I am writing about the forms of translation
and the translation of forms (to coin a phrase I could well adopt to describe
what is going on in various works. The next up is Erín Moure’s O Cadoiro (2007), a book which explores
the (literal) archive of the Galician-Portuguese troubadours, important for
Moure for the reason that they were secular, and whose discourse was that of
one person talking to another, or better: whose artifice was that of one person
talking to another, for she constantly emphasises the formal. (See the
‘postface’ to the book which appears not at the end of the book but online,here.)
I bought my copy of the book when Moure
read at Edge Hill University where I work, on Thursday 25th October
2007, a reading I organised for her as part of the series that has been running
since 1998. My diary states: ‘Waited in the afternoon, for Erin Moure. She
arrived and we talked translation, poetry, peanut allergy … and stuff, before
the event began…. Moure was as fantastic as Lee {Harwood, I assume} said she
was. Marvellously gliding between languages and with so many fresh ideas, that don’t owe to language poetry.’
‘Marvellously gliding between
languages,’ I wrote, before I’d come across her word ‘transelation’ or had read the purchased books, of course. (Why I thought
she’d ‘owe’ to language poetry I don’t know. I had been reading, or perhaps
mis-reading, her work in the days before the reading, but probably only
excerpts on-line.)
So now I am back admiring this work
but a little hesitant before it. I’ve written an introduction which spells out
the attitude to the project expressed in the ‘postface’, but the poems remain
with their ‘frequency of lyric resistance’ as Simon Perril says of them in his Archilocus on the Moon (one of the next
books I shall tackle).
Lyric’s special formal intensity … arises from lyric’s
historically constitutive need to stretch in semblance, via its musicality, the
very medium of “objective” conceptual thought, language – to stretch language
quasiconceptually, mimetically, all the way toward affect and song but without
relinquishing any of the rigor and complexity of conceptual intellection, so
that in a semblance-character vital to the possibility of critical agency,
speech can appear as song and song can legitimately seem to be logical, purposeful speech-act’. (Modernist Cultures:
212)
If we
amend McLennan’s phrase and typify Moure’s book as ‘translating Galician-Portuguese lyric into an argument about authorship’ we may see how ‘Lyric
songfully stretches the linguistic medium of conceptuality’ into its own
formally cognitive saying. (MC 216) (See my book The Poetry of Saying for the full implications of that term
‘saying’ in the way I use it here.) Lyric doesn’t speak conceptual language,
but sings it, and in thus doing so, severs its links to conceptuality while
seeming to use its language. McLennan comments:
There is an interesting way that Mouré
uses the language, weaving a kind of lightness and wide range of worked
speech, even while incorporating the weight of theorists such as Foucault, Agamben, Lacan and others, without letting the weight
take over. How do the poems not collapse from such theoretical weight? How does
the theory not simply get in the way of the poetry? How does the weight not
take over?
Scattering her work with
quotations from Foucault, Derrida, Agamben (in various languages, not always
the original language if not in English translation) oddly does not infuse the
work with conceptuality, ‘weight’ in McLennan’s formulation. The lyrics abutted
to the quotations symbiotically entune them, as it were, release them into the
status of poetry itself, ‘to make thought sing and to make song think’, in
Kaufman’s words again. (MC 212) This can be achieved by page space and type
face but this is no more obvious way than in the beautiful photographic pages
in ‘Befallen’ which present supposed translations with strips of text woven
across them, one per poem, which is a literal materiality that matches the
materiality of the archives of the cancioneiros
themselves. Excerpts
from another archive, as it were, are stitched across the Galician poems (or
Moure’s deliberately fictional poems written out of them). The poems are thus
interrupted by the prose texts, although it is possible to regard the interruption
as being the other way round. The poems interrupt the strips of prose writing. (It
will depend in which you are reading at any given moment.)
The text (at least in the
case I will examine) is Derrida’s essay ‘Archive Fever’, delivered at the Freud
Museum in London, in 1994, which considers Freud’s work as an archaeologist of
the unconscious, an archivist of psychological data. He devises the term
‘archive fever’, on a par perhaps with cabin fever, and diagnoses this
condition:
It is to burn with a passion. It is never to rest,
interminably, from searching for
the archive, right where it slips away. It is to run
after the archive, even if there’s too much of it, right where something in it
anarchives itself. It is to have a compulsive, repetitive, and nostalgic desire
for the archive, an irrepressible
desire to return to the origin, a
homesickness, a nostalgia for the return to the most archaic place of absolute commencement. (Archive Fever 91)
Does this describe Erín Moure in
her falling into the cantigas de amor of
the literal cancioneiros? She never
lets us forget that she is approaching partial and damaged texts on occasion:
‘This folio much deteriorated, and it is clear that the copyist did not know
the language’ an asterisked note ‘explains’ at the bottom of a poem, although
the lack of a matching asterisk in the text signals that the note is false (as
indeed the ‘afterword’ tells us that the attributions and scholarly archival
numbers are often false, provided in transelational
excess). (Moure 2007: 76) The ‘postface’, and the emphasis upon ‘falling’, does
suggest that Moure experienced the passion before the literal archives in Lisbon, and the
description of ‘archive fever’ holds until one reaches the word ‘nostalgic’. At
that point we might say that Moure cures herself of the fever by overruling any
desire ‘to return to the origin’ by
fusing and confusing notions of the original and translation in a creative
transformation and augmentation of the cantiga genre in general and its poems
in particular. There is a desire to ‘return to the most archaic place of absolute commencement’
but Moure knows either that this is impossible, or she knows that when she gets
there she is going to give vent to her transelational
passions, where these archived forms will ‘seep… into my work, unseating forms,
compelling variegated sounds and capacities, irregularities,’ as she elegantly
puts it. (postface 142). There is some homesickness, by the way, but that is
for Canada
(in the section ‘Snowfall’, where falling becomes beneficent). Moure allows the
archive to slip away, so that she may paradoxically get closer to the forms of
the poems; her flagrant acts of disloyalty to the decorum of the archive, the
fidelity of translation, are truer acts of love (for the poems are, of course,
love poems, but, as Richard Zenith says of the cantigas de amor, ‘Courtly love becomes the occasion for an
obsessive sadness in the Galician-Portuguese domain. (Zenith 1995: xxv)). It is
this lyric resistance that precisely keeps the ‘weight’ of theory from its
shoulders: its commitment to ceaseless acts of formal exploration. Moure makes
her archival desire sing and she makes her writerly passion think in such
resistance, to mashup Perril and Kaufman.
Part of the poem
on page 106 is obscured by the French original of the sliver of Derrida’s text quoted
above (or part of it; word order is quite different). The French slip is folded
or creased at one point and it is not completely legible; neither is the poem:
it has lost the equivalent of about four lines and the reader has to accept
some (comparatively legible) half-words because of the fold. What remains does
not feel particularly whole. Whereas some of the other poems in the book read
like complete finished poems, this text looks like a draft of a poem (or its
opposite, a poem falling to pieces). The first line with its italicised
parenthetical first person throws into doubt the artifice of speech that is so
essential to this artifice of yearning, of one person addressing another: ‘[I] live anguished in such ac-’. (Moure
2007: 106) The second line asserts the theme but has no syntactic connection
with line one: ‘he of love. that yet without’. He. I. Love. Without. Anguished.
The mood is clear linguistically; the genre is suggested by register. A
lower-case i miniaturises the first person gesture that is both evoked and
suppressed at the beginning of the poem (and in the genre), the enjambement
separating the act of begging for its aim, a ritualised complaint of the cantigas: ‘i beg/ever for my death to
go9,’ it reads, ending in a superfluous numeral. (This device happens
throughout these photographic poems: usually a 9 suffixed to or a 7 prefixed to,
a word: ‘7 ache much and weep emburdened’, for example.) What might be a
reference to a footnote, a rhythmical marker, or even a typing error (the ‘o9’
could easily be that), seems to be none of those, and perhaps operates like the
sheets of Letraset that traverse the late canvases of Francis Bacon, a formal
registering of an act of impulsive abandonment that Deleuze calls ‘the
diagram’, the writing across. Numbers are dropped into ‘the great ache in which
i live to suffer’ and operate in the opposite way to the formal repetitions of
the poem, the verbal echoes of the opening line and the frequent reference to
‘ache’ and ‘anguish’; they are non-semantic interruptions of what is still the
genre talking to us (however fragmentarily). Like the nonsense sounds in haiku.
Like grunting in a song. Indeed not unlike the slip of Derrida which threads
across lines we cannot read. However, there is a recognisable chorus in this
poem which begins coherently enough: ‘Knows
not the hurt s.m.m.b.’ (where we might assume that the abbreviations stand for
something like ‘she makes me bear’, but we can never be sure). Again, these
pointers maintain the poem in a state of formal unfinish; it is choral-like in
its repetition, but curiously foregrounding its material presence in a way
disruptive of choral calm and decorum. The thinking is singing here. The
singing thinks. Perhaps this represents the process that Derrida describes with
his usual deconstructive neologistic play : ‘It is to run after the archive,
even if there’s too much of it, right where something in it anarchives itself.’
Anarchive, a verb evidently, operates as the opposite of the act to archive,
but with its suggestion of anarchy. It is the point of disarray enacted in this
poem’s trace; it is formally left undone. Of course that is partly what the
stitched phrase is telling the reader (in French) and it is literally placed
over the anarchived words, stitched slightly carelessly, with a touch of
violation in the stitching’s assumed needlework, thus formally enacting some
symptoms of ‘archive fever’ and of its cure. Part of ‘lyric resistance’
involves the adoption of unfinished forms (or of forms that look unfinished)
with which to (literally) back up Derrida’s words. (Perril 2013: 92)
‘And my friends a foul day i was
born/with so much ache i’ve always borne’ the poem complains, deliberately
rhyming homophones in an ugly echo (‘right’ and ‘write’ would constitute a
similar cacophony, though either word could rhyme with ‘slight’ adequately, as
indeed either word in Moure’s poems could rhyme with ‘corn’ or ‘dawn’.) This
ugliness is deliberate, it is worth emphasising. Elsewhere there are beautiful
poems of ‘aching’ (as I shall show).
The signature of
the poem runs ‘Vaasco Roderigues de Caluelo’ (the name under several poems in
this section), but we are also aware of Moure’s confessed playing around with
text (it is unlikely the presented index number ‘CCXCIII (243, 1 &2)’ (sic)
will take us far in the actual archive) and her causal misattribution of the
poets, her impulsive and feverish improvisation through the archive, renders
the names fictive if not fictional. Though the names are the names of real
troubadours, they are not the guilty parties as they are, say, in Richard
Zenith’s anthology 133
Galician-Portuguese Troubadour Poems. But names, Moure’s own included, are
mobile, are virtually heteronyms in their variant spellings, and she also appears
as the translator ‘Calgarii Mourii’ in ‘Befallen’, so the very facticity of the
poems may be to point us to this Latinate Canadian name (the final poems
express that heteronym’s homesickness), and as ‘Ehrn Cihrij’ (with a ç) Moure
2007: 11) Most curious amongst these
names is her own, ‘Erín Moure’, legible but deleted, at the end of a whole and
beautiful hymn of praise to the world, a corporeal love song (with one of the
many references throughout the book to breath and breathing) to an absent but
desired female lover:
In my honesty,
and curve
of my ribs
around such heart I have
or lung for
breath, and alive
here, wanting
world as she
to be in me
(Moure 2007: 87)
Death is never far away in the
tradition, as we have seen (‘Mourii’ itself sounds akin to death), and neither is
the central concept of the fall:
A creased
grave-shroud is my foreboding
A careen or
fall, and would you want me ever
world, for it is
world I feel such weight for.
Here careen (‘v.t. and v.i, to turn over on the side,
esp. for repairing or cleaning,’ or ‘n. a heeling position’ is equated with
fall: toppled over for heeling, or to be worked on (the word suggests
etymologically keel rather than heel, from Latin: carina, keel). Creased and careen echo. ‘Poisoned, delicate world.
I love you still,’ the poem ends, balanced in address between lover and world.
(Moure 2007: 87) The fall is a falling into the world, a falling in love ‘as
she/ to be in me’, which points to and from the deleted Erín Moure to her other
poetical analogues. Besides all the names of the troubadours, from Pero de Veer
to the one female troubadour, María Balteira, through to yet another alter ego,
again deleted, ‘Cálghaij M.’ whose signature carries the following note in
small letters, ‘(for I cannot call her)’ where the word ‘call’ means both to
hail and to name. (Moure 2007: 54)
Twisting and turning through these changes of name,
persona, alter ego and/or heteronym, the poems themselves are the formal
tracings of a refined version of ‘archive fever’: ‘It is never to rest,
interminably, from searching for the archive, right where it slips away,’ as
Derrida says (though Moure would have said falls away, I’m sure).
To see links to more extracts and excursions relating to my The Meaning of Form project, navigate here.
Update September 2016: For those who can buy The Meaning of Form in Contemporary
Innovative Poetry, or order it for libraries, here are the places