@shimyereh / shimyereh.tumblr.com
We like to call them the “departed” — But do they ever really leave? Death’s borderland is poorly charted; None yet have managed to retrieve A mapping of that dread dominion. But in my personal opinion, There are true hauntings — I have been In places where the veil wears thin. Now, I don’t mean to go implying That I’ve conversed with empty air, Or dealt with restless tableware — Just that, at times, there’s no denying Impressions left by what’s no more: Consider it a metaphor.
Written somewhere between San Francisco and Beijing
I love the beautiful expanses Revealed from dizzying heights above The earth; I love the light that dances Through frozen cloudscapes; and I love The aerial logic of a city — (Viewed earthside, never quite so pretty). A window, on an airplane flight, Is more than just a source of light. Alas! today I’m on the aisle. My neighbor in the window seat — Her method’s sadly the complete Opponent to my travel-style. For almost all the flight, she’s kept The window shuttered, and just… slept.
A close-up of the reprieve which was foully and maliciously kept back by Secretary Poltwhistle, and which FINALLY reaches the Tower of London near the end of Act II.
(Submitted by your Jack Point, who is aware of the irony of having created his rival’s reprieve.)
“We hereby pardon Colonel Fairfax and declare him to be Most Definitely Not a Sorcerer. He really is just a man of science and an alchemist. And his cousin is a conniving bastard. Haha, our bad! Signed: Henry VIII”
Nonlinear time
Most epic poets plunge “in medias res”… […] That is the usual method, but not mine — My way is to begin with the beginning; The regularity of my design Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning… —Byron, Don Juan, 1/VI-VII [1819]
I. What worked for Byron doesn’t work for me; I think some tales are best told out of sequence. (Let’s hear about last year, and then let’s see What happened ten years past, and then a week hence!) Sometimes I read books not-quite-linearly — Okay, all right, I do this with great frequence. I love how insights deepen and increase And ripple out from each new added piece.
II. Straight paths from A to B are just for sticklers. And what if Time, like Space, permits such stunts? Bear with me here — I don’t recall partic’lars; I saw a physics lecture on this once. It’s fun to think about such mental ticklers. And though in physics I turned out a Dunce, This concept captured my imagination And proved a fertile source of Inspiration.
III. I briefly thought that Physics was my Thing; ‘Lectrodynamics showed me that it wasn’t, And languages proved far more interesting. We all have false starts, turnarounds — who doesn’t? And yet I may draw on it when I sing Of something else entirely, because int- -Egrating concepts from another space Brings novel insights and a change of pace.
IV. But back to our main Theme: the many angles From which you can approach a storyline. Some stories naturally fall into tangles — You worry at the knots, try to divine What caused the Mess. Sometimes a thread just dangles; You stare at it, perplexed, and say: “That’s fine.” Some things just can’t be viewed in all their glory, But fragments still can make a splendid Story.
V. Examining Onegin, soon I found That my preferred approach to this translation Is not to go straight through. I jump around, Pull out what suits the moment’s inclination. Eight stanzas here, three there… sub-arcs abound. That’s how I don’t get stuck, avoid stagnation. Did I start at the Very Start? Heck no! I started midway through the sixth canto.
VI. Discards are something I find fascinating: A branching out of things that might have been. I look to them for insight, contemplating The side paths they reveal, the different spin On well-known scenes. I think they’re worth translating. The alternate realities within Add richness to the landscapes that one sees in The novel — though they were cut for a reason.
VII. When you approach the timeline at a slant, Things happen out of order. This conjecture Is fascinating to me, though I can’t Recall much else in detail from that lecture. Conceive Time as a branching thing — you grant A wealth of other details to inspect. Sure, It’s messier, and harder to define, But I prefer a Tale that’s not a Line.
November
I. The landscape is in flux, a mix of bright and bleak: Bare branches showing through the vivid vegetation; Red maples, yellow oaks, a brilliant orange streak Against the darker browns of later transformation, Some stubborn evergreens. The birches turned this week, Gold leaves and silver bark — a striking combination. Late autumn settles in, that time of loss and change, And nothing’s as it was, and everything feels strange.
II. I think I’ve cracked the code. They’re seasons of transition, The autumn and the spring; the others are fixed states. The winter is blank skies, a featureless rendition Of streets in snowy white. The summer just creates An image of bright heat to stand in opposition. (I know this is a crude reduction of their traits — Bear with me here.) And yet, for unexamined reasons, We think of every year as four well-balanced seasons.
III. Is there a better way? It’s not like time stands still From one day to the next in any kind of weather. The year is constant change, with subtle shifts that spill Across conceptual lines — but let it blur together, And you’ve got chaos. So, we simplify until A system is in place, familiar as worn leather. Which details to ignore, which details to include? All models are, of course, by definition crude.
IV. The subdivided year has got a pleasing rhythm: Four phases, neatly marked, with scheduled stops and starts; We live within their frame, mark out life’s stages with ‘em, Find metaphors and moods embedded in our hearts. Time, culture, language shape a mental algorithm To cut each smooth-edged year in clearly-labeled parts: To classify, apply a working nomenclature On things that have no name — is simply human nature.
V. But come, enough of that. What more is there to say? Blame metaphor, blame verse, blame every last gradation Of color, blame the sky in softly backlit gray, Blame sudden morning fog, blame crisp exhilaration, Blame woodsmoke on the wind, the faster-fading day, Birds etched against the sky in seasonal migration — The poignancy of change is sharpest and most clear In everything that marks this segment of the year.
Procrastination sonnet
Hurrah! Spring break, we meet again, at last! (Believe me, you were feeling overdue.) The first half of my spring semester’s past, But there’s still loads of stuff I need to do. I pledge to be productive over break: No time to waste — I’ll get to work today Completing things for April; and I’ll make Good progress on the projects due in May. Then, if there’s time, perhaps I’ll knit, or talk With friends, or read some books, or sate my thirst For gorgeous springtime landscapes with a walk ‘Midst rolling hills. But homework must come first. I won’t procrastinate, I swear! I’m ON IT! Day 1: I mostly slept, and wrote this sonnet.
A change of scene
You loathed the hum of high society — Interminable soirées and balls, Each day the same. There’s no variety: Stale jokes, dull gossip, gilded halls. Can this be all? There’s no more meaning To life than… this? you wonder, leaning To catch words spoken on the floor. Or not. You’ve heard it all before. Chairs scrape, the crowd’s attention shifting. (Hear darling Lise again recite That anecdote she told last night — You know the one.) Then news comes drifting Of Bonaparte’s latest attack. You leave for war, and don’t look back.
That lofty sky
In memorandums, dispositions, Minutiae of martial strife, Reports and councils, courier missions — You found a purpose for your life. (Or so you thought.) You dreamed of glory Within the framework of that story, So focused, you forgot to look Around — or up. It only took A fall. Your thoughts go calm, reflective. It’s all you see, and as you die, You marvel how a glimpse of sky Can cause such change in your perspective. What was your world, now feels so small When there’s that sky above it all.
[Two poems about Andrei’s character arc in Book 1.]
Throwback Thursday. These popped into my head again a little while ago, so I’m revisiting them. The evening sky was especially beautiful tonight, soft layers of different shades of blue as the clouds came in.
I wrote these almost exactly two years ago, right when I started getting back into playing with Onegin stanzas, and a good several months before I would get up the nerve to start my translation. I remember these particular stanzas came very quickly, spontaneously, in my head while driving back from a choir rehearsal — I had almost a complete draft by the time I got home. Usually I have to work at it a bit more. (I have a whole system of how I approach it. You should see what my in-progress drafts look like! I don’t keep them. I do all my work in a word processor and tidy it up as I go. I suppose that’s a little ironic, given how fascinated I am with Pushkin’s manuscripts and all the incomplete alternate things that didn’t make it into the published Onegin.)
I’m better at this now than I was two years ago. I look at these, and want to fix certain things, smooth some of the rougher edges, but I’m not going to. Not in the headspace for it right now. Someday I probably will, when I get back to this project — but I think I’ll want to keep the original versions, too. It was a different me that wrote them, and there’s already a certain amount of distance.
Oak and birch
The slender, curly-headed birches Sway gently, flaunt fresh leaves and bark. But past their line, a huge oak lurches Into view: a massive, dark Old monster, lacking any traces Of spring. It clearly still embraces Winter’s bleakness, autumn’s chill. New life blooms all around, and still It stands there, scarred and scornful, leaving Others to play out that role. And something echoes in your soul: Things lost, renounced, and past retrieving. Let others fall for spring’s old lie — We know the truth, that oak and I.
Radiance
“No, I just can’t sleep tonight — Can’t and won’t; the moon’s too bright. Nights like this aren’t meant for dreaming.” Down below, there’s silver gleaming Everywhere — it coats the trees, Rooftops, everything she sees. Filigree of branches, hedges; Dew-pearls deck the outlined edges. Up above, a pale spring sky, Almost starless. One could fly Into that expanse forever. And one will, if one is clever: Kneel down, crouch into a ball, Just like so! (“Look out, you’ll fall!” Sonya’s voice cries out behind her, But Natasha doesn’t mind her.) “It’s so lovely, I could weep! One more song — please! — then I’ll sleep.” Voices ring out, sweetly blending, Find a cadence, shape an ending.
And the guest, whose room’s below, Looks out, dazzled by the light; Hears it all — and doesn’t know How anyone can sleep tonight.
The old oak again
Along the path, the coachman spies it, Points it out: that same old oak. Except — you barely recognize it. It can’t be. Surely, he misspoke? You drive past, but the image lingers: The branches with their gnarled fingers Show fresh leaves specked with sap-bead stars; Lush foliage hides the trunk’s deep scars. And suddenly — you can’t stop grinning: Joy, sunlight, spring! Why say you’re done? Life doesn’t end at thirty-one! A brand new chapter’s just beginning — Why close the book at such an age? Whole worlds await! You turn the page.
[Three poems about Andrei’s visit to the Rostovs’ Otradnoye estate in spring of 1809: a stubborn wintry presence in the woods (II.iii.1), the beauty of a moonlit night (II.iii.2), the old oak in bloom (II.iii.3). The second poem is mostly in the same fairytale ballad style as “Among the flowerpots” (I.i.10).]
[Throwback Thursday! This was one of my very first sonnets (from almost exactly 8 years ago).]
To a spider, whose sudden appearance during a freeway commute caused no small amount of consternation
In general, I'm rather fond of things That squirm and flit and skitter in the guise Of lacquered exoskeletons with wings, Or undulating legs with onyx eyes. But you, my friend, have gone a step too far — Or (shall I say?) eight steps you will regret, Arachniform invader of my car! That was not very courteous to let Yourself down by a thread onto my nose. Oh — now you quickly swing away and climb The rearview mirror, wond'ring why I glower. Don't think you'll get away! We're mortal foes! I'll flick you out the window soon as I'm Not traveling at sixty miles per hour.
Detroit Free Press, Michigan, September 1, 1940
I like that the first sentence of this actually works as blank verse:
I catch my heels in gratings in the street,
And break them off, and have to tiptoe on
Without them, feeling like a perfect fool.
I catch my heels in gratings in the street, And pull them off, and have to tiptoe on Without them, in my bare or stockinged feet — A perfect fool! My zipper snags upon The little bits of fabric at the hem; I singe my lashes lighting cigarettes; My nails are rough — I’m always biting them (And they keep breaking anyway). It gets Quite old. When I wear sandal evening hose, They don’t stay looking nice for long — you see, Within an hour, I find I’ve stuck my toes Through them. I’ve given up on dignity. I kick my shoes off, soon as I am able — And then must fish for them beneath the table.
