Archive for the ‘George Slobodzian’ Tag

Chez Pam Pam: new volume from George Slobodzian

George Slobodzian, a poet-friend whose work I’ve admired and often lauded from the chez pam pamstart (over thirty years ago, now) finally has a new volume of poems out:  a hefty forty-five-page chapbook Chez Pam Pam from Montreal’s Cactus Press.

For now, it’s readable only as an e-book (for all of CAN$5.00). I look forward to holding the physical volume in hand. In the meantime, you can whet your appetite for the real thing with Slobodzian’s poetry, which is, more importantly, the real thing.


“the haven from sophistications and contentions”–a translation of George Slobodzian’s “Happy Hour”

Today, I read on Facebook a friend rightfully take to task a new anthology of Canadian poetry for its lack of translations. Later, I read how one poet tweeted squibs over a retrograde and self-indulgent column that riled a friend of the columnist to snark back via his own blog while everyone ignores the column’s sentiment was preemptively taken down by happy synchronicity days before. A poet-publisher laments the roadblocks to conversation and posits turning his back on the futility of finding the like-minded to work it all out in private in his journal instead. Meanwhile, the work goes on, here, a translation, from English to French, of a fine, understated lyric, “Happy Hour”.

George Slobodzian’s “Poems for the Old Guy Who Used to Live Here”

George Slobodzian’s “Poems for the Old Guy Who Used to Live Here”

As translating machine Antoine Malette writes:  read it in English or in French but read it!

Click on the thumbnail to get yourself a copy of the collection that includes this sequence.

Clinical Studies @ DC Books

Slobodzian’s “Ars Poetica” en français!

Slobodzian’s “Ars Poetica” en français!

The indefatigable Antoine Malette has produced another translation of a fine, uncollected poem by George Slobodzian. Both the English-language original and Malette’s translation are readable at the link!

More Slobodzian en français

Antoine Mallette produces another excellent French-language translation of a poem by George Slobodzian deserving of greater dissemination, in any language. Read it here:  Excursion à Woodlawn (Woodlawn Excursion) – George Slobodzian @ . :: Antoine :: ..

from the Rhein-Neckar-Zeitung 13 June 2013

from the Rhein-Neckar-Zeitung 13 June 2013

When was the last time you read a review of a poetry READING in a Canadian newspaper? Well, they do it in Germany! Here, of George Slobodzian launching a German-language selection of his poetry in Heidelberg.

Prière pour Zoë (Prayer for Zoë) – George Slobodzian

Prière pour Zoë (Prayer for Zoë) – George Slobodzian

Antoine Malette provides a French-language version of a striking poem from George Slobodzian’s Clinical Studies.

You can read Malette’s appreciation (in French) of Slobodzian’s poetry here.

My appreciation of Slobodzian’s poetry is here.

A French-language notice of the German translation of George Slobodzian’s poetry!

A French-language notice of the German translation of George Slobodzian’s poetry!

credit:  Antoine Malette

credit: Antoine Malette

Antoine Malette has posted some illuminating and appreciative words concerning the poetry of George Slobodzian and the just published German-language translation of his poems Dein heimliches Blut auf meiner glücklichen Zunge (trans. Jürgen Heizmann).

Good to see Slobodzian get some well-deserved polyglot appreciation!

On the Poetry of George Slobodzian

This past New Year’s Eve I pulled down a couple of poetry books from our host’s bookshelves and shared two favourite poems with the collected company:  William Carlos Williams’ “The Sparrow” and George Slobodzian’s “Woodlawn Excursion” from his Clinical Studies. As I flipped through this collection from 2001, I was struck by how much difficulty I was having choosing just one poem to read, every one was so different and so accomplished. I was moved, then, to try to rectify how unjustifiably unknown and undervalued Slobodzian’s poetry is. To that end, I post here a very slightly emended version of a review I wrote that appeared first in Vallum shortly after Clinical Studies was published and in answer to the dismissal, remarked below:

Gertrude Stein writes somewhere that one writes for oneself and strangers. However much today’s poet might feel he or she writes for that audience of one, the reviewer — or this reviewer, anyway — finds himself as isolated. Our literary culture is so atomized, the reviewer needs to don a pedagogical, before a critical, role to avoid being merely partisan or indulging the amateurish ad-copy that passes for so much of our critical discourse. This pedagogical demand is acutely apparent in the case of George Slobodzian’s Clinical Studies. Its publication met with a singular critical attention: one relatively immediate derisive dismissal, and belated inclusion in an omnibus review. This reception is understandable. Slobodzian’s lyrics are difficult and challenging, not because they toy with the intentional obfuscations of our latter-day avant-gardistes, but because of their hyperbolic understatement. They are so conversational, so unassuming, their wit, irony, and music are too subtle for most. Their classical clarity and lyrical euphony are balanced by their being often quite literally obscene, presenting what is conventionally “off-stage.”

A reader with time to reflect might well note this thematic harmony in the volume’s title, that of the first poem, and its subject matter. Clinical Studies and “Clinical Studies” both begin

Upstairs   among photographs

so hideous

we were not allowed

to view them…

These photographs are medical, documenting “…the single / and half-breasted women / of medical science” and “human genitalia / eaten beyond recognition”. The poem’s persona, who takes “such pleasure turning / neighborhood stomachs / with” his father’s stash of forbidden pictures, dreams of becoming a surgeon himself to lift away the photographed anonymous subjects’ censor-strips and to “give them back their eyes”. The collection’s title-track suggests an approach to the volume as a whole. The book is an album, shown us, yes, with an impish delight in our squeamish shock, but one bound by at least two sensibilities, one clinically objective, the other humane and caring, imaginably even empathetic.

This attention to the body is often itself bawdy, in the best tradition that stretches from the outrageousness of Catullus, through the scatological hilarity of Dante, Chaucer, and Rabelais, to Joyce, Gottfried Benn, and others. This ubiquitous reference to the body and its functions reminds us corporeality is the inescapable condition of human experience in the first place, regardless of the  repressive resentment against incarnation like that of Calvin “contemplating hell-stench on the shitter”. A topic as respectable as History is presented in the forms of the last Passenger Pigeon reflecting over Doughboys who “…sink deep / into their own shit / in the trenches” and a tour guide repeating his memorized spiel about a Classical “unguent basin, carved / out of solid excrement”.  Howard Hughes appears with his “bottled urine”, “fingernails / beginning to curl”, and “bedsores”, watching for the umpteenth time his favorite Cold War thriller Ice Station Zebra. Even biotechnicians make an appearance, culturing “[h]uman skin. / From the foreskins // of newborn men”.

Slobodzian’s physicality is as sanely salutary as it is satirical: twenty-three of the book’s forty-five poems concern that extended body made up of family and lovers. Slobodzian is at his funny, gentle, tender best here. The three elegies for his mother, the poem for his father’s wedding (he, an “…old bull / in his winter meadow, / balls hanging low and blue”), and Slobodzian’s trademark “Zoëms” (poems for his daughter Zoë) are at the heart of the volume. The “Prayer for Zoë” is a tour de force whose rhythms echo the Hail Mary and whose invocations reincarnate Her as the literal mother she sublimates and hypostasizes. She becomes

Our lady of excrement,

of multiple comings

and goings, generation

and decay, perpetual

motion, wholly cloacal,

mother and father of slime,

the glistening slime

rimming the fetal pool…

Of course, there would be neither mothers, fathers, family, or lyric poetry without desire, and Slobodzian’s love lyrics are as full frontal and technically adroit as those addressed to relatives. They range over the delightful play of courtship (“If I Were Your Papuan Suitor”), warm sensuality (“Nuca”), the bitter ashes of burnt-out love (“Cold Fusion”), and the softening tints of nostalgia (“À la Recherche du Temps Perdu” and most notably “Sustain”).

Of course, despite many protestations to the contrary, poetry is not merely some special subject matter, but what the German Romantics called “the mother-tongue of the race”, that — as Carlyle reminds us — whereby we “sing what we have to say”. An appreciation of the sheer linguistic craft in Slobodzian’s poetry demands an excursus all its own. Suffice to say here, it both revels in its own lithe sinewy power and in its delicious sensuousness. The former might be best exemplified by an example I do not even have to read to transcribe, it has stayed with me so over the many years I first heard Slobodzian recite it. His early poem “Suffrage” is about overhearing two young women in the bus seat ahead discussing the Cosmo they are reading. The poem’s last lines are a judgment on the debasement of the Human Form Divine and a justification of the persisting need for lyric poetry:

And listening

it occurs to me

that love must be

a stalwart beast

to haul such crap

and remain intact

The tongue of that beast that hauls the delights of love and sheer human being into the present is capable of delicate musical delight, too, such as the reflective pleasures of “Credo Tropicanum”, the first lines of which I leave with you:

Spooning papaya uterine rind

onto genital tongue

and holding it there


For those whose taste has been whetted by this review, the latest and densest sample of Slobodzian’s poetry can be found in the recently published Show Thieves 2010 anthology.