“I believe in the coherent work, composed of many voices.”—Octavio
Paz
Reading Michael Wood’s review of The Poems of Octavio Paz—“Real
isn't real”—in the London Review of Books, 4 July 2013, I find lines that
capture quite effectively the sensation of writing something like Metro
Lace. It’s not surprising, since I would
still say that the biggest influence on the “method” of such a poem—after Ashbery—is
the anthology called Modern European Poetry (in translation) that I read around
the age of 20. It included some poems of
Paz but more importantly it included an international collection of poets all
writing in that vein to some degree. “That
vein” being born of symbolist practices to a degree that American verse rarely
is, and British verse still less.
Which makes me reflect I still need to go back to reading
translated anthologies and maybe to building up my resources again with poems
written in other tongues. In any case,
here are the lines from Paz, translated by Muriel Rukeyser, quoted by Wood:
When over the paper the pen goes writing
in any solitary hour,
who drives the pen?
To whom is he writing, he who writes for me . . .
Someone in me is writing, moves my hand,
hears a word, hesitates,
halted between green mountains and blue sea . . .
He writes to anyone, he calls nobody,
to his own self he writes, in himself forgets,
and is redeemed, becoming again me.
True, nothing in this, as writing, recalls Metro Lace. I would despair of such solemnity, but the
process described is quite accurate, and elsewhere Paz, like all
symbolist-influenced poets, can employ some of the flippancy that comes with an
acceptance that the only world we may remark on is the one we make of words. In general, though, he’s not primary in that
regard and I preferred other poets in that volume who were a bit more
insouciant about the existential abyss interposed between textuality and
identity. Still, from Wood’s
description, it sounds as if poems like Sunstone (1957) and Blanco (1966) would
have something to say to me.
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