Listening to ‘Bookworm,’ a weekly radio program hosted by Michael Silverblatt, I discovered the French poet Pierre Reverdy. He is known as a Surrealist, but his poems seem very straightforward to my untrained ears. They are morbid, dismal, creepy, and cut to the heart of things with unusual eloquence. Keep in mind that I hate poetry, though.
Ron Padgett read his new translation of a prose poem by Reverdy that ended with “….alas, my hate endures” bla bla bla. I experienced that shock of recognition: Mine, too! I thought happily.
I’ve been thinking of getting a tattoo, probably a terrible idea, but I haven’t been able to come up with a good idea until now. So I’ve been trying to find out how to translate this phrase back into French, without success.
Can anyone help? “My hatred endures” is the single best description of my worldview that I’ve ever stumbled upon. I know it’s pretentious to get a tattoo in a foreign language, but at least it’s not Latin. I just read about some actress/moron who has a tattoo in Sanskrit, which seems like some sort of milestone in stupidity. My other tattoo idea, for the last few years, was a gang-banger name that I think I made up: Lil’ Spiteful. I’m not ruling that one out, but I’m wondering how it will go over in the nursing home where I’ll end up, with nothing left in my memory bank except the Complete Lyrics of Bob Dylan.
Meanwhile, my hatred endures, and tonight it is flowing in several directions. I tried Lunesta last night for the first time, and instead of that cute little butterfly I got nothing but grinding insomnia. I’m so disgusted by this failed experiment in pharmaceuticals that I don’t want to try my sample of Rozerem. If I can’t achieve the butterfly, it’s hard to believe I’ll get Abe Lincoln and that hedgehog. I don’t even know if that thing is a hedgehog, a gopher, or a beaver.