenderness and planetary spirit seep deeper into my consciousness.
However, despite a latent affinity to the socialist ideal (far, far from the parafernalia of nations, flags and superiority of race), there are a number of poems for which I find it difficult to forgive Neruda, such as his infamous “Canto a Stalingrado”. But he was an idealist, naively unaware of the dangers of state control until learning of the gulags and other Soviet brutalities during his final years. It must have been quite a hard fall, particularly after the incredible geographical and human broadness of Canto General, the Elemental Odes and Extravagario. Indeed, it appears from Neruda’s posthumous books that he recoiled into the shell of cynicsm, which is not the best mood for a poet (or anyone) to die in.
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