Akosua: Hi Alírio, How are you? It’s a pleasure to be in conversation with you. In our email exchange, you mentioned that you’re currently reading Lucille Clifton, The Book of Light.
what did I see to be except myself?
There is no planet stranger / than the one I’m from
Loved those lines among others. I have a book of her collected poems at home and return to it often. In my head, she’s one of my poetry mamas. What has been your experience while reading the Book of Light – have you been struck by anything? What impacted you?
Alírio: Hi Akosua! Likewise lovely to be “speaking to you”. I am reading The Book of Light right now, returning to it as well. I find I am struck most of all by the effortless and unassuming quality of the verse. I feel I am being spoken to softly in a loud room, let in on a secret, brought into an intimacy that is mine and Clifton’s alone to share. And then, with “won’t you celebrate with me,” that tacit invitation is brought to its most devastating and thrilling height before I am taken by the hand, in and out of worlds, memories, prayers. I think this strikes me most now because that openness is something I fight in my own work. I always want to hide the secret even as I tell it.
But I want to return to those lines from Clifton you’ve mentioned, and your own relationship to her work –what do you keep returning for, in her work? And how are those lines speaking to you?
Akosua: In line with what you mentioned, it’s the openness in her work and the declaration of truths. There’s such beauty to me in acknowledging a thing as it is and dealing with it on its face. Clifton does that well.
She curates a home with words for her speakers and her readers – the type of home that feels safe to be vulnerable in. For example, in “won’t you celebrate with me,” I see the poem as a home in which the kind of life, the kind of speaker as they are, what they have created as it is, is not only acknowledged for what it is, it is declared. The speaker calls out into the world of whoever will hear to say: this life isn’t easy, but this is who I am. Who I am is why this fight is ingrained in me; I couldn’t survive without it. Look at what I’ve built despite it. Celebrate with me. Celebrate me – know that I should be celebrated.
Her poems are like packages of bite and love.
Her writing makes me feel both at home / ease and at the same time moved. Moved to the point of stillness sometimes: moved to sit in the lyric and story. Often too, moved to write. When I haven’t written in a while or am stuck on something I’m working on, reading Clifton or listening to Brenda Fassie usually helps me make progress in some way. It’s like the ease transfers to my own work and guides me to flow (at least a little better) when I’m experiencing a block. The openness in the work opens me.
Could you speak more about how you work through the urge to fight openness in your work? I believe this is something a lot of people contend with in their writing. How do you succeed in telling the secret even when you want to hide it? Has the process gotten easier for you in more recent work?
Alírio: I’m not sure it is fighting the openness, exactly, or even something I work through because the poems flow out when I’m in that space of tension. More, though they usually have some clarity running through them (or so I hope), and many meanings to be made from them, they are rarely so forthright in their vulnerability. Sometimes they are, sometimes they are puzzle-box-closed. But more often, I feel I end up talking to the reader through fragments or threads of a story or a moment or a feeling, like in “the shore a stage so lovingly set;” or the intimacy is tempered by not being “mine,” not being written in first person, like in “the open” and “imperatives”; or being deeply non-conversational, like “visions of maria.” Your work, from what you’ve shared here, does conversational in really interesting and playful ways. See these fragments of our two grandmothers (from “visions of maria,” and “For those of you who are home, welcome”):
maria sublimates, becomes gas giant under
lemon juicer glass, becomes formaldehyde
galaxy extending into the next parish—
bright as the wine stains on the pew—
–
Here, with marula trees and neighbourhood
tuck-shops, and grandmothers
like my grandmother
whose waists change colour daily
between chitenge.
Writing this now, and calling it a grandmother fragment, I am realizing my poem actually keeps her a secret, except to the people who knew her, even as she explodes out into other meanings in the poem. Maybe I was embarrassed to be writing yet another African grandmother poem! Whereas your grandmother is a referent for the intimacy you are drawing out and a way of inviting an intimacy with your poem, especially for those of us whose grandmothers (like your grandmother) are reflected in the intimacy of the ‘home’ you are writing, the small delights – “smell soil.” This is not to say your poem is lacking in secrets – there are so many cultural and physical references that declare place, in ways partly opaque to me (like, I imagine, the lemon juicer glass is to you), and partly reflecting a very resonant and familiar pan-Africanist ethos that I imagine could be a quite abstract referent for others. I really enjoyed the play between this kind of broader reflection and resonance and the most personal of moments – the photograph of little you, at the centre of the world. I wonder, how do you engage and think about this kind of play when you are crafting your poems?
Akosua: There can never be too many African grandmother poems!
I didn’t realize that the poem was about a grandmother. I see what you mean: her identity in the poem, “visions of maria,” is like an easter egg – saved for those who know; and also for other readers, up for interpretation. The “secret” invites the reader into a number of possibilities, which I think is reiterated as maria “becomes” over and again with each line of your poem.
The kind of play, between broader imagery and more detailed intimate moments, is often a natural element of world building when I write. This kind of perspective-play adds texture and layers, expresses the story to the reader from different heights. It scaffolds the expanse of what home can mean. I enjoy playing with rhythmic/sonic texture in my poems as well, which I think the height and layering feed into.
The poem does reference my actual grandmother and my life down to the streets where I grew up, but I‘ll say that the “I” / “me” in my pieces do not always translate to an autobiographical statement. A lot of my work is drawn from my life, but when I discuss my pieces, I talk about the “I’s” and “me’s” as speakers in a poem since they do not necessarily translate to a direct extract from my life. Most times I/Me = autobiographical or quasi autobiographical, other times not at all. It depends on the poem.
“visions of maria” is presented both in Portuguese and English. I see the alliteration in the English version (g, b, s sounds especially), and also in the Portuguese version (d, p sounds especially). When you look at the two versions side by side, the language similarities create a sort of acoustic reflection with lead sound, for example, as “galáxia” lines up with “galaxy” and “piedade” with “piety” and so on. Did you draft the poem initially in one language and then translate it to the other or as a combination of the two languages and then break it up into the two versions? If the former, did you find yourself making edits as you translated based on your ear in the other language and/or how words in one version reflect against the corresponding word in the other? I’d love to hear more about your process of writing in translation: How does (if it does), being bilingual impact your word choice and ear as you write? Do you find yourself drawn in a particular language-direction as you initially draft?
Alírio: The alliteration wasn’t deliberate! I sometimes write my poems in English and Portuguese simultaneously and kind of divorce them into the two languages, but “visions of maria” was written in English first, then translated (then edited, in both, which makes the timeline messier). In some poems I manage to lose nothing in the translation, but with “visions…” there were many changes. The biggest, and one that adds to the poem, is that I use a different verb for “become” than the usual choices in Portuguese, “devir,” which is a quite formal word implying a kind of philosophical sense of becoming, kind of doubling down on metaphor, but also appropriate to the setting the poem begins with. A detail that almost feels like it vanishes in the English, even though it came first. But then other things become clunkier than I wanted them to – “banco de igreja,” literally church’s bench, for “pew”, for instance – and in the end I had to surrender to the fact that it would have it’s own rhythm. But I did want to keep them in the same kind of rhythmic universe, propelled outwards, musical. The repetition helped with that. I’d love to hear more about your own play with rhythm–is there a poem you feel really captures this work of texture and sound?
Your point about the separateness of “I”/”me” as a choice of voice is really an important one. I guess a better way to think the question I raised earlier would be to ask how you’re using the impression of yourself to draw the reader into an intimacy, the implication of a revelation even if you are actually keeping yourself quite apart from the story. The texturedness of the move makes a lot of sense to me, the analogy that comes to mind is of a painting or photograph that has a defined foreground, middle, back. But perhaps this is too artificial a metaphor. On the point of artifice, do you feel there is a writerly “persona” you take up when you’re voicing the not-you first-person? Or is it more experimental, instinctual?
But then the satisfaction when a poem feels like it is the same poem in translation, even with the transformations translation brings, is unlike any other. It’s like a door is unlocked, and then there’s a world to return to and adventure in that starts from that poem
– Alírio Karina
Akosua: It’s definitely more experimental and instinctual.
I wouldn’t say that there’s a particular poem that captures the work of texture and sound. Rather, I’d say that writing with an awareness of texture and sound is an inherent part of my practice. (Well I try to make that the case, so I hope it shows lol). It’s similar to how one may think about writing specific types of poetry like rap – there’s a certain necessary awareness of beat, cadence etc. The rhythmic expectations and beat measures are, of course, generally more flexible in my style of writing, but there is music created by the lines prior that I am always writing to. I write both on page and aloud, speaking the lines on page out to hear the next. This is what helps me navigate sonic textures as poems come to life and as I edit. I also use form as a way to attempt to map the sonic layout of the poem for the reader using line breaks, white space, fragmentation, stanzas etc.
When you said “A detail that almost feels like it vanishes in the English..,” I was reminded of the Robert Frost quote “Poetry is what gets left out in translation.”
I think of translating poetry from one language to another as the preservation of story, the preservation of art, as well as a certain level of release/openness. To expand on the last piece, to a certain degree, I think meaning on a word/line level may escape, but the story crosses over and sometimes takes on new life. Poetry Translation is its own artform and is no easy task. So, I’m curious if you could share some practices that have helped you train your poetry translation muscle as well as navigate (and make peace with) what “vanishes.” Are there any tips you could share? Do you find that reading other works in translation aids in your own translation work? If so, who are some translators whose work you follow/admire?
I’m curious too, in cases where you write in one language then translate, does anything in particular guide your language choice or is the decision on what language you choose to begin with instinctual/spontaneous?
Alírio: I’m not sure I’m qualified to give anyone advice! I do read quite a bit in translation, but never in an expert or studious way; I am usually reading works translated from languages I have no reference for, and can only really admire the poem or text as a final product, rather than distinguishing the elements that are original and the elements that come from the translator. In my own translations I feel that distinction really sharply (even though I am usually both of those people). It’s also an instinctual thing, phrases and texture come to me in English or Portuguese and then the poem that comes after might be in the same language or the other. But there are some kinds of play that are trickier in one language or the other.
My poem “the shore a stage so lovingly set” is an example of this. I wrote it a while after I’d spent quite some time working on translating Carl Phillips’s work, especially the book Pale Colors in a Tall Field, and it bears the marks of that; it was basically a period of close study and pondering about what I wanted the language to do, and realizing the gaps between what each language affords. The meandering, grammatical interruptions, stream of wondering consciousness is tricky to translate into Portuguese. Or maybe, rather than tricky, intimidating, because it’s not that it’s in any way not doable, but that it requires a sense of a language’s capaciousness and a confidence to make use of it that I don’t always feel is available to me. . Have you had that experience with poems you’ve studied and returned to? That sort of radical expansion of poetic possibility and the shape of your craft? It sounds, from this conversation at least, like Clifton’s work might have had that role, but I’d love to hear more.
Akosua: Yes, definitely. Clifton’s work is certainly that. With poems I enjoy, I find myself in awe of what the author has done with language which translates to the feeling that more is possible for me on the page, too. It’s like the page becomes bigger, like a door I didn’t know existed being shown to me and opening straight to the foot of an ocean. It’s an assuring, refreshing and freeing experience. There are so many poems I could mention, but some that have expanded my page are jasper texas 1988 by Lucille Clifton (of course I had to start with her), Girl, 11 by Jonterri Gadson, A Lesson on Scatting Under the influence by Ai Elo, Someday I’ll love Ocean Vuong by Ocean Vuong, Romanticism (The blue Keats) by Roger Reeves, and For Women who are ‘difficult’ to love by Warsan Shire.
That was a hard list to write- I’ve left out so many.
Speaking of poetic possibilities, I’m interested to hear what’s in the pipeline for you. What are you currently working on?
Alírio: Straight to the foot of an ocean! What an image. I know what you mean. There are so many poems that do things that are unexpected or surprising or novel to me, but every once in a while that surprise is so revelatory. Sometimes it is the smallest thing that stays, perhaps diving with me.
I’ve been playing around with a bilingual manuscript, called everything was the sea / tudo era o mar. It’s been really interesting to set out on a project already imagining it as a full-length and cohesive work. But the most interesting thing for me has been the experiment of it, allowing myself to work in both languages at once, and playing with length and form. I often write really small poems, tiny things, and for this project I’ve been letting the writing meander and collide, the languages and influences mingle, and it’s been really enlivening. I often feel like I write because I must, and the poem I end up with is irrelevant to the fact that I will write anyway. But rather than a vocation this project has been…fun? An adventure. I have a sense of direction, I know which poems do and don’t fit the work. But as I am writing each new segment or poem, I have no idea what I’m doing, and I am having the best time.
What poetic adventure is next for you?
Akosua: That sounds great.
No big adventures. I’ve been tinkering here and there. Mostly looking back at old work that’s been sitting in drafts and seeing what time away might help me see in the work. I’m looking forward to tackling a list of novels I’ve been meaning to read. From there, the poetry will come.
Thank you for spending time chatting with me. I wish you all the best with everything was the sea / tudo era o mar and your future endeavours!
Alírio: Sometimes distance really is what a poem needs. I am eager to see what comes from your tinkering. It’s been lovely getting to know you and your work, and thinking about craft together. Thanks for the conversation and provocations. And, until you get back to writing, happy reading!
Akosua Zimba Afiriyie-Hwedie is a Zambian-Ghanaian poet who grew up in Botswana. She holds an MFA in poetry from the University of Michigan. She is the author of Born in a Second Language (July 2021), winner of Button Poetry’s 2019 Chapbook Contest and longlisted for the 2022 Perennial Chapbook Awards. She placed 3rd in Palette Poetry’s 2020 Emerging Poet Prize and is a winner of a 2019 Hopwood Award and a 2018 Meader Family Award. She is a finalist in The 2020 Narrative 12th Annual Poetry Contest, The 2020 Brunel International African Poetry Prize, The 2020 Palette Poetry Spotlight Award, The 2020 Furious Flower Poetry Prize, Wick Poetry Center’s 2019 Peace Poem contest and received a 2020 Best of the Net Nomination. Akosua has received fellowships from Tin House, the Helen Zell Writers’ Program, Callaloo and the Watering Hole. Her work has appeared in Narrative, PANK, Kweli, Obsidian, Wildness, The Felt and elsewhere.
Alírio Karina is a Mozambican scholar and poet writing in English and Portuguese. Among other venues, their poems can be found in 20.35 Africa, Jalada Africa, Kenyon Review and Jornal RelevO.