Interview by
Athina Rossoglou
© Themis Zafeiropoulos
Panayotis Ioannidis was
born in 1967 in Athens, where he now lives. He has published three poetry books
(all by Kastaniotis Editions): The lifesaver, 2008; Uncovered, 2013; Poland, 2016; a fourth, Rhinoceros,
is forthcoming. His poems have appeared in two English-language anthologies, T.
Chiotis’ Futures (Penned in the margins, 2015) and K. Van Dyck’s Austerity
Measures (Penguin 2016; NYRB Books, 2017), two German ones, and several
(Greek, English, Swedish, and Turkish) journals. He is poetry editor for the
monthly “The Books’ Journal”; on the editorial board of the
biannual journal for poetry, theory and the visual arts, “FRMK”;
curates the monthly poetry readings, “Words (can) do it”; and translates English-language
poetry (S. Heaney, R. Creeley, T. Gunn, D. Harsent, a.o.).
He has also collaborated
with visual artists (e.g. at the 2nd Athens Biennale) and teaches poetry as
creative writing to children (e.g. in educational programmes of the Onassis
Foundation’s Cavafy Archive) and adults (at the British Council, Athens). His
personal English-language blogs is called “Spring’s treefellers”. Some of his poems may be found in
English translations online at “Greek Poetry
Now!” and “poets.gr”.
Panayotis Ioannidis spoke
to "Reading Greece" about the main issues his poetry delves into, noting that
his books were “strictly conceived as architectural and musical structures”,
and that “irrespective of the quite different terms of birth of each book”,
there is that “over-arching, almost obsessive quest to highlight, to
‘immortalise’ the moment through words”. Asked about his venture, “Words(can) do it”, he explains that it sprang from a twin root: “the firm belief
in, and deep enjoyment of poetry as an art of sounds…requiring auditory
presentation, and the conviction that poetry is best enjoyed straight…and from
the source: the people who write it”.
He comments that “contemporary
Greek poetry is currently flourishing: the increasing number of good poems
published in journals is proof enough”, noting however that he would
greatly “hesitate to equate a burgeoning of any art with an increased civic
awareness’”, and adds that “successful ‘interweavings’ or
collaborations between different arts…are rare – unless, of course, they result
in, and obey a new art form: the theatre, for example, or opera”. He concludes
that “the newer generations of Greek writers are generally quite conversant
with other linguistic environments”. Yet, “how and to what extent this
will result in better Greek writing, it would certainly be quite complicated,
and is probably too early to assess”.
Which are the main
issues your poetry delves into? Are there recurrent themes in your writings?
Whether due to my belief
that the author’s view of her or his own work does not matter in the least –or
matters as much as any reader’s– or simply out of an old-fashioned sense of
decorum, I am generally, usually, reticent to speak about my own poems, and
find the prospect rather ungraceful. However, since, in one of your other
questions, you pick up on the element of a self-imposed wager in translation, I
might as well accept this one too: to translate my own work of words into
another set of my own words.
My first four books have
been composed of poems that were written without a conscious plan in mind –
which, however, does not make these books “collections”: they are strictly
conceived, as architectural and musical structures. (Some poems they contain have
had to wait for years before finding their appropriate place in a book; others
never did). The first one, The lifesaver (Kastaniotis Editions, 2008), is
principally a coming-of-age book: recollections and meditations on childhood,
adolescence and early youth experiences culminate in a tripartite requiem for a
loved person (who was also a poet). The book’s title is quite eloquent, I
think, as to its intentions: how much of life can poems salvage and redeem? Is
there any substance in the hope that poems might also work as life-saving
devices?
Poland: artwork by Nikos Kryonidis, Uncovered: engraving by Bedrich Glaser, The Lifesaver: engraving
by Monika Zawadzka
The second book –whose
title I have tended to translate as Uncovered, but A.E. Stallings’ rendering as Unsheltered
is equally interesting– also declares its intentions on the front cover: an
opening up in, and –it seemed to me– a more daring approach to form, style and
subject matter. Whereas the Lifesaver’s poems had been chiselled
–if not indeed sand-papered– over many years to the minutest (to my ability)
detail of word choice and position, in Uncovered (Kastaniotis
Editions, 2013), I felt I was allowing myself a freer form, with phrases
becoming more supple as well as the compositional unit instead of, previously,
words; humour surfacing more evidently; etc.. A widening of the field (in the
photographic as well as in the poetic sense) and a trying-out of different
techniques, are some, I think, of its features. Vassilis Dioskouridis, editor extraordinaire,
had pronounced it a book about a “fall”. I had found this opinion –as all his
opinions– fascinating, but had not dared ask what he meant. Perhaps, though,
this also fits the title and my thoughts when choosing it, since, in Greek, it
is at once an adjective (as translated above), but also a noun denoting the
back-yard of a tall building of flats: tiny, usually, on its own, but, when
combined with that of other buildings on the same block, forming quite a large
‘neutral’ space, allowing surprising views of dull as well as unexpected
moments, and forming a rather unusually spectacular interface between the
private and the public. Equally, allowing various falls (from the surrounding
balconies): of clothes, children’s toys, humans on occasion.
Poland (Kastaniotis Editions, 2016) arose
to a large extent from, and is coloured overall by, my love and study of Polish
history and culture – which inevitably also means that of Europe beyond
countries (such as Lithuania, Sweden, Germany and Russia, to name but four that
appear in the book) with close historical ties to Poland. The book contains
personal responses to historical and artistic moments, as well as enquiries
into my own position with regard to the past and the present (Europe’s
included). While I was finishing this book, it dawned on me that my interest in
Poland (a country and a people with surprising similarities to my own) may have
been a response to the ‘Greek Crisis’, fuelling in me a hunger for History.
Formally, I feel it is
closer to the tightly knit Lifesaver – whereas the upcoming, fourth
book, Rhinoceros (Duehrer’s, not Ionesco’s), is, in this respect, a
‘second’ Uncovered. Even if Rhinoceros, too, did not start
being written with a clear, or at least a conscious, intent, I soon realised
that it was crystallising, much like with Poland, around two obvious
nuclei: the importance of art in, and for life; and death – which has
nevertheless been stubbornly in the background, when not plainly in the
foreground, of all my books, it seems to me. Art, not in its aesthetic role –
but art as made of the selfsame flesh as life itself. (And I do mean “made”
rather than “being”.) As if William Blake’s phrase “The Whole Business of Man
is the Arts” were literally true – and the sheer fact of death, one of the
reasons for its being true.
Nevertheless, it is
becoming quite clear to me that, irrespective of the quite different terms of
birth of each book, there are indeed recurrent themes in all four: animals, for
example – many insects, but also birds, and mammals; music; not least, the over-arching,
almost obsessive quest to highlight, to ‘immortalise’ the (humble or
revelatory, though frequently the two coincide) moment through words. More
often than not, this seems to me a vain attempt (which clearly makes me a
recidivist). As vain, perhaps, as this attempt at describing my own work –
which hopefully will not have drained it of all interest.
It would have been far
easier –and briefer– for me to speak of my other writing: the essays (the first
published one being an improvisation on a theme from an essay by G.K.
Chesterton), or the pieces of criticism, which are always labours of love: from
overviews of Zissimos Lorentzatos’ essays and Helias C. Papadimitrakopoulos’
short stories, to, in recent years, more or less extensive reviews of books by
contemporary Greek poets.
©Panayotis Ioannidis
In 2011 you founded
“Words (can) do it”, which comprise not only readings
by Greek poets of different generations but also readings of foreign poetry
both in the original and its Greek translation. What’s the idea behind this
venture?
“Words (can) do it” [Me ta
logia (ginetai); ‘mtlg’ for short] sprang, in December 2011, from a twin root.
From the firm belief in, and deep enjoyment of poetry as an art of sounds,
therefore not only suited to, but also requiring auditory
presentation; and the conviction that poetry is best enjoyed straight –no music
or other ‘accompaniments’– and from the source: the people who write it. There
were, of course, predecessors and inspirations: the plain authors’ readings
that are the rule in the English-speaking world where I have lived (as opposed
to the Greek norm of critic- and journalist-heavy ‘book presentations’), and
the small-group, workshop-like, “Contemporary Poetry Readings” that Katerina
Iliopoulou and Yorgos Hantzis curated in Athens from 2006 to 2009, upstairs at
the “Dasein” cafe.
I felt that there was both
reason and space to combine the two approaches: to allow poets and poetry
translators to read from, and talk about their own work – in the presence of
the widest possible general audience. And I like to think that ‘mtlg”s itinerary
so far, as well as its attendance scores, vindicate the conviction that poetry,
like any art, may be deeply enjoyed by anyone who is willing to dedicate a
little of their time to concentrate on what they hear, in a space and
conditions (ideally offered since 2012 by the Hellenic American Union) that
allow and encourage it.
It is each time a great
pleasure and a considerable honour to dream up –as a match-maker of sorts–
appropriate pairs of poets and invite them to present their poetic
‘self-portraits’. And it would seem that some of the matches have been a
pleasant, unexpected and fruitful surprise to poets and audience alike. In
addition, ‘mtlg’ has provided the ground and occasion, again both for poets and
audiences, to study anew, revisit and re-appraise Greek poets of the past,
along two directions. On the one hand, poets who may not have, in the current
discourse and readership, the prominence they deserve (such as Takis
Papatsonis, Eleni Vakalo, Zoe Karelli); and, on the other, well-known poets but
from a slanted viewpoint: Cavafy beyond the ‘canon’ of 154 poems; Karyotakis with,
rather than above, his contemporaries; or events where contemporary
poets render an homage to older poets through especially written poems
‘inspired by’ them; for example, by Andreas Kalvos or Nikos Engonopoulos.
The insistence that, for
our March “Poetry Month” events focused on American poets, poet-translators,
rather than (however excellent) translators who are not poets themselves,
produce and read –alongside the originals read by native speakers– fresh translations
(so far: of E. Dickinson, W.C. Williams, R. Frost, E. Pound, M. Moore, E.
Bishop, R. Duncan), is founded on the knowledge that poets are best placed to
understand the mechanism within each poem, and therefore more able to render it
into their own language. In addition, our other foreign poetry events that are
dedicated to translators’ self-portraits, and where poems are also read in the
original (again, to honour the importance of poetry’s sound-structure), have
showcased important work written in French, German, Italian, Polish, Russian,
Spanish, Swedish, as well as Ancient Greek, and English.
©Alecos Papadatos
I trust that all of the
above has rendered abundantly clear how much ‘mtlg’ is a communal project,
whose success relies on the contributions of a scrupulously selected but
continuously enriched circle of talented and hard-working poets. As for its
audience, this is further expanded through the publication of the translations
of American poetry and of other homages in the monthly “The Books’ Journal”.
You are also an
editorial board member of “FRMK”, a literary magazine aiming to
explore the poetic phenomenon in its entirety. What differentiates FRMK from
similar magazines?
When “FRMK”’s editor in
chief, Katerina Iliopoulou, invited me to join its founding editorial board, I
was only too happy to become a member of a fellowship of poets and translators
whose work I esteem. As K.I. has herself said on various occasions, “FRMK”’s
individuality arises firstly from its scope: Greek poets born from 1960
onwards, foreign poets from the latter half of the 20th c. to this day; also
theory and essays on art in general; and a thorough embracing of the visual
arts – and secondly from its editorial approach, based on committed group work.
The most spectacular, even for us who carried it out, evidence for, and result
of this approach was issue 11: to all intents and purposes an anthology of 41
Greek poets through poems that engage with the political (and not simply with
politics, current or otherwise, a slippery road to take, that seldom doesn’t
result in fatal accidents), preceded by a substantial introduction presenting
our principles, aims, methods, and overall view of the subject; and followed by
several artists’ and theorists’ views. Both the anthology and its introduction
were based on unanimous decisions: this obviously meant occasionally yielding
to each other’s particular predilections, always within the limits already set
by our mutual respect for each other’s very different work and outlook, coupled
with our common commitment to (I would almost be tempted to say militancy
for) the cause of poetry.
It is therefore a great
pleasure to see “FRMK”’s audience grow steadily, in both numbers (buying our
print issues and assisting at our various events) and loyalty – as well as to
see our journal recognised by the State Literary Awards for 2016.
In recent years,
there has been an extraordinary burgeoning of poetry in every form: graffiti,
blogs, literary magazines, readings in public squares, to mention just a few.
How is this strong civic awareness to be explained?
I agree that contemporary
Greek poetry is currently flourishing: the increasing number of good poems
published in journals is proof enough. However, I cannot entirely share this
question’s view. Please allow me to note (a little aphoristically, by necessity,
within the present compass) that not every text presented as poetry is
necessarily worthy of this name. Similarly, not every mode of presentation,
however ‘modern’, ‘innovative’, or “audience-friendly” it may appear, is suited
to the enjoyment and appreciation of poetry. Equally, I would greatly hesitate
to equate a burgeoning of any art with an increased “civic awareness”. Though
making art and civic behaviour obviously share vehicles (humans), occasionally
stances (ideas), and sometimes instruments (language), the relative weighting
of these stances and the specific use of these instruments are clearly distinct
and should be distinguished between the two fields. Using the aesthetic to
serve politics or, conversely, allowing politics to direct the aesthetic, not
only defeat the particular purposes and functions of art and politics alike,
but more often than not quite nullify any effect either of them may have
otherwise had. (A quick and easy indication of this statement’s truth appears
once we remind ourselves that both these distortions have always been the
hallmarks of absolutist regimes, regardless of hue.) I fear that these few
severe-sounding statements must suffice within the limited space of this
interview; my co-authors and I have treated this subject quite extensively in
our collective book of essays A conversation about poetry now (FRMK
Editions, 2018) as well as in the aforementioned introduction to issue 11 of
“FRMK”.
Ηοw
does poetry interweave with other artistic forms in the work of an increasing
number of writers in recent years?
Again, this is an area that
we have variously considered in A conversation about poetry now (FRMK
Editions, 2018). Very briefly, I would say that artistically successful
“interweavings” or collaborations between different arts (by the same or by
more than one artists) are rare – unless, of course, they result in, and obey a
new art form: the theatre, for example, or opera. The effort is nevertheless
both tempting and, as you imply, trendy. Success depends on the
breathing-together of the two art(ist)s, but ultimately requires the
subjugation, however slight, of one art by the other. We may recall that great
poetry has very rarely been set to music (at least to produce an important work
of ‘song’). Similarly, in, say, an installation comprising of both visual art
works and texts, it is the general physical, therefore primarily visual,
aspect of the work that will carry it – otherwise, the work flatly falls to the
state of a decorated reading room. There are however, it seems to me, two
fields sown with fewer landmines: poetry in performance, in essence a modified,
enriched, more variously inspired recitation; and poetry coupled to photography
(or cinema), thanks to the two arts sharing a number of internal processes, and
possibly also thanks to the apparently ‘mechanical’-‘objective’ aspect of the
visual elements appearing complementary to, rather than repetitive of, or
conflicting with the seemingly more ‘human’-‘subjective’ aspect of the spoken
or printed word.
Both covers and photograph
(left) by Yannis Isidorou; drawing (right) by Vaggelis Artemis
“I only
translate poetry which, at the time, I like so much that I am willing to accept a wager”. Tell us more.
Well, as I said above, my
criticism is always a labour of love. (I espouse Borges’ view that we should
not spend any effort on negative criticism: we should do our best to talk about
only works that we love and understand; perhaps the works that we don’t, will
be better presented by people who do.) The same holds true of my translations:
I only translate poems that I like – or, more often, love. From the
first-published –in 1995, poems by Seamus Heaney to celebrate his award of the
Nobel Prize– to everything that followed: substantial selections from Thom
Gunn’s and Robert Creeley’s oeuvre; Andrew Motion’s masterful “Independence”;
poems from David Harsent’s Night and Fire Songs and from A.E.
Stallings’ Olives; a.o..
Due to the oral / aural
dimension of poetry I have previously dwelt on, poems for me have a corporeality.
Consequently, I experience the love for a poem as a wholly bodily sensation:
not simply as intellectual enjoyment, but a much fuller one, where the senses
have their due part. Now, love of this sort, eros if you like, is
almost a hunger for assimilation, and may result in some kind of reproduction.
Therefore, when I set out to translate a poem, it is because of the desire to
assimilate it so completely within my linguistic self, that I might then be
able to reproduce it in another language. To put it more prosaically, the
“wager” consists of seeing whether the transposition to a new language can
result in a poem that is also worth loving. Thus, when translating (or, more
accurately, in the translations I end up publishing, since, inevitably, some
attempts will, sadly, have been abortive), I try to give the new body of the
poem, limbs of similar grace and moving in similar harmony to those of the
loved prototype. In less fantastical terms, while the exact reproduction of
line length, rhyme, alliteration and other ‘musical’ effects would be, if not
impossible, certainly detrimental to the translation (only twins, and then
rarely, can wear the exact same clothes and look good in them), it is
both possible and desirable to invent and produce their analogues in the new
language. (The same is also true of puns, for example, or idioms.)
But love operates in many
directions – and my love of some Greek poems conquered my hesitation at not
having been born and raised bilingual, when I accepted the kind invitation of
Kiriakos Spirou, founding curator of Und.Athens – which consists of an exquisitely
printed map of art spaces and a beautiful, constantly updated English-language
site on contemporary Greek visual arts– to curate Und.Poetry, a monthly series of poems
translated in English (usually by myself) and commented on, with the view of
appealing to an audience whose primary interest is in another art form.
How does the new
generation of writers relate to world literature? How does the
local/national interweave with the global?
All great Greek poets –I
believe, without exception– have been fluent in languages other than Greek, and
engaged with literatures other than the Greek one (this is probably true for
writers in every language). So, while it is imperative that writers should
study their own tradition (after all, language is a writer’s material and
instrument), it is also desirable, and welcome, that they should similarly
study other traditions and follow the work of their contemporaries in other
languages. This will be enriching at the very least; at best, it can prove
transformative: a literal cross-fertilisation. And it seems to be true that the
newer generations of Greek writers are generally quite conversant with other
linguistic environments. How and to what extent this will result in better
Greek writing, it would certainly be quite complicated, and is probably too
early to assess.
[published Sep 17, 2019 on Reading Greece]
