Book Pickings

Friday, September 26, 2014

Poems are the Perfect Gifts

Birthday presents are truly about the thought one puts in. After much thought, I decided to dedicate a poem for my mother on her birthday. I meticulously searched for the words that best fit my feelings towards her and jubilated to know she truly loved what I had picked for her. Of course this was only part of my gift to her, but I truly felt she was moved by this initiative more than anything else. This is to share with you the poem I had picked for her, and the idea of dedicating poems to our loved ones instead of always going for the happy birthday wishes found on birthday cards.

My family reunited to celebrate Mom's birthday. My bro Maurice was not with us unfortunately :(

"Unfolded out of the Folds" by Walt Whitman (from Leaves of Grass, 1860)

UNFOLDED out of the folds of the woman, man comes unfolded, and is always to come unfolded;
Unfolded only out of the superbest woman of the earth, is to come the superbest man of the earth;
Unfolded out of the friendliest woman, is to come the friendliest man;
Unfolded only out of the perfect body of a woman, can a man be formed of perfect body;
Unfolded only out of the inimitable poem of the woman, can come the poems of man—only thence have my poems come
Unfolded out of the strong and arrogant woman I love, only thence can appear the strong and arrogant man I love;
Unfolded by brawny embraces from the well-muscled woman I love, only thence come the brawny embraces of the man;
Unfolded out of the folds of the woman’s brain, come all the folds of the man’s brain, duly obedient;
Unfolded out of the justice of the woman, all justice is unfolded;
Unfolded out of the sympathy of the woman is all sympathy:
A man is a great thing upon the earth, and through eternity—but every jot of the greatness of man is unfolded out of woman, First the man is shaped in the woman, he can then be shaped in himself.
Does the poem stand up to your expectations? Will you now consider going on a poem hunt for the special ones in your lives? Or have you ever done it before? So many questions on my mind, and if you feel like sharing, please don't hesitate to comment. Cheers

Saturday, August 16, 2014

Le Quatrième Mur by Sorj Chalandon

I have wanted to read this book since the "salon du livre francophone de Beyrouth" took place.

I had many magical encounters during this year's salon du livre, the most marking one being that with Sorj Chalandon when interviewed about this book, his latest. The plot instantly struck me with its ingenuity: During the Lebanese civil war, Sam, a Jewish Greek revolutionary and theater lover living in France, decides to mount the play "Antigone" by Anouilh in the heart of tormented Beirut. And if that wasn't challenging enough for him, he wanted the actors to be from the different confessions that are at war. The idea seems crazy, but he sees in it a hope to unite the Lebanese people that are literally killing each other. To have the shooting cease for one or two hours, is Sam's life dream. Unfortunately, he falls ill and finds himself unable to leave the hospital bed so he entrusts the mission to his friend Georges.

With Sorj Chalandon at the salon du livre francophone de Beirut - 2013

The book naturally was a success and was awarded both the prix Goncourt le choix de l'Orient and the prix Goncourt le choix des lycéens. Altogether, everything made me want to read the book, but I didn't buy it for it was too expensive for me. Chit-chatting with my friends, I mentioned both the salon du livre and "Le quatrième mur". Few months later, my generous friend Mohammad, surprised me with the book for my birthday. So this review is for him.

To start, the title itself is extremely beautiful and successfully incorporated in the story (at least twice). The first time, the author explains that the quatrième mur is an imaginary wall that the actors draw between them and the audience, to stay in the play. The second time, is at the very end of the book and I can't spoil it for you but I can only say Bravo! I also thought of the title when they chose to mount the play in a bombarded theater that looked like a roman open air hippodrome because it has only 3 walls left.

The style of writing was very peculiar and consisted mostly of short sentences (some were really short!) mimicking to a great extent the way Sorj Chalandon naturally speaks in real life. It wasn't what I look for usually in books but it was very amusing.

What I loved in the book was that the author chose to mount Antigone by Anouilh not that of Sophocles for several reasons:
The first and least important, is that it would be more complicated to mount a play that includes Gods in a country killing for religion.
Second, the author and Sam think that Antigone of Anouilh is revolutionary and that Antigone of Sophocles is just fulfilling male indicted wills.
And last but not least, the fact that Antigone of Anouilh was mounted during Nazi occupation of Paris with the guards wearing Gestapo like clothes. How did the Nazis accept? Well they were happy because Antigone dies, thinking that the resistance dies and that they win so it's only normal for the guards who kill Antigone, the winning team to be Nazis. Then why did the French accept? Because they thought that the resistance triumphed through Antigone's death which lead to the death of the king's son and his wife's suicide leaving him alone with his guards waiting a death that was not far (all his glory was destroyed when he faced the resistance)

Now the fun part was how Sorj Chaldandon casted a Chirstian, a Palestinian girl, a Druze and a couple of Shiites and other Lebanese minorities to play Antigone, her fiancé, the king, the guards and other characters ... Can you guess which confession was playing which character? It was also very interesting to learn how each confession interpreted Antigone. I have always thought of Antigone the way the Phalangist character in the play did, meaning that her death could have been avoided and that her stubbornness killed her and that she didn't achieve anything. But after I learned about the Anouilh historical anecdote, I cannot but admit how mistaken I was and that I now totally agree on Antigone from the point of view of the Palestinian protagonist: Antigone is the resistance, and the resistance shall overcome and win.

The best part by far was the ending where the book became a play, in form and in content. (Enough said, read it).

However, there were parts that I hated in the book, mostly Georges. I didn't like him because of the violence he is involved in (Jussieu, where I went for university studies was however mentioned in some of those violent events so yaaaay??!!). I was also repulsed by what he did to the Phalangist because it didn't make sense at all to me, it was another one of those everybody in the war is a criminal but let's just punish the phalangists only.
On a personal deeper interpretation, I thought Gorges and Sorj (notice the name play) were very close, but that there was a part of Sam in Sorj too, the part that is more mature and most importantly more compassionate, and it made me happy.

Other little things that bothered me were that although Sorj was very familiar with Lebnon having covered up the war in 82), he missed a couple of things in the book: for example I am not sure the Druze wear the clothes he described. The name Nakad is never a first name in Lebanon because it means nagging (kind of), but it is a common druze Family name, so maybe it was used on purpose. The same goes for the name of the Shiite Imam, the name sounds Arabic, but it's not. I also noted some mistakes here and there: the tour name misspelled, a period missing etc. which is a shame for such a prestigious publishing house.

Let me know what you think of the review
Share your comments and have a great day
Cheers

Monday, July 14, 2014

For the Love of Poetry

Here's the thing: I didn't like poetry before. Of course, I loved Nizar Qabbani, but besides his poems, and the few ones we learned at school, poetry wasn't appealing to me. Turns out, I was reading poems the right way because I never gave a poem enough time to be assimilated. I read poems once, at any time and any place. I read a huge number of poems in one session. These were all signs of unhealthy reading. With time, and other people' s experiences, I learned that each poem must be read as carefully as can be (more than once for sure), and that one can never read poems unless the mood is right.

That's when I decided to throw the Book Lovers' first poetry reading night, where people got to read their own poems or their favorite ones. Also, we all wrote down what poetry meant to us and here's the result:

"Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason"

Novalis

Afterwards, I started attending poetry nights. I also committed myself to posting a poem a day for about a month on the facebook page affiliated with this blog (Click Here). This was by far the best mean to discovering new poets, and mostly breathing in their words. If you are a newbie in poetry or not, I highly encourage you to reading a poem a day. Below you'll find a selection of the poems I posted on the facebook page (the last one is one of my most favorite poems ever).

Enjoy

Poem by surrealist poet Robert Desnos (1900-1945). Aside from poetry he was a French resistant, and was deported to a concentration camp. He died from Typhoid only weeks after his liberation from the camp.

"GOOD DAY GOOD EVENING"

It's night be the flame
And the red that colors the clouds
Good day sir Good evening madam
You don't look your age

What does it matter if your embraces
Make the twin stars bleed
What does it matter if your face is painted
if hoarfrost glitters on the branches

Of granite or marble
Your age will show
And the shade of the great trees
will walk on your graves.

Poem by Swedish poet Karin Boye (1900-1941)

"How can I tell ..."

How can I tell, if your voice is lovely.

I just know this, that it penetrates me

so deep it makes me tremble like a leaf

and rips me into shreds and detonates me.

What do I know about your skin, your limbs.

Just that it jolts me they belong to you,

so that for me there is no sleep and peace

till they are mine too.

Poem by Emily Dickinson because I literally started early and took my dog and visited the sea ^^

I started Early — Took my Dog
And visited the Sea

The Mermaids in the Basement
Came out to look at me

And Frigates in the Upper Floor
Extended Hempen Hands

Presuming Me to be a Mouse

Aground upon the Sands

But no Man moved Me till the Tide
Went past my simple Shoe

And past my Apron and my Belt

And past my Bodice too

And made as He would eat me up

As wholly as a Dew
Upon a Dandelion’s Sleeve

And then I started too

And He He followed close behind
I felt his Silver Heel
Upon my Ankle Then my Shoes
Would overflow with Pearl

Until We met the Solid Town
No One He seemed to know
And bowing with a Mighty look

At me The Sea withdrew

Poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)

“Oh, think not I am faithful”

Oh, think not I am faithful to a vow!
Faithless am I save to love's self alone
Were you not lovely I would leave you now:
After the feet of beauty fly my own
Were you not still my hunger's rarest food
And water ever to my wildest thirst
I would desert you—think not but I would!
And seek another as I sought you first
But you are mobile as the veering air
And all your charms more changeful than the tide
Wherefore to be inconstant is no care:
I have but to continue at your side
So wanton, light and false, my love, are you
I am most faithless when I most am true

"Weathers" by Thomas Hardy, I remembered it because it rained for the first time yesterday while I was driving.

This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
And so do I;
When showers betumble the chestnut spikes,
And nestlings fly;
And the little brown nightingale bills his best,
And they sit outside at 'The Traveller's Rest,'
And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest,
And citizens dream of the south and west,
And so do I.

This is the weather the shepherd shuns,
And so do I;
When beeches drip in browns and duns,
And thresh and ply;
And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe,
And meadow rivulets overflow,
And drops on gate bars hang in a row,
And rooks in families homeward go,
And so do I.

Poem by the one and only Sylvia Plath. Oh I just think everyone ought to learn this poem by heart! lovely, lovely words!

“I am vertical”

But I would rather be horizontal.

I am not a tree with my root in the soil

Sucking up minerals and motherly love

So that each March I may gleam into leaf,

Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed

Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted,

Unknowing I must soon unpetal.

Compared with me, a tree is immortal

And a flower-head not tall, but more startling,

And I want the one's longevity and the other's daring.

Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars,

The trees and the flowers have been strewing their cool odors.

I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.

Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping

I must most perfectly resemble them –

Thoughts gone dim. It is more natural to me, lying down.

Then the sky and I are in open conversation,

And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:

Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.

A tribute to my friend's journey that is about to start. "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

"Two pretty eyes" by Bulgarian symbolist romantic poet Peyo Yavorov (1878-1914)
He wrote most of his poems to two women who died before him. The first was lost to tuberculosis, the second killed herself out of jealousy. He was blamed for the death of his wife and even accused of killing her. He committed suicide (twice because the first time, the bullet blinded him) and died at the age of 36.

Two pretty eyes. The soul of a child.
In them is music - light.
They don't desire, they hold no promises inside.
My soul - in pray,
Oh, child,
My soul - in pray!
The sorrow-passions of the day
will cover them within
- a veil of shame and sin.
The veil of shame and sin
won't cover them within
by sorrow-passions of the day.
My soul - in pray,
Oh, child
My soul - in pray!
They don't desire, they hold no promises inside.
Two pretty eyes. ...And music-light
in them... The soul of a child.

"My Folly of Being" .. a poem by the Romanian Surrealist poet Ghérasim Luca.

Despair has three pairs of legs

despair has four pairs of legs

four pairs of light volcanic absorbent symmetrical legs

it has five pairs of legs five symmetrical pairs

or six pairs of light volcanic legs

seven pairs of volcanic legs

despair has seven or eight pairs of volcanic legs

eight pairs of legs eight pairs of socks

eight light forks absorbed by the legs

it has nine forks symmetrical in its nine pairs of legs

ten pairs of legs absorbed by its legs

in other words eleven pairs of absorbent volcanic legs

despair has twelve pairs of legs twelve pairs of legs

it has thirteen pairs of legs

despair has fourteen pairs of light volcanic legs

fifteen fifteen pairs of legs

despair has sixteen pairs of legs sixteen pairs of legs

despair has seventeen pairs of legs absorbed by the legs

eighteen pairs of legs and eighteen pairs of socks

it has eighteen pairs of socks in the forks of its legs

in other words nineteen pairs of legs

despair has twenty pairs of legs

thirty pairs of legs.

despair doesn’t have any pairs of legs

not a single pair of legs

absolutely not absolutely no legs

absolutely not a single leg

absolutely three legs

Poem by the first Latin American and the fifth woman to ever receive the Nobel Prize in Literature, in 1945. Hear, hear for Chilean poet Gabriela Mistral (1889-1957)

A crippled child
Said, “How shall I dance?”
Let your heart dance
We said.

Then the invalid said:
“How shall I sing?”
Let your heart sing
We said

Then spoke the poor dead thistle,
But I, how shall I dance?”
Let your heart fly to the wind
We said.

Then God spoke from above
“How shall I descend from the blue?”
Come dance for us here in the light
We said.

All the valley is dancing
Together under the sun,
And the heart of him who joins us not
Is turned to dust, to dust.

One of my most favorite poems ever: "Fearful Women" by Carolyn Kizer.

Arms and the girl I sing - O rare
arms that are braceleted and white and bare

arms that were lovely Helen's, in whose name
Greek slaughtered Trojan. Helen was to blame.

Scape-nanny call her; wars for turf
and profit don't sound glamorous enough.

Mythologize your women! None escape.
Europe was named from an act of bestial rape:

Eponymous girl on bull-back, he intent
on scattering sperm across a continent.

Old Zeus refused to take the rap.
It's not his name in big print on the map.

But let's go back to the beginning
when sinners didn't know that they were sinning.

He, one rib short: she lived to rue it
when Adam said to God, "She made me do it."

Eve learned that learning was a dangerous thing
for her: no end of trouble would it bring.

An educated woman is a danger.
Lock up your mate! Keep a submissive stranger

like Darby's Joan, content with church and Kinder,
not like that sainted Joan, burnt to a cinder.

Whether we wield a scepter or a mop
It's clear you fear that we may get on top.

And if we do -I say it without animus-
It's not from you we learned to be magnaminous.

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