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I Kalifornien ordnas varje år "SF Jazz Poetry festival" i Berkeley, Oakland, San José och San Francisco. Varje stad har en dag under festivalens fyra dagar (16-19 april). De gör bra reklam för vilka poeter som ska medverka, och vilket som är årets tema. Men det är svårt att hitta någon specifik information om programmet. Uppläsningar? Samtal?
Temat för i år är "The Cities Speak Of Poetry." På premiärdagen i Berkeley framträder bl.a. Robert Hass
(före detta U.S. Poet Laureate) och Al Young (före detta Californian Poet Laureate).
Den här vackra aprildikten är signerad Robert Hass och kan läsas i sin helhet hos Poetry Foundation. Jag publicerar inledningen på den långa dikten.
Iowa City: Early April (first part), by Robert Hass (f. 1941)
(from Sun under wood : new poems. Hopewell, NJ : Ecco Press, 1996.)
This morning a cat — bright orange — pawing at the one patch of new grass in the sand- and tanbark-colored leaves.
And last night the sapphire of the raccoon's eyes in the beam of the flashlight.
He was climbing a tree beside the house, trying to get onto the porch, I think, for a wad of oatmeal Simmered in cider from the bottom of the pan we'd left out for the birds.
And earlier a burnished, somewhat dazed woodchuck, his coat gleaming with spring,
Loping toward his burrow in the roots of a tree among the drying winter's litter
Of old leaves on the floor of the woods, when I went out to get the New York Times.
And male cardinals whistling back and forth — sireeep, sreeep, sreeep —
Sets of three sweet full notes, weaving into and out of each other like the triplet rhymes in medieval poetry, And the higher, purer notes of the tufted titmice among them, High in the trees where they were catching what they could of the early sun.
...
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I Edmonton blir det en veckas poesifestival, 19-26 april. De har, till skillnad från flera andra arrangörer, en alldeles utmärkt webbsida med en tydlig och klickbar programtablå. Programpunkterna har dessutom fått inspirerande rubriker som lockar. Man kan exempelvis besöka en workshop om "chapbooks" (alltså en liten bok med dikter eller andra texter). Den fyndiga rubriken är "Build a book".
Under rubriken "The first metaphor" presenteras bilder av bildkonstnären Alison Kubbos som samspelar med dikter av Kelly Shepherd.
Kelly Shepherd's femte "chapbook" med titeln "Fort McMurray Tricks", publicerades nyligen av Alfred Gustav Press. Han har en Creative Writing MFA från UBC Okanagan, och är lyrikredaktör för den miljöfilosofiska tidskriften The Trumpeter.
Self portrait in fur (first part), by Kelly Shepherd
The bear says
to the gathered performance artists
who are attempting a sound poem
that emulates the sounds of a bear
I never know when it’s actually sound poetry
or when it’s someone making fun of sound poetry
The performance artists adjust their bear masks,
wipe sweat from the backs of their necks.
They feel the eyes of the bear on them.
They breathe in unison and grunt their bear poem.
The bear doesn’t recognize this ceremony,
she has never seen it before,
and she has no confidence in its sincerity.
Before donning the fur and dropping to all fours
these human beings were in cars, on the highway,
like every other human being.
They smell like plastic and gasoline.
To the bear these are just more zoo animals,
and she’s not impressed by their tricks.
...
***
Även i Cheltenham, England arrangeras en lång festival som sträcker sig från 20 april till 3 maj. Årets tema är ”the environment and the natural world”. Ett av de stora namnen som festivalen bjudit in, är Sean O’Brien.
Sean O'Brien är poet, kritiker, dramatiker, anthologist, programföretag, romanförfattare och redaktör. Han växte upp i Hull och bor nu i Newcastle upon Tyne. Han har publicerat tolv diktsamlingar hittills, inklusive Downriver (2007) och November (2011). Hans samlade dikter publicerades 2012. Hans senaste bok har en titel som jag (delvis) kan associera till. Här får ni en dikt ur den.
The beautiful librarians, by Sean O’Brien (f. 1952)
(from The beautiful librarians. London, [England] : Picador, 2015.)
The beautiful librarians are dead,
The fairly recent graduates who sat
Like Françoise Hardy’s shampooed sisters
With cardigans across their shoulders
On quiet evenings at the issue desk,
Stamping books and never looking up
At where I stood in adoration.
Once I glimpsed the staffroom
Where they smoked and (if the novels
Were correct) would speak of men.
I still see the blue Minis they would drive
Back to their flats around the park,
To Blossom Dearie and red wine
Left over from a party I would never
Be a member of. Their rooms looked down
On dimming avenues of lime.
I shared the geography but not the world
It seemed they were establishing
With such unfussy self-possession, nor
The novels they were writing secretly
That somehow turned to ‘Mum’s old stuff’.
Never to even brush in passing
Yet nonetheless keep faith with them,
The ice queens in their realms of gold –
It passes time that passes anyway.
Book after book I kept my word
Elsewhere, long after they were gone
And all the brilliant stock was sold.
...
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