Thursday, November 24, 2011

Sunday, November 20, 2011

From Amie Cesaire, Solar Throat Slashed

Le griffon

Je suis un souvenir qui n'atteint pas le seuil
et erre dans les limbes ou le reflet d'absinthe
quand le coeur de la nuit souffle par ses events
bouge l'etoile tombee ou nous nous contemplons

Le ciel lingual a pris sa neuve consistance de creme de noix fraiche ouverte
du coco

Andes crachant et Mayumbe sacre
seul naufrage que l'oeil bon voilier nous soudoie
quand ame folle dechiquetee folle
            par les nuage squi m'arrivent dans les poissons bien clos
je remonte hanter la sinistre epaisseur des choses

The Griffin

I am a memory that does not reach the threshold
and wanders in limbo where the glint of absinthe
when the heart of night breathes through its blowholes
moves the fallen star in which we contemplate ourselves

The lingual sky took on a new consistency of a freshly opened coconut's

Spitting Andres and sacred Mayumbe
sole shipwreck that the eye good sailer pays off for us
when soul mad shredded mad
                through clouds that reach me in tightly shut fish
I reascend to haunt the sinister thickness of things


Hommes tant pis qui ne vous apercevez pas que mes yeux se souviennent
              de frondes et de drapeaux noirs
              qui assassinent a chaque battement de mes cils de Mississipi

Hommes tant pis qui ne voyez pas qui ne voyez rien
pas meme la tres belle signalisation de chemin de fer que font sous mes
paupieres les disques rouges et noirs de serpent-corail que ma munificence
love dans mes larmes de Mississipi

Hommes tant pis qui ne voyez pas qu'au fond de reticule ou le hasard a
depose nos yeux de Mississipi
il y a qui attend un buffle noye jusqu'a la garde des yeux de marecage

Hommes tant pis qui ne voyez pas que vous ne pouvez m'empecher de batir
a sa suffisance
des iles a la tete d'oeuf de ciel flagrant
sous la ferocite calme de geranium immense de notre soleil.


Too bad for you men who don't notice that my eyes remember
              slings and black flags
              that murder with each blink of my Mississipi lashes

Too bad for you men who do not see who do not see anything
not even the gorgeous railway signals formed under my eyelids by the
black and red discs of the coral snake that my munificence coils in my
Mississipi tears

Too bad for you men who do not see that in the depth of the reticule where
chance has deposited our Mississipi eyes
there waits a buffalo sunk to the very hilt of the swamp's eyes

Too bad for you men who do not see that you cannot stop me from building
to his fill
egg-headed islands of flagrant sky
under the calm ferocity of the immense geranium of our sun.


beau musicien
au pied d'un arbre devetu
parmi les harmonies perdues
pres de nos memoires defaites
parmi nos mains de defaite
et des peuples de force etrange
nous laissions pendre nos yeux
et natale
denouant la longe d'une douleur
nous pleurions.


beautiful musician
unclothed at the foot of a tree
amidst the lost harmonies
close to our defeated memories
amidst our hands of defeat
and peoples of a strength strange
we let our eyes hang
and native
loosing the leading-rein of a sorrow
we wept.

Three poems from Amie Cesaire, Solar Throat Slashed
Translated by Clayton Eshleman

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Clayton Eshleman Reading at Beyond Baroque of Aime Cesaire

This past Sunday, Nov 13th, I had the pleasure of attending Clayton's reading of his translation of Aime Cesaire's "Solar Throat Slashed".

My husband and I really enjoyed the reading and it was great to meet up with Clayton after so many years.

Thank you Clayton.

Friday, November 11, 2011

Complete interview with Cid Corman now on PennSound

Interviewed by Eric Warren and Claudia Samperi-Warren, New York City, November 1991.
Now the complete video is available on PennSound on Cid Corman's page.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Samperi Notes from Notebook, 1974-75

Lumen Gloriae fully realized today – 3/24/72

that brings to completion the fullness of the work – what was needed was the realization that came on
the 22nd – not arrogance to say that not since the Commedia has there been a work equally complete -
the analogy works because the work along the same lines – in fact, the 3 titles unifies title forgone the
true Dantesque interpretation, which if used would work wonders….By equally complete
I don’t mean as to characterization but as to Spiritual realization: the there planes have been fully
expressed – the fourfold complement of the contemplative brought to bear upon the Trinity the God
head, that is, establishment subsistence there without a doubt but hidden the numbers part of the
poem – both poems stir thruout wherever stressed: The Prefiguration Quadrifariam Lumen Gloriae is the truest reading of the Commedia.

From the standpoint of the seven directions correspondences; but from the standpoint of the fourfold complement of the contemplative - union identity.
The fourfold is not a geometrical figure, it is a state of meanings; therefore, the fourfold the contemplative The Trinity equals 10 the Spiritual structure: only aspectual if the geometrical the numerical remain in Spirit: if not, then the meaning is clear: release perfection.

Should there still be despair at this stage of one’s life? If a man claims realization, then to admit defeat is to invalidate all his work. This would be true if he was writing autobiography; but since the opposite is the case, it’s just a question of going the way of the stage of vision.

It is not wrong to speak openly of the angel as the presence at the moment of composition.
In my experience it has always been so. A radiance appears, the head becomes visional, that is, a fullness of effulgence takes place in such a way that the physical body is shed, the spiritual body as pure spirit, no where sensed except as the seer.

Does this have any meaning within the context of city life? Yes! where man are there is walks,
spiritualization. A market place is proverbial for its insistence that activistic sentiments are of the very
stuff of human life, and yet the man of God is not touched. He moves as seer, re-orienting all phenomena dissolving them at the center of the heart.

When the angel illuminates the single eye the spirit walks the land reaping integration at
every insight, the recollection of the lack of illumination not a warning for the victorians to gloat over
but a mirror revealing forever habitation. The perfected state is the realization that the mirror
(the recollection) is superimposition.

Not so much a wooded area where an angel crouches over a pool giving itself up to the final
light of the day, nor the spirit by a stream contemplating the same phenomenon, but a fusion of both the image waters from the waters.

Then there is the state of the man at one with the angel, and the consciousness that composition takes its intelligence from such companionship, as well as the consciousness of the loss
that leaves the language dead dull and literal.

For the artist only the work is representation of completion – not the life. The modern artist is way off, preferring the man to the work, the embodiment of Spirit the spirit.


Can anything be more condensed (packed) then quel de passuri e quel de’ passi piedi-

Piedi is Christ viator
- Sleep to the world and rise to God

eagle’s eye in profile
circle described
thru eyebrow
Traiano acclivity’s fast
Rifeo declivity’s

Dunque nostra veduta, che conviene essere alcun de’raggi della mente….
is not a variance with susumna – however, the following verses that complete the above
tell us how far nostra veduta alcun dei raggi can go

The key to an accurate translation of the last of Paradiso Canto XX is in the balance
between lo guizzo and le fiammetta –

There’s loneliness however in all this my work walking as I do, taking in fresh air,

the wider avenues teasing with greater blue, but I’m there anyway.

-exhaustion is on the side of achievement, never on the side of inspiration: proof that
(true) art (lofty) can in no sense be tied up with genitalia – and even the freeing of
genitalia cometh from above

Credette Cimabue nella pittura tener lo campo, e ora ha Giotto il grido, si che la fama di
colui oscura.

Cimabue thought to hold field in printing and now Giotto has the cry, so that the other’s
fame’s obscured.

America a Prophecy an image of gross man evolving grossly….

- In life we’re under the burden of death, but in art we’re in spirit – therefore,
for their benefit life and art come together only under ad infinitum: from the above
it’s clear why one’s Eternal, the other incomplete, that is, indefinite, that is, not

-only under the glorified body (thru Lumen Gloriae) the advantic is our art Eternal (whole)-
as for the other, given the conditions it spins for itself, body and soul must perforce and
ever shall be divided.

Ben m’accors’io ch’elli era d’alta lode, pero ch’a me venia Resurgi’e Vinci’ come a colui che

non intende e ode

I noticed well that it was of high praise, since “Rise” and “Conquer” come to me, as to
one who doesn’t understand yet hears.

To distrust vision is to own up to the fact that such pointedness can only curtail the
effectiveness of discourse.

there’s an assumption
that heresay
I is viable alive and kicking –
who cares anymore

- we exist too much in a space too free

Where has all my poetry gone? it has gone with my youth, my struggle, my lack of
understanding of outcome.

- It’s true that in Dante at times one has to disentangle in order to reconstruct for sense –

but that’s true of all poetry of concentration – in the original es it is (not to be disentangled)
it is a wonder.

Pantheism is all on the side of corporeality, because God and His creatures are said to be

- the crux of the matter is not true but he’s there

now only absence or better faster or blur of streetlight

….di se shessa uscio key phrasing for higher meaning, especially of weighed against the
il mio disio e il vella remain for right

a quise di corona, si coronava il bel zaffiro, la coronate fiamma is maria Regina Coeli key
to our receptivity thru purest receptivity (hers) del quala il ciel cui chiaro s’in zaffira (re which
the clearest heaven in sapphires itself)

The art of translation is what it is – we can expect so much, but not more.

For Claudia

moon on roof
snow in wood
even quieter
           the stars
the reindeer’s