Oh yeah, I was also wondering the same thing. Who is fs?Quote:
Originally Posted by Virgil
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Oh yeah, I was also wondering the same thing. Who is fs?Quote:
Originally Posted by Virgil
It wouldn't happen to be Frantisek Svantner would it?Quote:
Oh yeah, I was also wondering the same thing. Who is fs?
(Hyacinth takes a wild stab in the dark)
Or it can be Frank Sinitra? If not, then Frank Stewart? What about French Superman or Fanny Strange? :rolleyes:Quote:
Originally Posted by Hyacinth Girl
Could be. :)
I guess we will have to wait with bated breath until Taliesin deigns to gift us with the definitive answer.
:nod: :nod: :nod: (huh stupid ten characters message that I had to node three times)Quote:
Originally Posted by Hyacinth Girl
Taliesin. . . . Taliesin. . . .Buhler. . . . Anyone???
(I MUST know the identity of the mysterious fs!) :lol:
I searched at google and came up with this This FS Flint might be the one we are looking for, but still I doubt it...Quote:
Originally Posted by Hyacinth Girl
I looked up Flint's poetry, and it doesn't seem to be him. Frantisek Svantner appears to be more a playwright than poet, but he may have some fragments out there somewhere- it's hard to find considering most of the websites are in Slovak :lol:Quote:
Originally Posted by Pensive
Then who can he be???? Pensive is getting impatient. :mad:Quote:
Originally Posted by Hyacinth Girl
I'm a bit at a loss about the mysterious fs as well. If Taliesan continues to refuse to answer I say we assume "fs" is his nome de plume (more than one name would explain his referring to himself in the third person wouldn't it?) and tease him mercilessly. ;)
Seriously though, I've had a chance to look it over again in a slightly better frame of mind, and I think there's some things to be said for it. What I like best is what Hyacinth has already pointed to about the unexpected answer to the repeated question. I also think those opening lines are real grabbers. They're rhythmic and strange, in the best sense. The descriptions, especially of the grimy streets, are hideously compelling and stark in places. All the same I still don't feel that it builds with the kind of intensity needed to really carry off the full import of that last answer. It's not something I can put a finger on, it's just the way I feel about the poem.
Well first, the answer to the question is a little anti climatic. I wonder if he left it unanswered if it would have maintained it's power. I also feel the poet loses intensity after the first two stanzas. The first two seem interesting, but the langage goes mundane afterward. Here see what I mean:
Where is the poetry here? None of these lines grab me.Quote:
when on all the roads of Europe / black cars drive
columns like viscera / iron doors clanging
silencing the screams / when from many places at the same time
evil suddenly arises / from Kosovo and Buchenwald
from Berlin, Madrid and Moscow / from Tallinn, Räpina andTartu
Jõgeva Märjamaa Kohtla-Järve /and Karksi-Nuia from Polli
rises over Europe / unites in the dark sky
rolls over defenseless land / falls as rain
disembogues everywhere / flows in the gutters
soaks inside your clothes / slquelches in your shoes
entrences your skin / stalks behind your door
stares lecherously through / the window of your bedroom
grey-haired and toothless / with the face of an old woman
with black spectacle frames / with the face of a copywriter
then only one question remains
when morning smashes your face in/ and targets light into your eyes
when dry cascade falls / and you are standing under it
and you are suffocating in it/ when everything is so bloody clear
right and merciless / dusts is clogging up your nose
blades are scratching your throat / something is pressing on your lungs
heart is beating and beating / there is no more air
ears have stopped hearing /but eyes are all too clear indeed
your guilt is standing before you/ your guilt falls onto you
the guilt of you and of everyone else/ are all gathered together in you for one moment
but that moment is long / there is no escape from it
then only one question remains / simpler than anything else
simple as babys need to shi* / cruel as a joke of a child
demanding as womans labour pains / old as the circulation of excreta
that we call life / honest like death
there is nothing but that question / higher than all your thoughts
everything else is meaningless trash / eveything else is circus and sport
only that question remains / of which’ answer it depends
whether you were born or not / whether your life has any value at all
Quote:
Originally Posted by Hyacinth Girl
fs is an estonian poet. He used to write under the pseudonym of francois serpent at first but he used just the first letters of his pen-name resulting in fs.
We are also afraid that some of the lines might have lost something in translation.
Thank you for clearing up the mystery! :)Quote:
Originally Posted by Taliesin
Thanks Taliesin. We were all highly curious.Quote:
fs is an estonian poet. He used to write under the pseudonym of francois serpent at first but he used just the first letters of his pen-name resulting in fs.
That explains what it is about this poem I couldn't put my finger on. It seemed like it should be so good, but the language just didn't always flow the way I thought it would being written by someone with that kind of control of imagery etc. It's a shame we can't all read Estonian and get the full impact. Still an interesting choice though.Quote:
We are also afraid that some of the lines might have lost something in translation.
Hah. You remind us another fraction of another poem oh him.Quote:
Where is the poetry here? None of these lines grab me.
Well, we seemed to have forgotten what we think about this poem earlier so we'll do it now.Quote:
perhaps he is walking now
in the winter night under the unlit windows
glove doesn't fit to the hand
that is swollen from burns
and green pus oozes
this thing is life
this is not poetry
there is no metaphor here
it is stupid and banal
one can even feel the stink
We find these lines interesting:
It seems to us that here is a clue to an idea that one is the murderer of oneself, killing oneself slowly through one's life.Quote:
when fingers are frozen round the gun/ and there is nothing certain
when between high dim houses / amid hostility and garbage
is a little useless murderer / and it is you
The end of stanza three reminds us a nightmare (the whole poem actually has a nightmarish quality IOO) with syrreal horror (we like it how it is depicted how evil entrences ones life from everywhere and there is no escape from the evil. The fourth stanza seems to say that there is no escape from guilt)
And so, finally, after depicting the horrors and syrreality of life, showing the hopelessness, evil and guilt that are unescapable, there is actually an answer. An answer in the form of that question. And we find it beautiful.
NB:By the way, if somebody wants to, they can post the next poem of the week. This week that just went past had no poem for it.