By Catharina Gripenberg
Someone in my novel must die, reasoned Virginia Woolf.
So the minor character died in one line, and Virginia Woolf had to go out and drown herself.
V.W. in the flow of water.
She doesn’t manage to get up to the land, to the acid on the paper,
where her voice in the third person cries Virginia Woolf.
In the garden there are rosehips and poplars.
On the veranda stand the novel’s other characters
wondering where in their thoughts they should now put a comma.
Her central character survived.
She sits dry-shod on the steps, shakes the water from the sheets of paper
and tries to consider the view in the first person.
(N.N.)
You mustn’t die, my central character
Don’t die on me in the first person
You shall have coffee, cigarettes, and a suit
For all the funerals.
*
In order to write one needs money and a room of one’s own, said Virginia Woolf.
(N.N.)
I have your room. I sit at your table.
The chair at your writing desk creaks.
In the window a bee that says
“It’s August and I don’t want to die.”
Little bee, someone must die in this poem.
*
Virginia W.,
here you are only a character in a poem.
You are spared from slicing the day into paper, tearing the shore up after you
as you walk in your thoughts, seaweed.
You say “I have what I need: a death of my own, a room of my own.”
But in my poem you wouldn’t die.
I don’t have very much money. We would be poor.
It would be an adventure. You would gather pine cones,
stick them out through the bars and say “I’m wasting away.”
And a minor character would fill her pockets full of stones so as to find the way back
but the road would go over the river.
And who is it sitting here and smoking and drinking coffee?
Yes, I, my central character, am of course also here
though I can’t really afford it. Here you’ll get a little money
for more coffee and cigarettes, to keep you alive.
Behind us stand surviving characters from the novel. It’s September,
they’re lifting branches, picking apples in pails, and saying
that according to them, if we were to ask them, they would think
it’s September, and that the thoughts –, the hours –,
the pails –, the thoughts –
Virginia, come up out of the water
it will be the sort of ordinary day you never had: Living characters,
some dead ones, a room and meal breaks, a council pension.
translated from Finland-Swedish by David McDuff
Showing posts with label Catharina Gripenberg. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Catharina Gripenberg. Show all posts
Monday, 27 July 2009
Saturday, 11 April 2009
Songs of One's Own
In the latest issue of the Finland-Swedish literary magazine Ny Tid, the poet Catharina Gripenberg talks to Katarina Gäddnäs about herself and her work. Here are one or two excerpts from the interview, in my impromptu translation:
Now Catharina lives in Amager, a district in south Copenhagen, near Kastrup.
“It’s not chic or trendy, and that feels good. Ordinary people live there, workers and all kinds of nationalities, people go around in shell-suits. And there are lots of bodybuilders with boxer dogs,” she says, puffing out her cheeks and mimicking a beefy style of walking. "There’s also a long windy beach you can stroll along. I like the thought that I live near an airport. Airports are a sort of no man's land where I feel as though I belong, they have departure gates that show the names of cities where you could also live. Your identity is more open at an airport, you don't need to have a home there, you’re on the way somewhere, you have a destination.
“Living between countries, on the borders, being in between or on the margins, can also be rewarding. A rootlessness that roots me deeper and deeper in writing.”
She also plans to look for part-time work, apart from writing.
“It could be anything, and preferably something that's not writing and literature. I think this is something I was brought up with at home, or perhaps it’s an Ostrobothnian trait, not being able to just sit there and think you’re a writer or some kind of artist all day, but feeling that you probably also ought to have a "real" job."
In her most recent poetry collections there is a swarm of different voices and pitches. The voice is important when she writes. She has always been fascinated by how people express themselves. How people present themselves through language, how one speaks to others.
“One starts to exist when one begins to talk, or write, it’s as though one were blowing life into oneself. Like in Beckett plays, where they talk and talk in order to come to the realization that they don’t know what to do, with life that’s silent and transitory. When I write, it’s often a voice speaking out, someone clearing their throat and starting to express themselves in an elegant, urbane sort of way, but the words come out of the corner of their mouth, trickling and oozing."
Catharina Gripenberg's latest collection Ta min hand, det vore underligt (Take my hand, it would be strange, 2007) has received several prizes and awards. The criticism was mixed, in particular one or two Swedish reviewers who said she had massacred Edith Södergran in some sort of act of matricide. I myself read the book as a dialogue with Södergran's work, a conversation with serious undertones.
"I'd never even imagined that anyone would read the book that way. Why would one write a book with the aim of massacring Edith Södergran, that just sounds sad ... To me my Edith poems are a conversation with her poetry, with the writing of poetry; how should one write nowadays? What is a poem? For me it was about turning to a master or myth from literary history who possessed a key to the poetic landscape, and about walking among her lines and poems as if through rooms, and touching objects and words and feelings. For me it's as if the poetic persona or the people in my Edith poems have read Södergran's poems, and are trying to remember them, as if they were trying to remember how to speak, how to write poetry, how to explain and describe. They're trying to build a life of their own, and they're using the poems of a master in order to do that, and then they climb out of those poems, and begin a kind of pilgrimage towards a poetry of their own and a country of their own, because they have to find their own songs."
See also: Broken Nose During Dinner
Ny Tid
Now Catharina lives in Amager, a district in south Copenhagen, near Kastrup.
“It’s not chic or trendy, and that feels good. Ordinary people live there, workers and all kinds of nationalities, people go around in shell-suits. And there are lots of bodybuilders with boxer dogs,” she says, puffing out her cheeks and mimicking a beefy style of walking. "There’s also a long windy beach you can stroll along. I like the thought that I live near an airport. Airports are a sort of no man's land where I feel as though I belong, they have departure gates that show the names of cities where you could also live. Your identity is more open at an airport, you don't need to have a home there, you’re on the way somewhere, you have a destination.
“Living between countries, on the borders, being in between or on the margins, can also be rewarding. A rootlessness that roots me deeper and deeper in writing.”
She also plans to look for part-time work, apart from writing.
“It could be anything, and preferably something that's not writing and literature. I think this is something I was brought up with at home, or perhaps it’s an Ostrobothnian trait, not being able to just sit there and think you’re a writer or some kind of artist all day, but feeling that you probably also ought to have a "real" job."
In her most recent poetry collections there is a swarm of different voices and pitches. The voice is important when she writes. She has always been fascinated by how people express themselves. How people present themselves through language, how one speaks to others.
“One starts to exist when one begins to talk, or write, it’s as though one were blowing life into oneself. Like in Beckett plays, where they talk and talk in order to come to the realization that they don’t know what to do, with life that’s silent and transitory. When I write, it’s often a voice speaking out, someone clearing their throat and starting to express themselves in an elegant, urbane sort of way, but the words come out of the corner of their mouth, trickling and oozing."
Catharina Gripenberg's latest collection Ta min hand, det vore underligt (Take my hand, it would be strange, 2007) has received several prizes and awards. The criticism was mixed, in particular one or two Swedish reviewers who said she had massacred Edith Södergran in some sort of act of matricide. I myself read the book as a dialogue with Södergran's work, a conversation with serious undertones.
"I'd never even imagined that anyone would read the book that way. Why would one write a book with the aim of massacring Edith Södergran, that just sounds sad ... To me my Edith poems are a conversation with her poetry, with the writing of poetry; how should one write nowadays? What is a poem? For me it was about turning to a master or myth from literary history who possessed a key to the poetic landscape, and about walking among her lines and poems as if through rooms, and touching objects and words and feelings. For me it's as if the poetic persona or the people in my Edith poems have read Södergran's poems, and are trying to remember them, as if they were trying to remember how to speak, how to write poetry, how to explain and describe. They're trying to build a life of their own, and they're using the poems of a master in order to do that, and then they climb out of those poems, and begin a kind of pilgrimage towards a poetry of their own and a country of their own, because they have to find their own songs."
See also: Broken Nose During Dinner
Ny Tid
Saturday, 14 March 2009
Broken Nose During Dinner
BROKEN NOSE DURING DINNER
by Catharina Gripenberg
BROKEN NOSE AT DINNER
Jag sitter i garaget och skriver.
Häcksaxen vrider sig ett par grader när husdörren slås fast.
Och den ryske ingenjören, specialiserad på processförbränningsteknik
kommer hem. ”Förbandet”, ropar han genom bastuventilen.
Ingenjören kom sällan hem från middagar med näsan i skick.
Jag går in och förbinder hans näsa. Han gråter?”…Nyponrosorna utanför
och fåglarna fåglarna
spöken, spöken…”, reciterar jag.
”Skriv istället en dikt som heter Broken nose during dinner”, säger han.
15/3
Sitter i garaget, ska skriva.
Men ingenjören kommer hem. Vinkeljärnet trillar från spiken.
Han läser ett utkast medan jag virar på förband (brutet igen).
”Skitdikt”, säger han, ”näsbenet kommer aldrig att läka.”
16/3
I garaget. Pappret blankt som glasfiber. Är det här en skruvtving?
Näsan skriver jag. Stryker. Sedan ringer telefonen. En skruvbult
rullar från hyllan. Jag blir bjuden på middag.
(Natt)
Jag kommer hem med brutet näsben, går in i garaget, skriver,
näsan bultar (månen lyser). Jag läser dikten för ingenjören
medan han förbinder min näsa.
Broken nose during dinner
18:30
och Irina R. älskar huvudkål
tunga som romaner. Snön viker in, och jag:
”Irina, här: en huvudkål. Det ser ut att bli en roman ikväll!”
På bordet står vassbuk, medvurstar, stekar, palvat kött, sylta,
tårtor, äpplen. Hur är det möjligt att få näsbenet inslaget
vid ett sådant middagsbord? Allt kan hända i en roman!
Vi bänkar oss: Godsägaren. Järnvägsföreståndaren. Dashing
Romanov. Irina Romanova. Och jag.
Irina håller ett tal, en sorglig historia om krig och snö.
”Men må vi bli lyckliga!” utbringar Irina.
”Vem är denne godsägare och denne järnvägsföreståndare?” inleder Romanov.
”Ja, vem är jag?” frågar järnvägsföreståndaren.
”Ni är järnvägsföreståndaren i dikten”, svarar jag.
”Är det inte en roman vi är med i?” undrar godsägaren.
”Mitt liv är en roman!” utbrister Irina.
”Jag skriver lyrik”, säger jag.
Då bröt Irina Romanova med ett knytnävsslag mitt näsben.
Jag var inte beredd på det, för jag hade lyft min tallrik
för att se om det var äkta ryskt porslin. Det var det.
Men blodet målade redan över mina läppar.
Varken godsägaren eller järnvägsföreståndaren hade hunnit
fria till mig. Jag tackade för en detaljerad afton,
men sa att jag var tvungen att gå hem och dikta.
Med servetten tryckt mot näsan tittar jag upp mot huset innan jag börjar gå:
D. Romanov står i fönstret. Irina skär huvudkålen. Godsägaren
beskriver för järnvägsföreståndaren, en areal? Aljona och Autonina
ringer för att berätta en nyhet, Irina formar systrarnas namn
med läpparna, vinkar de andra till luren.
Att få lindas in i denna tråd! Men det var dags för mig att gå –
– eller var det så att godsägaren kom springande ut i snöstormen
för att säga att hans marker inte betydde något, dikten, eller den brutna näsan
bara jag flyttade in i ägorna i hans hjärta, och han kysste mig bland snö och blod?
Eller ropade Romanov över gården ”Gå inte, du är mitt barn!”
Det kunde ha varit på många sätt, ingenjören, förbandet! Jag är här, i garaget!
BROKEN NOSE AT DINNER
14/3
I sit in the garage writing.
The garden shears wobble slightly as the house door slams shut.
And the Russian engineer who is specially qualified in process combustion techniques
comes home. “The bandage!” he shouts through the sauna ventilator.
The engineer seldom came home from dinners with his nose intact.
I go in and bandage his nose. He’s crying?“…The rosehips outside
and the birds the birds
ghosts, ghosts," I recite.
"Instead, write a poem called Broken nose during dinner,” he says.
15/3
Sitting in the garage, going to write.
But the engineer comes home. The angle iron tumbles from its nail.
He reads a draft while I tie on the bandage (broken again).
“Lousy poem,” he says. “The nose will never heal.”
16/3
In the garage. The paper shiny as fibreglass. Is this a screw clamp?
The Nose, I write. Cross it out. Then the phone rings. A bolt
rolls off the shelf. I’m invited to dinner.
(Night)
I come home with a broken nose, go into the garage, write,
the nose throbs (the moon is shining). I read the poem to the engineer
while he bandages my nose.
Broken nose during dinner
18:30
and Irina R. loves cabbages
heavy as novels. The snow drifts in, and I:
“Irina, here: a cabbage. It looks as if there’ll be a novel this evening!”
On the table are sprats, sausage, roast joints, smoked meat, brawn,
cakes, apples. How is it possible to get one’s nose broken
at such a dinner table as this? Anything can happen in a novel!
We seat ourselves: The Estate Owner. The Railway Director. Dashing
Romanov. Irina Romanova. And me.
Irina gives a speech, a sorry tale of war and snow.
“But here’s to our happiness!” Irina toasts.
“Who is this estate owner, and this railway director?” Romanov begins.
“Yes, who am I?” asks the railway director.
“You’re the railway director in the poem,” I reply.
“Isn’t it a novel we’re in?” the estate owner wonders.
“My life is a novel!” Irina bursts out.
“I write poetry,” I say.
Then Irina broke my nose with a blow of her fist.
I was not prepared for it, for I had lifted my plate
to see if it was real Russian porcelain. It was.
But the blood was already making my lips run.
Neither the estate owner nor the railway director had managed
to propose to me. I thanked them for a detailed evening,
but said I had to go home and write.
With my napkin pressed to my nose I look up at the house before I start to go:
D. Romanov stands at the window. Irina cuts the cabbage. The estate owner
describes to the railway director, an acreage? Alyona and Autonina
ring to report a piece of news, Irina shapes her sisters’ names
with her lips, beckons the others to the receiver.
To be wound in this thread! But it was time for me to go—
—or did the estate owner come running out into the snowstorm
to say that his lands meant nothing, the poem, or the broken nose
if only I’d move into his heart’s estate, and did he kiss me amidst snow and blood?
Or did Romanov shout across the courtyard: “Don’t go, you are my child!”
It could have been many ways, engineer, the bandage! I’m here, in the garage!
Translated from Finland-Swedish by David McDuff
by Catharina Gripenberg
BROKEN NOSE AT DINNER
Jag sitter i garaget och skriver.
Häcksaxen vrider sig ett par grader när husdörren slås fast.
Och den ryske ingenjören, specialiserad på processförbränningsteknik
kommer hem. ”Förbandet”, ropar han genom bastuventilen.
Ingenjören kom sällan hem från middagar med näsan i skick.
Jag går in och förbinder hans näsa. Han gråter?”…Nyponrosorna utanför
och fåglarna fåglarna
spöken, spöken…”, reciterar jag.
”Skriv istället en dikt som heter Broken nose during dinner”, säger han.
15/3
Sitter i garaget, ska skriva.
Men ingenjören kommer hem. Vinkeljärnet trillar från spiken.
Han läser ett utkast medan jag virar på förband (brutet igen).
”Skitdikt”, säger han, ”näsbenet kommer aldrig att läka.”
16/3
I garaget. Pappret blankt som glasfiber. Är det här en skruvtving?
Näsan skriver jag. Stryker. Sedan ringer telefonen. En skruvbult
rullar från hyllan. Jag blir bjuden på middag.
(Natt)
Jag kommer hem med brutet näsben, går in i garaget, skriver,
näsan bultar (månen lyser). Jag läser dikten för ingenjören
medan han förbinder min näsa.
Broken nose during dinner
18:30
och Irina R. älskar huvudkål
tunga som romaner. Snön viker in, och jag:
”Irina, här: en huvudkål. Det ser ut att bli en roman ikväll!”
På bordet står vassbuk, medvurstar, stekar, palvat kött, sylta,
tårtor, äpplen. Hur är det möjligt att få näsbenet inslaget
vid ett sådant middagsbord? Allt kan hända i en roman!
Vi bänkar oss: Godsägaren. Järnvägsföreståndaren. Dashing
Romanov. Irina Romanova. Och jag.
Irina håller ett tal, en sorglig historia om krig och snö.
”Men må vi bli lyckliga!” utbringar Irina.
”Vem är denne godsägare och denne järnvägsföreståndare?” inleder Romanov.
”Ja, vem är jag?” frågar järnvägsföreståndaren.
”Ni är järnvägsföreståndaren i dikten”, svarar jag.
”Är det inte en roman vi är med i?” undrar godsägaren.
”Mitt liv är en roman!” utbrister Irina.
”Jag skriver lyrik”, säger jag.
Då bröt Irina Romanova med ett knytnävsslag mitt näsben.
Jag var inte beredd på det, för jag hade lyft min tallrik
för att se om det var äkta ryskt porslin. Det var det.
Men blodet målade redan över mina läppar.
Varken godsägaren eller järnvägsföreståndaren hade hunnit
fria till mig. Jag tackade för en detaljerad afton,
men sa att jag var tvungen att gå hem och dikta.
Med servetten tryckt mot näsan tittar jag upp mot huset innan jag börjar gå:
D. Romanov står i fönstret. Irina skär huvudkålen. Godsägaren
beskriver för järnvägsföreståndaren, en areal? Aljona och Autonina
ringer för att berätta en nyhet, Irina formar systrarnas namn
med läpparna, vinkar de andra till luren.
Att få lindas in i denna tråd! Men det var dags för mig att gå –
– eller var det så att godsägaren kom springande ut i snöstormen
för att säga att hans marker inte betydde något, dikten, eller den brutna näsan
bara jag flyttade in i ägorna i hans hjärta, och han kysste mig bland snö och blod?
Eller ropade Romanov över gården ”Gå inte, du är mitt barn!”
Det kunde ha varit på många sätt, ingenjören, förbandet! Jag är här, i garaget!
BROKEN NOSE AT DINNER
14/3
I sit in the garage writing.
The garden shears wobble slightly as the house door slams shut.
And the Russian engineer who is specially qualified in process combustion techniques
comes home. “The bandage!” he shouts through the sauna ventilator.
The engineer seldom came home from dinners with his nose intact.
I go in and bandage his nose. He’s crying?“…The rosehips outside
and the birds the birds
ghosts, ghosts," I recite.
"Instead, write a poem called Broken nose during dinner,” he says.
15/3
Sitting in the garage, going to write.
But the engineer comes home. The angle iron tumbles from its nail.
He reads a draft while I tie on the bandage (broken again).
“Lousy poem,” he says. “The nose will never heal.”
16/3
In the garage. The paper shiny as fibreglass. Is this a screw clamp?
The Nose, I write. Cross it out. Then the phone rings. A bolt
rolls off the shelf. I’m invited to dinner.
(Night)
I come home with a broken nose, go into the garage, write,
the nose throbs (the moon is shining). I read the poem to the engineer
while he bandages my nose.
Broken nose during dinner
18:30
and Irina R. loves cabbages
heavy as novels. The snow drifts in, and I:
“Irina, here: a cabbage. It looks as if there’ll be a novel this evening!”
On the table are sprats, sausage, roast joints, smoked meat, brawn,
cakes, apples. How is it possible to get one’s nose broken
at such a dinner table as this? Anything can happen in a novel!
We seat ourselves: The Estate Owner. The Railway Director. Dashing
Romanov. Irina Romanova. And me.
Irina gives a speech, a sorry tale of war and snow.
“But here’s to our happiness!” Irina toasts.
“Who is this estate owner, and this railway director?” Romanov begins.
“Yes, who am I?” asks the railway director.
“You’re the railway director in the poem,” I reply.
“Isn’t it a novel we’re in?” the estate owner wonders.
“My life is a novel!” Irina bursts out.
“I write poetry,” I say.
Then Irina broke my nose with a blow of her fist.
I was not prepared for it, for I had lifted my plate
to see if it was real Russian porcelain. It was.
But the blood was already making my lips run.
Neither the estate owner nor the railway director had managed
to propose to me. I thanked them for a detailed evening,
but said I had to go home and write.
With my napkin pressed to my nose I look up at the house before I start to go:
D. Romanov stands at the window. Irina cuts the cabbage. The estate owner
describes to the railway director, an acreage? Alyona and Autonina
ring to report a piece of news, Irina shapes her sisters’ names
with her lips, beckons the others to the receiver.
To be wound in this thread! But it was time for me to go—
—or did the estate owner come running out into the snowstorm
to say that his lands meant nothing, the poem, or the broken nose
if only I’d move into his heart’s estate, and did he kiss me amidst snow and blood?
Or did Romanov shout across the courtyard: “Don’t go, you are my child!”
It could have been many ways, engineer, the bandage! I’m here, in the garage!
Translated from Finland-Swedish by David McDuff
Tuesday, 10 March 2009
Ny Tid
If you want to keep abreast of cultural events in what is termed "Svenskfinland", i.e. the areas of Finland where Swedish is still spoken as a first language, the magazine Ny Tid still exists. I say "still" because it first appeared back in 1944, when it was a mouthpiece for left-wing politics.
Nowadays, it is much more focused on the arts. The latest issue that I have received through the post is 10/2009. This contains articles on, for instance, the sculptor Angela Oker-Blom, the bilingual Viirus theatre group, a review of the Swedish translation of Irène Némirovsky's Châleur du sang, a review of Charlotte Svensson's book Pli på pojkar, which discusses the role of men and masculine role models in children's literature, and other items from Sweden.
Every now and again, Ny Tid publishes a supplement entitled Kontur which is wholly devoted to literature as such. The Finland-Swedish publishing houses such as Schildts and Söderströms advertise new Finland-Swedish books there, and articles vary from ones about Finland-Swedish literature to ones about, for instance, Doris Lessing or a review of Le Clézio. In the latest issue, there are a number of poems by the Estonian poet Elo Viiding in Peeter Puide's Swedish translation.
Another interesting occasional supplement is Ikaros, which contains academic articles by people attached to the university Åbo Akademi. These supplements tend to have a wide range of themes from psychology to philosophy, art to science.
Specifically literary articles in the main Ny Tid paper over the past few months have included a large double one about Victoria Benedictsson; a review of Merete Mazzarella's "essäroman"about Zacharias Topelius Ingen saknad, ingen sorg; poems by Claes Andersson; a review of Robert Åsbacka's latest novel Orgelbyggaren.
Their website is at: http://www.nytid.fi/start/
Nowadays, it is much more focused on the arts. The latest issue that I have received through the post is 10/2009. This contains articles on, for instance, the sculptor Angela Oker-Blom, the bilingual Viirus theatre group, a review of the Swedish translation of Irène Némirovsky's Châleur du sang, a review of Charlotte Svensson's book Pli på pojkar, which discusses the role of men and masculine role models in children's literature, and other items from Sweden.
Every now and again, Ny Tid publishes a supplement entitled Kontur which is wholly devoted to literature as such. The Finland-Swedish publishing houses such as Schildts and Söderströms advertise new Finland-Swedish books there, and articles vary from ones about Finland-Swedish literature to ones about, for instance, Doris Lessing or a review of Le Clézio. In the latest issue, there are a number of poems by the Estonian poet Elo Viiding in Peeter Puide's Swedish translation.
Another interesting occasional supplement is Ikaros, which contains academic articles by people attached to the university Åbo Akademi. These supplements tend to have a wide range of themes from psychology to philosophy, art to science.
Specifically literary articles in the main Ny Tid paper over the past few months have included a large double one about Victoria Benedictsson; a review of Merete Mazzarella's "essäroman"about Zacharias Topelius Ingen saknad, ingen sorg; poems by Claes Andersson; a review of Robert Åsbacka's latest novel Orgelbyggaren.
Their website is at: http://www.nytid.fi/start/
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)