Today began the week-long course of poetry writing, taught by Dr Jen Crawford. In four-hour's class, we did a lot! We began by reading aloud Rimbaud's Le bateau ivre in Samuel Beckett's translation. The choice of course delighted me. It was like a tribal chant of the opening ceremony. Then we improvised, each in 15 minutes' time, five short pieces (one being a definition) of 1. Whatever 2. The definition of poetry 3. On a definition of Poetry 4. Meal 5. Body. It was really a good mental exercise!
For 1. I wrote the following pre-poetry (still in a primitive state):
Swallows in July
Yesterday I saw swallows flying low, very close to the ground, near the bay.
Swallows in July is only natural in Tokyo
Where they come, each summer, to nest and raise their off-springs.
But in this hemisphere, when it is all wet, cold, and muddy, what do they seek?
Maybe they are looking for worms to fuel their long-haul flight to come
When summer comes. But where to? To the southern island?
Their seasonal migration is beyond my imagination.
When the noon sun hovers high in the north, I am disoriented, I lose my way.
Strange, am I being punished for having boasted from time to time
That I can find any destination without asking for directions?
This has happened before, my being disoriented. Twenty-one years ago, and I was twenty-five
Under the tropic of Capricorn, in the cidade monstro named after Paul.
I was astray, day after day, not knowing where to go, what to do.
I remember reading Montaigne then. He who insisted that we all
Live in passages. His worldly wisdom.
Did you see, Michel, from your tower of self-confinement
Swallows who fly, in their own passages from a season to another?
Did you know, Michel, where they are from
And what week of the year did they reach your tower?
