Category Archives: Literature

Autumn Day

By Johna Till Johnson and Vladimir Brezina

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Blame it on Rilke… Or his translators, actually.

On a recent late-fall evening, Vlad was chuckling over the varied translations of the poem “Autumn Day” by Rainer Maria Rilke:

Herbsttag

Herr: es ist Zeit. Der Sommer war sehr groß.
Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren,
und auf den Fluren laß die Winde los.

Befiel den letzten Früchten voll zu sein;
gib ihnen noch zwei südlichere Tage,
dränge sie zur Vollendung hin und jage
die letzte Süße in den schweren Wein.

Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr.
Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben,
wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe schreiben
und wird in den Alleen hin und her
unruhig wandern, wenn die Blätter treiben.

The translations are here.

And even if—like Johna—you don’t read German, it’s rather obvious they’re rather, ahem, divergent when it comes to cadence, connotation, and tone.  Different from each other and from the original meaning.

Johna read them over Vlad’s shoulder and burst out laughing. “‘Summer was awesome?’ We could do better than that!”  Well, maybe not better… but different. If it’s acceptable to say “summer was awesome”—well then, that opens up a whole host of possibilities!

So here you go.  “Autumn Day” loosely translated for the modern era:

Autumn Day

By Rainer Maria Rilke (sort of)

Dude, it’s time! Summer rocked, but
It’s over. Sucks.
The sun slants low now.
The autumn wind sweeps through abandoned
Bodega stalls. Across the last bruised fruit,
Fermenting fast.
At least you’ll have some awesome vino.

No place to crash? Tough.
Too late. You’re solo now.
Time to stay out long
And ride the board
Up and down darkening alleys
Where the trash swirls.

The Dry Salvages

By Vladimir Brezina

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… the ragged rock in the restless waters,
Waves wash over it, fogs conceal it;
On a halcyon day it is merely a monument,
In navigable weather it is always a seamark
To lay a course by: but in the sombre season
Or the sudden fury, is what it always was.

T.S. Eliot, The Dry Salvages

The Dry Salvages is the third of T.S. Eliot‘s Four Quartets, a landmark of 20th-century English poetry. In a prefatory note, Eliot tells us that the Dry Salvages are a group of isolated rocks offshore in the Atlantic Ocean, but in the body of the poem they are never  mentioned again by name. Rather, their symbolic reach expands immediately to encompass one of the larger themes of the poem, that of water as the eternal agent of birth and death. It might seem, therefore, that the Dry Salvages are a mythical place.

But they are real, and a couple of days ago we paddled out to see them.

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Happy Birthday, Colette!

By Johna Till Johnson 

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You probably knew this, but January 28th is the 140th birthday of the French writer Colette.

Colette, in costume

Colette, in costume…

Okay, you probably didn’t know that. You might not even remember who Colette is, though chances are, you’re familiar with at least one of her works.

And you’re probably wondering why you should care about her birthday, or her.

Let me take a step back. This year,  Vlad and I have adopted a new tradition: We’ve selected a pantheon of personal heroes, and heroines—people whose spirits and lives matter to us—and are making a conscious effort to celebrate their birthdays.

Colette’s is the first, but there will be plenty of others.

So why did we select her?

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Our 2013 Calendar

By Vladimir Brezina and Johna Till Johnson

We have a recent tradition: This year and last, we’ve created a wall calendar based on Vlad’s photos. It’s an enormous amount of fun to look through the photos and select the thirteen (including cover) that best capture our themes for the month, and the year.

We print the calendar using  Shutterfly, which overall does a fine job for a reasonable price. The calendars are printed on heavy, glossy paper stock (they’re hanging on the walls now) and we’re able to customize each day of the year, adding holidays, birthdays, phases of the moon, and, of course, the times of tidal current change in Hell Gate! (Hell Gate is a good proxy for the current everywhere in the New York harbor—it basically tells us whether we’ll be kayaking north or south on a particular day).

We decided to share our 2013 photos with you. Please let us know your favorite shots. (There are some months that we’re already impatient for, because we like the photos so much!)

Cover

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What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?

Philip Larkin, Days

January

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February

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March

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April

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May

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June

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July

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August

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September

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October

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November

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December

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Happy 2013!

Emergence

By Vladimir Brezina

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… like a sea-anemone
Or simple snail, there cautiously
Unfolds, emerges, what I am.

Philip Larkin, Best Society

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But, contrary to Larkin, the best society is not always solitude…

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(St. Pete Beach, Florida, December 2012)

Travel Theme: Rhythm

By Vladimir Brezina

Over on Where’s my backpack?, Ailsa has posted this week’s theme for her Travel Photo Challenge: Rhythm.

Rather than music, for me just now this brings to mind such things as the rhythm of waves at dawn…

… and the rhythmic progression of dawn itself, and of words used to describe it

The sun had not yet risen. The sea was indistinguishable from the sky, except that the sea was slightly creased as if a cloth had wrinkles in it. Gradually as the sky whitened a dark line lay on the horizon dividing the sea from the sky and the grey cloth became barred with thick strokes moving, one after another, beneath the surface, following each other, pursuing each other, perpetually.

As they neared the shore each bar rose, heaped itself, broke and swept a thin veil of white water across the sand. The wave paused, and then drew out again, sighing like a sleeper whose breath comes and goes unconsciously. Gradually the dark bar on the horizon became clear as if the sediment in an old wine-bottle had sunk and left the glass green. Behind it, too, the sky cleared as if the white sediment there had sunk, or as if the arm of a woman couched beneath the horizon had raised a lamp and flat bars of white, green and yellow spread across the sky like the blades of a fan. Then she raised her lamp higher and the air seemed to become fibrous and to tear away from the green surface flickering and flaming in red and yellow fibres like the smoky fire that roars from a bonfire. Gradually the fibres of the burning bonfire were fused into one haze, one incandescence which lifted the weight of the woollen grey sky on top of it and turned it to a million atoms of soft blue. The surface of the sea slowly became transparent and lay rippling and sparkling until the dark stripes were almost rubbed out. Slowly the arm that held the lamp raised it higher and then higher until a broad flame became visible; an arc of fire burnt on the rim of the horizon, and all round it the sea blazed gold.

Virginia Woolf, The Waves

… and, later in the day, the slow rhythm of a vacation on a tropical island without internet, telephone, or even electricity:

after surfing and lunch, a siesta

for both man and beast

later perhaps a short kayak excursion

in the evening, a little volleyball

as the reef turns golden

and the last frigate bird flies overhead

(Glover’s Reef Atoll, Belize, with Slickrock Adventures. More photos are here.)

Weekly Photo Challenge: Blue

By Vladimir Brezina

The Daily Post‘s Weekly Photo Challenge is usually posted on Fridays. It’s now mid-day Monday… Over the weekend, I, and many other people who have been trained to eagerly anticipate the challenge, were almost giving up. In fact, to fill the absence, on Saturday night Ailsa on her blog Where’s my backpack? proposed her own alternative challenge on the theme of “Reflections“, and has been getting a very lively response indeed. My two “Reflections” posts are here and here.

Still, better late than never! This week’s official Photo Challenge is finally here, and it is Blue.

… And immediately

Rather than words comes the thought of high windows:
The sun-comprehending glass,
And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows
Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.

Philip Larkin, High Windows

That’s it: Blue means opening up, spaces without limits, endless possibilities…

Actually, some of the photos from my “Reflections” posts, here and here, would also have fit the theme very well…