December 28, Palo Alto

Just back from a week in Friday Harbour, St Juan Island, in the state of Washington. Never easy making plane-small island-hopper-plane / ferry. Our plane to Seattle was several hours late taking off, so the 4-hour wait between arrival in Seattle got whittled down to nothing: we missed the island-hopper plane by about half an hour. Second option was a car to the ferry in Anacortes, scheduled for 8 pm, which actually left with us aboard around 9 pm. But we made it - and smoothly-connected flights back to St José yesterday.

Now for Paris on Tuesday! Looking forward. Meanwhile I’m making last-minute corrections to my poetry manuscript, due soon at the publisher, Carcanet, for August publication. I need to forget the poems for a while, then try and see them with fresh (ie, more objective) eyes. My two poetry groups, Berkeley and Stanza France are great for that, too, nothing like showing them to other poets to make you sit up and see them anew. Also good, is reading other peoples’ poems: at the moment David Ferry, another poet-translator, a recent discovery of mine.

December 18, California

I have been neglecting my blog, partly because I feel so repetitive, but I have some good news to share: my lovely British publisher, https://www.carcanet.co.uk/, will bring out my fifth collection of poetry in August 2024. Carcanet was also the publisher of my 2018 collection, The Hotel Eden, and I am delighted they want the new book, which will be called Apple Thieves, after a poem by the same name published in The New Yorker magazine in April 2019.

So the holidays are almost upon us. We head for St Juan Island, Washington (state) for a few days, return to Palo Alto and head off to Paris a few days later. On January 9 I’ll be introducing my friend and fellow writer, Shelley Day, who is launching her book, Paris Pages. That’s at 7 pm at The Red Wheelbarrow bookshop opposite the Luxembourg Garden in the 6th arrondissement. Hope to see you there!

The Vaucluse, 25 May, 2023

I love a wet morning, even on the day I planned to wash and sun-dry the sheets. And it was really pouring when I work up this morning, not ‘just spitting,’ as our nextdoor neighbour, who likes rain, but who often seems to feel it’s the wrong day. This month rain is unwelcome because of the cherry crop. I imagine most farmers have the same feelings about weather, whatever it is. Moreover the moon was new ten days ago, on which day it also rained, and, says our neighbour, whatever weather we have on the day of the new moon, will dominate the next 28 days.

My publisher at Seagull Books has just sent me a remarkable review of the English translation (mine) of Hélène Cixous’s Well-kept Ruins (Seagull Books, 2022). I am very pleased to record Xiao Yue Shan’s comment about the translation:

‘Beverley Bie Brahic, Cixous’ longtime English translator, deftly controls the topology of these words by thinking the author into this other language, transposing this hailstorm of intuitions and suspensions into a confident voice that acknowledges meanings. Cixous’ penchant for wordplay and linguistic curios has made it famously difficult to translate her, yet the exuberant dynamism and musicality of this iteration is sensitive to humor, to outburst, to the sheer joy that the stylist commands. There is no doubt in these pages, no stuttering hesitation; Brahic’s long career as a poet heightens her ability to convey the unfurling, sentence by sentence, that is so enchanting about Cixous’ transformative craft.’

Most of all this review shows extraordinary understanding of Cixous’s writing. Here is a link to the whole of the reviewer’s essay on the Cleveland Review of Books website:

https://www.clereviewofbooks.com/writing/helene-cixous-well-kept-ruins

If you are as impressed as I am by Xiao Yue Shan’s writing, you may also wish to read a story of hers on Granta: https://granta.com/to-that-silence-i-told-everything/.

Paris, 30 April 2023

It is a quiet weekend, because Monday is a holiday: May 1, the Fête du Travail, Labour Day. Yesterday, out running errands, florists’ displays were full of Muguet, Lily of the Valley, traditional for this holiday, I even saw a cake shop with a chocolate cake in the window, lily of the valley in white icing on its top. It is sunny and, of course, if locals may have gone out of town for the weekend, there are lots of tourists as soon as you find yourself in a touristy spot.

I was in the kitchen, doing something for supper yesterday when I happened to look out the window and there, miraculously, on the black metal railing around the little balcony that overlooks the courtyard, a blue tit had perched. We have lots of pigeons but a blue tit? Never, as far as I can recall. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen one anywhere in the neighbourhood, even in leafy parks. It felt like a visitation, a message about something. But then, as I was watching, off it flew over the rooftops. There must be a poem in this somewhere, but where?

'Celebration of Lament', 3 May 2023, Cambridge, U.K.

The poet Vona Groarke writes to say that the Cambridge (England) Group for Irish Studies will host a symposium on Lament on May 3rd at Magdalene College, Cambridge. Attendance (free) in person or online via Zoom; registration is required:

'Lament: A Celebration': a Cambridge Group for Irish Studies day-long symposium marking the 250th Anniversary of the celebrated Irish poem 'Caoineadh Airt Uí Laoghaire' / 'Lament for Art O'Leary'. Talks, music, film and poetry honouring the Irish tradition of the Keen, and also exploring mourning rituals, improvised poetry, questions of translation, and women's poetic voices in the eighteenth century. Speakers include Prof Angela Bourke, and poets Martina Evans, Fran Lock and Paul Muldoon. In-person and online via zoom. Free, but registration required. Full details and registration tabs here: https://www.english.cam.ac.uk/events/CGIS-Lament/index.htm

Back in Paris, 21 March 2023

I think we were lucky: our bus #63 was waiting at its usual stop, though the driver warned us that our route would be different with a first stop at the Institut du Monde Arab. Traffic was intense around the Gare de Lyon. Trash bins and bags piled high on the sidewalks, though fairly rationally piled, at least in the central arrondissements on both sides of the Seine. No rats at least in daylight.

And now, after unpacking and glancing at mail (the real kind, that doesn’t follow us), I went to the indoor market and bought some pot stickers for supper and Cantonese rice from the Thai place, and some broccoli and leeks and a branch of Tunisian dates from the Tunisian fruit and vegetable seller. Should keep us going for a day or two. Oh, and apples, russets that melt when I cook them, presumably because they don’t contain (?) too many preservatives. I like applesauce with yogurt. Cafes full of people having a drink after work. I revel in being back in a city where everything - I think this is true all over Paris - is five minutes away: groceries, cafes, bakeries.

I opened the latest PNReview, which had come while we were away, and found three beautiful poems by Nina Bogin, and an interview with the British poet, Carol Rumens.

Thursday 16 March.

A quick post, to recommend an excellent, short article by Craig Raine in last week’s Times Literary Supplement. It is about Rimbaud, in light of Mallarmé’s definition or description of Symbolism: “peindre non la chose, mais l’effet qu’elle produit”. Paint not the thing, but the effect it produces. Raine applies this statement to one of Rimbaud’s poems; I’m not sure I’ve ever read such a succinctly illuminating piece of criticism.

Sunday 12 March

I’ve been sitting in the garden in a collapsible deck chair for hours. First I was reading a very good book by Jhumpa Lahiri. Full of lovely clutter, but shaped, like the top of a chest of drawers scattered with things, but all of them held in a wide but shallow bowl. The sun was out, I dragged my chair to the back of the garden under the wall, protected from the mistral, which was blowing quite hard. After a while I got tired of reading, or rather I didn’t want to finish the whole book in one afternoon, I wanted some chapters in reserve. Not eat all the cookies at once. So I looked into the gravel around my chair and saw a weed, then another, and pretty soon I was down in the gravel pulling weeds, one of those mindless tasks that keep your hands busy and your head empty. My husband had put a vinegar weedkiller they said at the Co-op in Beaumes de Venise wouldn’t poison the ground and I didn’t need to weed. It was hard to stop.Yesterday we hiked with friends to the top of a lowish local mountain and I felt like spending a day in a deck chair and scooting across gravel pulling weeds, most of them just one or two blades of grass, hardly hatched. And now that the sun is lower in the sky I can see I missed a lot.