Stanley Burnshaw (ed.): The Poem Itself

I have so many wonderful things to say about this book.  Not only did it introduce me to a whole bevy of authors, but it did so in their original language.  Translation in general is suspect, and translation into verse is as near to heresy as exists in my book.  How is one to ever appreciate the poetry of other languages without devoting a lifetime to the languages themselves? 


Burnshaw et al execute this balancing act in exactly the right way, offering the original text, a literal translation, and a detailed analysis of the prosodies that contribute to the texture of the finished work.  Previously I only had a vague notion that I didn't like French poetry.  After reading this volume, in which one finds such revered luminaries as Mallarme, Baudelaire and Rimbaud, I can state confidently that I indeed do not.  It all seems to be trying too hard, either to be beautiful, or to be meaningful, and never both. I suppose I should offer the caveat that of all the languages included in this volume, I am the weakest at French, but the English translations should have levelled that out a little.


Previously, I simply had a vague notion that Spanish poetry was the best in the world.  After reading the treatment here of Machado, Guillen, and Salinas, I find that I was right.  Noticeably absent is that greatest of poets, Octavio Paz, who was possibly still too modern at the time of publication.  I would love to see him given the same treatment, but seeing as it would likely fall to me, I suppose it will remain a vague desire.


The real surprise was how lovely I found German poetry.  I became fully absorbed, not only in the work of Stefan George, Hugo Von Hofmannsthal, and of course Rilke, but also in the fascinating lives that colored their work.  It is to this area that I most want to devote future attention.


And there were some Italian guys too.  Not bad.