Hugh Thomas : A poem for Sarah Burgoyne and Vi Khi Nao

 

 

2        A number
4        is called normal if
9        any sequence of digits, zero, one, up to nine,
4        in any order, appears
3        just as often
7        in that number's decimal expansion, as in
2        a random
3        sequence of digits.
8        Such a number cannot continue repeating ad infinitum
3        and so must
0        be irrational.
6        Among the irrational numbers (of which
8        there are so many more than there are
5        of rationals --- though there are
4        infinitely many of each)
1        few
5        are known to be normal.
3        This simple-to-describe property
2        proves elusive.
7        A slight preference for sevens over nines,
4        enough to wreck it.
8        It is not known whether pi is normal.
5        And yet we don't think
4        a superstar like pi,
7        in demand for every kind of formula,
8        from elementary school geometry, to the abstract heights
0        of number theory,
2        disdaining neither
6        to appear in engineers' practical calculations
8        nor in statisticians' attempts to quantify the random---
8        we don't think such a number would niggle
9        about its decimal expansion, preferring some sequences over others.
2        Such considerations
6        are, we feel, beneath its notice.
1        Surely,
6        although its decimal expansion famously begins
5        three point one four one,
8        somewhere else in that infinite sequence of digits
7        we could find three one four two
2        as well.
4        And both those sequences
4        not just once, but
2        infinitely often,
9        neither more nor less often, in the long run,
7        than a seemingly "unlikely" sequence such as
0        one two three four
5        or five five five five.
4        In "Mechanophilia," the poets
8        match the number of words in each line
2        to the
1        successive
3        digits of pi
0        (where zero indicates a "free" line, whose length is at the poet's whim).
8        If we accept the conjectural normalcy of pi,
5        the sequence of line lengths
4        of my poem, though
7        I confess it, counted afterwards, not predetermined,
2        nonetheless appears
4        somewhere in pi's expansion.
1        Why
8        am I writing this poem? It is admittedly
4        not much like "Mechanophilia,"
5        a poem distinguished by the
3        scintillation of its
0        vocabulary
8        and the way the two poets delicately tug
7        the poem's fabric in slightly divergent directions.
9        But "Mechanophilia" already acknowledges the unfinishedness of its endeavour.
6        Extended to infinity wouldn't that poem
4        contain all possible words
3        including even these?

 

 

 

 

Hugh Thomas lives in Tiohtià:ke/Montréal/Montreal, where he teaches mathematics at UQAM. His most recent chapbook, Jangle Straw, was published last year by Turret House Press.

Hugh Thomas : seven poems

 

 

 

Not tucked in a letter

Not tucked in a letter,
not in a motorcar,
not as a housefly,
not on the internet,
nor in Elijah's fiery chariot—
you won't make it further
than the banana palm at your own front gate.

 

 

Less Lu Chi
 

Less Lu Chi in your poems, please.
I'll give you a hand when it stops raining.
Many times before,
no one has painted this exact ache.

 

 

Barn door
 

The best hugs
were the wind's.
No they weren't.
Someone has stolen the wind,
and what will he get for it?

 

 

Today I saw
 

Today I saw
two moons,
one new,
and one old.
I believe in the new moon,
but it's a gamble.

 

 

Holy truth
 

It's the holy truth,
my habit on Thursdays.
To lie in bed is heaven.
See, I got a dog on the phone,
like birds cry real tears,
and you believe whatever comes along.

 

Spare the wind
 

Spare the wind
after a tussle.
It's made of nothing
and it comes up
with the best swears.

 

 

Eight o'clock
 

Eight o'clock,
Einstein,
and you called at eleven.
I'm staying til
I can eat rocks,
then I'm coming over.

 

 

Note on the poems
 

These poems are mistranslations of poems by Olav H. Hauge, one of the foremost Norwegian poets of the twentieth century. They include elements of conventional translation, but also deliberate mistakes, as well as words suggested by interpreting the sound of the Norwegian words as if they were English (or, in some cases, French). 

Olav Hauge translated into Norwegian from English, French, and German. He also appreciated Chinese and Japanese poety, as witness references in the poems translated here to Lu Chi and Basho (Not tucked in a letter).

The reader interested in discovering more about the poetry of Hauge could consult two collections of translations into English, Selected Poems, translated by Robin Fulton, and The dream we carry, translated by Robert Bly and Robert Hedin. Most of the poems I worked from can be found in these collections.

 

 

 

Hugh Thomas is a poet and translator living in Montréal, where he teaches mathematics at UQAM. His first solo book of poetry, Maze, was published by Invisible Publishing in spring 2019. Other translations from this project appeared in the online journal long con in fall 2020.

Hugh Thomas :

folio : Paul Celan/100

 

Extract of “Sprachgitter” by Paul Celan is used under fair dealing in Canada, otherwise copyright S. Fischer Verlag, 1959.

 

Broken Silence

The eyes between the words,
a flimsy lid
starting to leak. 

Shimmering dream of loss,
that's him. Hers will grow.

Find, in the iron dress
the black-eyed flower
that turns to the light. 

(Where I like you.  Where you like me.
Why are we standing in this passage?
Worse than friends.) 

Those fleeting.
Write it anew:
her grey lashes
too mindful of silence.

 

[This is a false translation of Celan’s poem “Sprachgitter”.]

 

 

SPRACHGITTER

Augenrund zwischen den Stäben.

Flimmertier Lid
rudert nach oben,
gibt einen Blick frei. 

Iris, Schwimmerin, traumlos und trüb:
der Himmel, herzgrau, muß nah sein.

Schräg, in der eisernen Tülle,
der blakende Span.
Am Lichtsinn
errätst du die Seele.

(Wär ich wie du. Wärst du wie ich.
Standen wir nicht
unter einem Passat?
Wir sind Fremde.)

Die Fliesen. Darauf,
dicht beieinander, die beiden
herzgrauen Lachen:
zwei
Mundvoll Schweigen. 

—

I have been cautious about engaging with Celan’s work. On the whole, I tend to engage with poetry which, by its nature, does not expect or seek to be taken completely seriously. (And, perhaps especially today, I think there could be serious reasons for poetry not to seek or expect to be taken seriously!) Celan, on the other hand, seems like someone whom one has to take seriously, if one is going to read him at all.

However, on a particular occasion, this poem spoke to me as a poem which I could and ought to translate, so I did. I employed some version of false translation, taking a combination of actual meanings of words with meanings suggested by sounds or my faulty knowledge of German.

I don’t think of my translation as a commentary on Celan except in that, when considering a great work of art, zooming in on some minor feature or perhaps even unintended detail can still be interesting, and can still somehow carry some of the weight of the whole work – weight which might be unbearable if confronted in any more direct fashion.

 

 

 

Hugh Thomas is a poet and translator living in Montréal, where he teaches mathematics at UQAM. His first solo book of poetry, Maze, was published by Invisible Publishing in spring 2019.

Previous publications:
books
Maze, Invisible Publishing, 2019
Franzlations (with Gary Barwin and Craig Conley), New Star, 2011 

recent-ish chapbooks
Eleven Elleve Alive (with Stuart Ross and Dag Straumsvåg), shreeking violet, 2018
Six Swedish Poets, above/ground, 2015
Albanian Suite, above/ground 2014
Opening the Dictionary, above/ground 2011.