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#2498 - Tuesday, June 13, 2006 - Editor: Jerry Katz

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  • Jerry Katz
    #2498 - Tuesday, June 13, 2006 - Editor: Jerry Katz The Nondual Highlights Archive, Search Engine, and How to Contribute Your Writing :
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      #2498 - Tuesday, June 13, 2006 - Editor: Jerry Katz

      The Nondual Highlights

      Archive, Search Engine, and How to Contribute Your Writing :
      http://nonduality.com/hlhome.htm
       
       

       
       
      Don't like how Yahoo has changed the look of emails?
       
      If you do not like the new look of these emails you may change back to the traditional form. To do so, visit
      http://groups.yahoo.com/group/NDhighlights, click on "edit membership" which you'll find toward the top left of the page, scroll down to "message preference",  and click "Traditional". Finally, click "Save Changes" which you'll find at the bottom of the page.
       
       

       
      In this issue are two pieces from renowned Irish poet, haikuist, translator, anthologist, humorist, and author, Gabriel Rosenstock.
       
      Excerpts:
       
      "...our strange language today, cappucino-flecked, wouldn’t wash down easily with those earlier generations. And the ancients are hardly reading the latest titles, are they? So really, one is writing for nobody. Is that bad?"
       

      I once read on the same platform with a poet who had never published a poem in his life for the very simple reason that his language did not have an alphabet or written form! He was a big hit, I can tell you! I would have loved to have kept up a correspondence with him but, as you can imagine, he was unable to write his address. But we communicate across the great silences of dying languages with every single line we compose."

       

      "I have no idea in the wide world what importance is. Is it something invented in London or San Francisco or somewhere?"

       
       


       
      Sainmhíníonn Krishnamurphy an Grá                 Krishnamurphy Expounds on Love

       

                         Cad is grá ann? Ó!                                              What is love? Oh!

                         Anois anois anois!                                             Now now now!

                         Ní thuigim …                                                    I don’t understand …

                         An grá atá uait, nach ea?                                    It’s love you want, is it?

                         Taibhsítear duit é                                             It appears to you

                          Samhlaítear duit é                                           You imagine it

                          In am éigin a d’imigh tharainn                            Belonging to some time past

                          Nó am éigin atá le teacht                                  Or some time to come

                          Nó é measctha agat le grá Dé                            Or you mix it up with love of God

              Nó grá do dhuine eile                                      Or love for another

                          Nó grá ar son an ghrá                                     Or love for the sake of love

                          Nó, fiú, grá don bhfocal féin, grá?                      Or love of the word itself, love?

                          Anois anois anois!                                         Now now now!

                           Ní fhéadfadh an grá a bheith i bhfocal, a ghrá,             Love could not be in a word, my love,

                           I gcoincheap                                                  In a concept

                           Ná in am, ná in áit, ná i nduine eile ná i ndán.          In time, or place, or person or poem.

                           Murab ann dó anois                                        If it is not now -

                           Gach piotal de á oscailt                                    Each petal opening to the sun

                           Don ngrian is ea é, é féin –                                Which is itself -

                           Sé oíche dhorcha an anama de shíor é! Ar m’anam.    Then it is the dark night of the soul.

                           Machnaigh.                                                     Reflect.

       

                                                                  Gabriel Rosenstock


       


       

      WRITING IN IRISH – FOR WHOM?

       

                                          Gabriel Rosenstock

       

      When Irish more or less died out in most of the households on Achill Island – Achill, where Böll had a cottage and in which I stayed as a child, and later as an adult – when the language died out in the houses, the men continued for a while to use it at sea. What a metaphor for the use of minority languages today.... Fishermen, out at sea, speaking a threatened language among themselves, fishing for old words. Back on land and the secret language becomes a dying whisper in the breeze and then silence.

       

      Writing in Irish today – for whom? Well, even if  you have something to say it is unlikely that the current generation will be interested. Or, if they are, they won’t have the key. They may have a skeleton key that opens up a few well-anthologised texts – that’s about it.

       

       Writing for some future generation is a lost cause. What’s left? Writing for oneself alone? Somewhat selfish, bordering on autoexoticism. And so, I write for generations past, honouring those and and thanking those who honed and shaped the language, helping to make Irish a world literature. But only a few of us believe this to be palpably true and, anyway, our strange language today, cappucino-flecked, wouldn’t wash down easily with those earlier generations. And the ancients are hardly reading the latest titles, are they? So really, one is writing for nobody. Is that bad?

       

      No! Writing for nobody bestows an extraordinary freedom on the writer. He can explore anything. There are no market expectations, no agents to advise you about trends, none of the foppery of your books in windows or dressing up in front of a mirror before picking up an international prize. (For appearance’s sake, of course, we do allow for the odd celebrity and boast to the world that we’re still alive. Yes, we have our somebodys – but most of us are nobodys). It’s a humbling expereience. And maybe that’s not a bad thing either. After all, bad enough as we are, what would we be like if we had an ego?

       

       I once wrote a comic Mass (Aifreann Krishnamurphy) knowing that nobody would haul me up for blasphemy because nobody would bother to read it – or perform it before a live congregation. In a sense, it’s not fun any more being a heretic knowing that nobody is going to threaten you with  burning or anathema. If they’d only curse us, ban us, ridicule us – then, at least,  we would know that somebody actually read something and disapproved. But one continues .... why? Nobody knows. Is it just an incurable itch, an insanibile scribendi cacoethes? An urge to fill the Irish language with everything it may have lacked, lacked until recently, from the fridge to the I-pod via the vibrator?

       

      Maybe to ask this question ‘For whom?’ is to start off on the wrong footing. For whom do we write? Well, let’s ask ourselves for whom do we live? For ourselves? For others? For whom or for what do we suffer, do we love? Or do we just suffer? Just love? Just write?

       

      Our world is bewildered by questions. The mob is constantly bellowing: ‘We want answers!’ You do, do you? Everybody is looking to someone else for an answer. I have posed a question. For whom does the Irish-language writer write? For some it is a tantalising question. For many it is a question of no importance at all. Some will await an answer. Most will not be bothered. And so it goes.

       

      If you have something important to say, why don’t you write in English, in a world language? Are you contemptuous or afraid of an audience? I hear this question from time to time. Why do I need a world language or world audience? I have read poetry and haiku in Irish all over the world, in India, Japan, US, Australia, Berlin, Lisdoonvarna etc. Far from being a hindrance, Irish was just the opposite. In an increasingly homogenised, globalized world, an ancient tongue – whatever its dubious status at home – can excite interest. After all, it is an English-speaking Anglo-American fraternity that is currently involved in wargames, not an Icelandic-speaking one.

       

      Why did  Achill fishermen continue to speak Irish at sea when on land they abandoned it? An urge for continuity? Better communication? Of course, it would have been unsafe to switch suddenly to English if weather lore, names of landmarks and promontories, fishing terminology etc. were mostly in Irish. Well then,  was it simply for the pleasure of it that they continued in Irish?

       

      I have no pressing communicative or safety reasons to write in Irish. Do I have the so-called  urge for continuity? Maybe, but not for its own sake. Anyway, what continuity? Raftery – the last of the bards – may have been a frequent visitor to my mother’s ancestral home but isn’t that stretching continuity a bit when my mother’s generation had long abandoned the language? So, do I write for pleasure? That must be it. Pleasure. Yes, pleasure. It’s enough.  Most Irish children derive little pleasure from Irish as a school subject and that is a sin.

       

       I once read on the same platform with a poet who had never published a poem in his life for the very simple reason that his language did not have an alphabet or written form! He was a big hit, I can tell you! I would have loved to have kept up a correspondence with him but, as you can imagine, he was unable to write his address. But we communicate across the great silences of dying languages with every single line we compose.

       

      You may ask, did that poet who could have been a stuntman in that moving film The Weeping Camel, did he have something important to say?  Importance? What is importance? I have no idea in the wide world what importance is. Is it something invented in London or San Francisco or somewhere? They have no weeping camels in London – what would they know about important things! I seem to recall the alphabet-less poet intoning something about a horse’s mane blowing in the wind. Is that important? Well, I am sure that nothing was quite as important for that poet when the utterance came through him. Probably important for the horse too.

       

      Hey, can we forget about importance,  please? Nothing is important. Everything is important. Irish is not important. Irish is very important. You are not important. You are very important. And so on... Take your pick. It won’t matter a tráithnín in a thousand years.

       

      The poet who wrote about the horse’s mane was a shaman, of course. Shamans are the only poets left. Well, they were the first. And they shall be the last. Give him an alphabet, give him books to read, radio to listen to and chances are he will complain that his shamanistic powers are beginning to fail him.

       

       Irish still has enough ancient magic and music to allow us to chant in it and  perform our shamanistic rites. If the world is sick, the shaman poet and not the multinational pharmaceutical company may be the one to call upon. Then the nobody who has been performing for nobody all along is suddenly perceived as performing for the whole tribe and the tribes of all nations and none.

       

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