Post by louisa on Nov 13, 2008 1:21:02 GMT 2
On the Way to the Castlefrom Poems 1960-2000
by Fleur Adcock
submitted by Ellen Moody
I can't say this is my favorite poem, only that I liked it very much
upon reading it and have remembered it ever since.
It would be rude to look out of the car windows
at the colourful peasants authentically pursuing
their traditional activitres in the timeless landscape
while the editor is talking to us.
He is telling us about the new initiatives
his magazine has adopted as a result
of teh Leader's inspiring speech at the last Party Congress.
He is speaking very slowly (as does the Leader,
whom we have seen on our hotel television),
and my eyes are politely fixed on his little moustache:
as long as it keeps moving they will have to stay there;
but when he pauses for the interpreter's turn
my duty is remitted, and I can look out of the windows.
I am not ignoring the interpreter's translation
but she has become our friend: I do not feel compelled
by courtesy to keep my eyes on her lipstick.
What's more, the edtior has been reciting his speech
at so measured a pace and with such clarity
that I can understand it in his own language;
and in any case, I have heard it before.
This on-off pattern of switching concentration
between the editor's moustache and the sights we are passing
gives me a patchy impression of the local agriculture.
Hordes of head-scarved and dark-capped figures
move through fields of this and that, carrying implements,
or bending and stretching, or loading things onto carts.
I missed most of a village, during the bit about the print-run,
but the translation granted me a roadful of quaint sheep.
Now the peasants are fent over what looks like bare earth
with occasional clusters of dry vegetation.
It is a potato field; they are grubbing for potatoes.
There are dozens of them -- of peasants, that is:
the potatoes themselves are not actually visible.
As a spectacle, this is not notably picturesque,
but I should like to examine it for a little longer.
the sky has turned black; it is beginning to rain.
The editor has thought of something else he wishes to tell us
about the magazine's history.
Once again, eyes back to his official moustache
(nder which his unofficial mouth looks vulnerable).
The editor is a kind man.
He is taking us on an interesting excursion,
in an expensive taxi, during his busy working day.
It has all been carefully planned for our pleasure.
Quite possibly he wants to shield us from the fact
that this rain is weeks or months too late;
that the harvest is variously scorched, parched and withered;
that the potatoes for which the peasants are fossicking
have the size and consistency of bullets.
I first read it in, Fleur Adcock: Poems 1960-2000, Bloodaxe, 2000. It seems to me superb in its dry quiet ironies and compassion -- and sudden savage end. I like the motif of looking at the world through a window, of being on the way to a castle (probably meretricious or so changed as to become time-capsule or be beyond recognition.
Read about the poet and buy Poems 1960-2000 by Fleur Adcock
www.bloodaxebooks.com/titlepage.asp?isbn=1852245301
by Fleur Adcock
submitted by Ellen Moody
I can't say this is my favorite poem, only that I liked it very much
upon reading it and have remembered it ever since.
It would be rude to look out of the car windows
at the colourful peasants authentically pursuing
their traditional activitres in the timeless landscape
while the editor is talking to us.
He is telling us about the new initiatives
his magazine has adopted as a result
of teh Leader's inspiring speech at the last Party Congress.
He is speaking very slowly (as does the Leader,
whom we have seen on our hotel television),
and my eyes are politely fixed on his little moustache:
as long as it keeps moving they will have to stay there;
but when he pauses for the interpreter's turn
my duty is remitted, and I can look out of the windows.
I am not ignoring the interpreter's translation
but she has become our friend: I do not feel compelled
by courtesy to keep my eyes on her lipstick.
What's more, the edtior has been reciting his speech
at so measured a pace and with such clarity
that I can understand it in his own language;
and in any case, I have heard it before.
This on-off pattern of switching concentration
between the editor's moustache and the sights we are passing
gives me a patchy impression of the local agriculture.
Hordes of head-scarved and dark-capped figures
move through fields of this and that, carrying implements,
or bending and stretching, or loading things onto carts.
I missed most of a village, during the bit about the print-run,
but the translation granted me a roadful of quaint sheep.
Now the peasants are fent over what looks like bare earth
with occasional clusters of dry vegetation.
It is a potato field; they are grubbing for potatoes.
There are dozens of them -- of peasants, that is:
the potatoes themselves are not actually visible.
As a spectacle, this is not notably picturesque,
but I should like to examine it for a little longer.
the sky has turned black; it is beginning to rain.
The editor has thought of something else he wishes to tell us
about the magazine's history.
Once again, eyes back to his official moustache
(nder which his unofficial mouth looks vulnerable).
The editor is a kind man.
He is taking us on an interesting excursion,
in an expensive taxi, during his busy working day.
It has all been carefully planned for our pleasure.
Quite possibly he wants to shield us from the fact
that this rain is weeks or months too late;
that the harvest is variously scorched, parched and withered;
that the potatoes for which the peasants are fossicking
have the size and consistency of bullets.
I first read it in, Fleur Adcock: Poems 1960-2000, Bloodaxe, 2000. It seems to me superb in its dry quiet ironies and compassion -- and sudden savage end. I like the motif of looking at the world through a window, of being on the way to a castle (probably meretricious or so changed as to become time-capsule or be beyond recognition.
Read about the poet and buy Poems 1960-2000 by Fleur Adcock
www.bloodaxebooks.com/titlepage.asp?isbn=1852245301