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Morton Marcus: Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, this is the Poetry Show and I'm Mort Marcus and the chanting you just heard, which is from village folk songs of Yugoslavia, really has a lot to do with a poet we're going to be reading

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actually tonight. And that is the great Yugoslav and really great 20th century poet Vasko Popa, who was one of the most unique poets, I think, probably ever in the history of Western literature, and I think you'll find out why. But a lot of his

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work really has to do with Yugoslavia and really Serbian and Bosnian folktales, riddles, jokes, and folk songs. So, let us realize that as we go into these poems, which I will just tell you, all of them have the the same focus or the same

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vision and that is looking at the world as a contest between people and a mindless universe, rational thinking people and the mindless universe. But the way Popa does this is that he makes into metaphors strange things. In one we may read tonight, he

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talks about pebbles, but the pebbles are really us. In another, he has a whole lot of very strange games, but we recognize when we pay close attention, that it is games we play, but games we play in dreams. And the first sequence

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I'm going to read to you is called, "The Yawn of Yawns." Now, these poems are in Serbo-Croat, but I will be reading them to you in English. And these are translations that I have done with the poet when he was over here, many, many

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years ago, 1969. And we also worked them over afterwards with Charlie Simic and one or two other people. But mostly, this is work that we did when Vasko was over here, and I hope you enjoy it. So I'm going to start with one which really talks

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about the nature of the universe, and the nature of words. And as you know, in Western culture, the word created the world and God said, "Let there be light," and there was light. Well, what happens when God disappears and we are

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left? And that really is sort of what this first group of poems, and Paul- and Vasko wrote poems that were in sequences. They just weren't single poems, but they were like seven or eight or twelve poems that were joined together. And this one is seven

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poems, and it is called "The Yawn of Yawns," and really it talks about our situation in the universe. We are both the number and we are what the star was that left us, and the star was you could- you can say is God, he is the Prophet, he is the

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poet. So: I. THE STAR WIZARD'S LEGACY THE YAWN OF YAWNS He left behind his words, lovelier than the world, no one

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dares look at them. They wait at the corners of time, bigger than people who can pronounce them. They lie on the dumb earth, heavier than life's bones, death could not carry them away as his dowry. No one can lift them, no one can strike them down,

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falling stars hide their heads in the shadows of his words. II. THE FORGETFUL NUMBER Once upon a time, there was a number, pure and round like the sun, but lonely, very lonely. It started to calculate with

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itself. It divided, multiplied, subtracted, and added itself, but remained always alone. It stopped calculating and shut itself up in its round sunlit purity. The glowing tracks of its calculations stayed outside, they began to chase each other

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in the dark to divide themselves while multiplying, to subtract themselves while adding, that's the way it goes in the dark, and there was no one there to ask it, to stop its tracks, or rub them out.

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And these are like all primordial elements, the primordial number, and here is the first mistake and it's called, "The Arrogant Mistake," because the world of course, is considered to have been perfect when it was created, but

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mistakes had to come into it because we are much flawed right now, so: [III.] THE ARROGANT MISTAKE Once upon a time, there was a mistake so absurd, so small,

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that no one would have noticed it. But it couldn't stand to see or hear itself. It thought up many things just to prove that it didn't really exist. It thought up space in which to exhibit the proof, time to guard the proof, and the world to see

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the proof. The things it thought up were neither as absurd nor as small as itself, but they were, of course, since it was a mistake, wrong. What else could they have been? VI. THE PRUDENT TRIANGLE

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Once upon a time, there was a triangle, it had three sides: the fourth it kept hidden in its burning center, by day it climbed its three peaks and admired its center, at night it rested in one of its three angles. Each dawn, it watched

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its three sides turn into three fiery wheels, and vanish into the blue of no return. It would take out its fourth side, kiss it, and break it three times, and hide it again in its old place. And again, it had only three sides. And again, it

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climbed each day to its three peaks, and admired its center, while at night, it rested in one of its angles. This is: [V.] THE ECHO TURNED TO STONE, ECHO TURNED TO STONE

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Once upon a time, there was an infinity of echoes They were slaves of one voice, built him arches, the arches tumbled down, they built him crooked, the dust covered them. They gave up the dangerous labor, became so hungry, they turned to stone.

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Now stone, they flew off to find and rip to pieces the lips from which the voice came. They flew no one knows how long, blind fools, they didn't see that they flew along the very border of the lips they were seeking.

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VI. THE STORY ABOUT A STORY Once upon a time, there was a story, it came to an end before its beginning and began after its end. Its heroes entered it after their death and left it before their birth. Its heroes

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spoke of an earth, of a heaven, they said all sorts of things, only they didn't say what even they didn't know that they are heroes in a story, in a story coming to an end before its beginning and beginning after its end.

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And finally: [VII.] IN THE SEQUENCE OF YAWN OF YAWNS Once upon a time there was a yawn, neither under the palate, nor under the hat, neither in the mouth nor in anything. It

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was bigger than everything, bigger than its own bigness. From time to time, its dull night, its hopeless night would glitter desperately here and there. You think there were stars. Once upon a time, there was a yawn boring as any yawn,

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and it still seems to go on. Well, that's the nature of the universe and this yawn that just goes on and on and on is that things, repetitions, just happen. The elements or people tried to break the endless

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cycles, but they can't. And sort of in a progression of this, here's another poem in -- I believe seven segments -- which is called, "Bone to Bone," and it's a dialogue between two bones after the body they were in has died. Now, where do you

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think this is going to go and what do you think is going to happen? To me this poem has -- and I told Popa this and he was delighted -- this poem has always seemed to me, a concise rendering of the famous play, "Waiting for Godot," where you

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have two characters of two totally different outlooks and personalities, who have a discussion with each other and reveal their attitudes. So one of these is a very up or positive bone, and the other is a very down or depressed bone.

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So here's the way it sounds, it's called again: BONE TO BONE, and it's in several sections and I'll read the beginning of each section. I. IN THE BEGINNING

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Now it's easy, we're saved from flesh. What do we do now? Say something. Like to be a lightning's backbone. Say some more. What shall I say? Like to be hurricane's hipbone. Say something else. That's all I know. Heaven's ribs? We're

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nobody's bones. Say something else. II. AFTER THE BEGINNING What shall we do now? That's a good question. Now, we'll have marrow for supper. We had marrow for lunch, there's a hollow

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feeling inside me. Then we'll make music. We like music. What will we do if the dogs come? They like bones. We'll stick in their throats and have some fun. III. IN THE SUN

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How wonderful, sunbathing naked, I never cared much for flesh. Me neither, those shreds didn't fool me. Hey, I'm crazy about you so naked. Don't let the sun caress you, let's caress each other. But please, not here in the sun. Here, all can see us,

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dear bony. IV. UNDERGROUND Muscle of darkness, muscle of flesh, they come to the same thing. Well, what should we do now? We'll invite all the bones

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from all times, we'll bake in the sun. What shall we do then? Then we'll grow pure, go on growing, just as we please. What shall we do after that? Nothing. We'll wander here and there, we'll be eternal bone beings. Well then, let's just wait for

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the earth to yawn. V. IN THE MOONLIGHT What's that? It's as if some snowy flesh were clinging to me. I don't know what it is. It's as if marrow were running through

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me, cold marrow. I don't know either. It's as if everything were beginning again with a more horrible beginning. Let me ask you something, do you know how to bark? VI. BEFORE THE END

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Where shall we go now? Where should we go? Nowhere. Where else would two bones go? What will we do there? There, waiting for us a long time, they are eagerly expecting us, are No-one and his wife, Nothing. What good are we to them? They are old.

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They are without bones, we'll be like daughters to them. VII. THE END I am a bone. You are a bone. Why have you swallowed me? I can't see myself anymore. What's wrong with you? It's you who swallowed

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me, I can't see myself either. Where am I now? Now, no one knows anymore. Who is where or who is who, all is an ugly dream of dust. Can you hear me? I can hear both you and me. There are- there's the spur of a rooster's leg crowing out of us. And of

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course, the dead bones, delighted to be, nobody's bones, although, seeking meaning in the end, yet reborn as the cycles of life continue. And that leads me to one of Popa's most popular sequences,

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long sequence of twelve poems, and it's called, "Games." And it really is, you could say, the games people play, though the people here are strange people. What happens in Popa's poems is that you have partial people, you have heads doing things, you

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have hands doing things, but they don't belong a lot of times to people. Or you have stones doing things, or you have numbers doing things, numbers, which let's say, act very much like human beings. So now, let me go into this poem, "Games,"

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as we progress from the creation of the world in the, "Yawn of Yawns," then the cycle of life really stripped down to its bareness with the two bones talking, and now finally: GAMES

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And here is number one, and it's I. BEFORE PLAYING THE GAME One shuts an eye, looks into every corner of himself to see there are no spikes, no robbers, no cuckoo's eggs. He shuts the

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other eye too, crouches and springs, springs high, high, high to the top of himself. From there, he lets himself fall. For days he falls deep, deep, deep, to the bottom of his abyss. The one not smashed to pieces, the one who remains whole and gets

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up whole, he's the one who plays. II. THE GAME OF THE FLOOR NAIL One is the nail, another is pliers, the rest are workmen. The pliers grab the nail by the head, with their teeth, their

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arms, they grab it, and keep pulling and pulling, pulling it out of the floor, usually they just wring its head off. It's hard pulling a nail out of the floor. Then the workmen say, "These pliers are lousy," they crush their jaws, break their

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arms, and throw them out the window. Then someone else is a floor nail, another is pliers, the rest are workmen. III. HIDE AND SEEK Somebody hides from somebody else. He hides under the other's

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tongue, the other seeks him on the ground. He hides on the other's forehead, the other seeks him in heaven. He hides in the other's oblivion, the other seeks him in the grass, seeks him and seeks him, seeks him in all sorts of places, and in

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seeking him, loses himself. Now I want to stop here for a moment because there's an interesting thing going on in this poem, which goes on in all Popa poems, and that is, you start a metaphor and you let the

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logic of the metaphor rule you. And there is -- and I think this is really the strength in Popa's poetry -- besides the way the childlike and very simple language he writes these poems and the amazing imagination of metaphors. There is a logic

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here. For example, somebody hides from somebody else, he hides under the other's tongue, so where would the other seek him? He would seek him underground, then if he hides in the other's forehead, the other seeks him in heaven, okay? So

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there's this progression, there's a logic that's going on to all these poems that sort of sucks you in and begins to make you imagine the world that they come from. Here's: [IV.] THE SEDUCER

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Someone caresses the leg of a chair until the chair moves and motions him sweetly with her leg. Another kisses a keyhole, keeps kissing it and how, until the keyhole returns the kiss. A third one stands aside, stares at the two, keeps shaking his

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head till his head falls off. Here's one of my favorites of the games, it's called: [V.] WEDDING Each one takes off his skin, exposes his galaxy underneath,

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which has never seen the night. Each one fills his skin with rocks, starts dancing with it, by the light of his own stars. The one who doesn't stop till dawn, the one who doesn't bat an eyelid or drop, he's the one who earns his skin. This game is

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rarely played. VI. THE ROSE THORNS Someone be a rosebush, several be the wind's daughters, others, the rose thieves. The rose thieves sneak up on the

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rosebush, one of them steals a rose, hides it in his heart. The wind's daughters appear, see the plundered rosebush and catch the rose thieves. They open the thieves' chests, one by one, in some they find hearts, in others, so help me, nothing.

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They continue opening the thieves' chests until they discover the right heart, and in that heart, the stolen rose. And right in the middle of the poem is a poem called: [VII.] BETWEEN GAMES

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Nobody's resting, one is rearranging his eyes all the time, he places them on his back and without wanting to, looks backwards. He places them on the soles of his feet and without wanting to, returns walking on his head. Another is turned into

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an ear and heard all that cannot be heard. But he gets sick and tired of it and longs to become himself again, but without eyes, he doesn't see how. Another has uncovered all the faces and throws them each in turn over the roof. The last one he throws

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under his feet and buries his head in his hands. Another has stretched his view of things, stretched it from thumb to thumb and walks back and forth along its length. Slowly at first, then fast, then faster and faster. Another plays with his

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head, tosses it in the air, and catches it on his index finger, or doesn't catch it at all. Nobody's resting. [VIII.] CHASE Those on one side bite off the arm or leg or anything, hold it

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in their teeth, run as fast as they can, bury it in the ground. The others chase all around sniffing, seeking, sniffing, seeking, dig up all the ground. If they're lucky enough to find their arm, or leg or anything, it's their turn to bite. The

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game goes on briskly while there are arms, while there are legs, while there is anything. The ninth poem of games: [IX.] SEED

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Someone plants someone else. Plants him in his own head, stamps the soil hard, waits for the seed to sprout. The seed hollows out in his head, turns it into a mousehole- [let me read that again] the seed hollows out his head, turns it

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into a mousehole, the mice eat the seed, they drop dead on the spot. The wind moves into the empty head and gives birth to brightly colored breezes. And ten is:

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[X.] THE GAME OF LEAPFROG Two are stones on each other's hearts, stones like houses, neither can budge under his stone. And both struggle, at least to lift a finger, at least to click their tongue, at least

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to move their ears or at least to blink. Neither can budge under his stone, and both struggle and exhaust themselves and fall asleep from exhaustion, and only in sleep can their hair stand up. This game lasts a long time.

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Somebody comes in without knocking- This is called: [XI.] HUNTER Someone comes in without knocking, enters another's ear

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and goes out the other end, enters with a step of a matchstick, with a step of a lit matchstick, circles the head from inside. He's made it. Somebody comes in without knocking, enters another's ear and does not go out the other

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year. He's roasted. ASHES, and the word, 'nights,' here is not K-N-I-G-H-T but you know, 'night' from day. [XII.] ASHES

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Summer nights, other stars. Each night sets fire to its star and dances a black dance around it until the star burns out. And the nights split up, some become stars, the others remain nights. Again, each night sets fire to its star and dances a black

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dance around it until the star burns out. The last night becomes both star and night, it sets fire to itself, dances the black dance around itself. And:

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[XIII.] AFTER THE GAME Finally, the hands clutch the belly so the belly won't burst from laughing, but there is no belly there. One hand can hardly rise to wipe the cold sweat from the forehead, there is no

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forehead either. The other hand reaches for the heart so the heart won't jump out of the chest, there is no heart either. Both hands fall, they fall idly into the lap, there is no lap either. On one hand, now, the rain is falling, out of the

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other grass grows. What more can I say? Paul Couture: Well, you're listening to KUSP Santa Cruz, Central Coast Public Radio. This is the Poetry Show. This program is sponsored in part by our community of contributing

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listeners. To become a contributing listener, visit KUSP.org. Coming up tonight at nine, KUSP presents "From the Bookshelf," hosted by Gary Shapiro. Each week Gary presents a spoken word program with stories, authors, and special

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guests. Tonight at nine it will be author Diana Spechler, reading her prize winning story, "Inheritance." It's a moving story of a girl with scars inside and out, that's tonight at nine following the Poetry Show. And for information about

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other upcoming programs on KUSP, you can go to the website, KUSP.org and click on this week on KUSP for more information. Now back to the Poetry Show. Morton Marcus: And we are going to take a musical break with

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more Yugoslav music. [Recorded music playing]: Morton Marcus: That was more Yugoslav music to go along with the poetry tonight of Vasko Popa, which I will continue to

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read. And as I said, right now anyway, I am reading the translations that I did with the poet, way back in 1969, and then polished up with Charlie Simic, and this is the result. I'm now going to read a poem called, "The White Pebble." And the way

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to understand this one is the metaphor of the pebble, obviously, is the human being trying to find some stability in the universe, and as you can see, really does not have much of a chance. And as in the poem, "TheYawn of Yawns," which talks

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about eternal boredom, which has nothing to do with us, but it's like the universe itself is just bored with itself. And the games that supposedly people play and again, that last poem in, "Games," in which the body just completely disintegrates, and

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there's no head, there's no hands, there isn't anything, so there is hands only. And then finally, the poet just says, look, there are just two hands; on one, there's rain, on the other, the grass grows, you know, what more can I say?

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Because that really is, in the end, what life is all about, a very existential view of things, and so is, "The White Pebble," which is also called, "A Quartz Pebble," but I have named it, "The White Pebble," because white has so much to do with the

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actual imagery of the poem, as you'll see. "One: White Pebble-" and again, these poems are in sequences. They are sequences, usually of seven to twelve parts, so: I. THE WHITE PEBBLE

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Without a head, without limbs, it emerges from the excited pulse of chance of the moon. II. THE HEART OF THE WHITE PEBBLE They played with a pebble, the pebble like any pebble played

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with them, as though it had no heart. They got mad at the pebble, broke it in the grass, startled they saw its heart. They opened the pebble's heart, in the heart a snake, a sleeping spool without dreams. They roused the snake, the snake

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leaped up, they ran far away. They watched from afar, the snake coiled itself around the horizon, it ate the horizon like an egg. They came back to the place of the game, no serpent, no grass, no pieces of pebble, no trace of anything. Far and

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wide, they exchanged looks and grinned, they winked at each other. [Commentary] Now, that's a very interesting poem because you probably heard resonances in there of Adam and Eve, Adam and

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Eve being driven out of the garden into a world that is really all desert. And of course, the snake imagery then is very apropos because it is the snake that frightens them, but it is the snake that sort of takes over the world as what is

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called The Worm of the Ouroboros but here, of course has direct Judeo-Christian references. Let me read that poem again, it's to show you how it works. It's the second part of the "White Pebble," it's called:

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THE HEART OF THE WHITE PEBBLE They played with a pebble. [Commentary] The 'they' in this case, let's say is, Adam and Eve, if you want to take that interpretation. Obviously,

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things are very open-ended with these poems. They played with a pebble, the pebble, like any pebble, played with them as though it had no heart. They got mad at the pebble, broke it in the grass, startled they saw its heart.

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They opened the pebble's heart, in the heart a snake, a sleeping spool without dreams. They roused the snake. The snake leaped up. They ran far away. They watched from afar. The snake coiled itself around the horizon, it ate the horizon like

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an egg. They came back to the place of the game, no serpent, no grass, no pieces of pebble, no trace of anything far and wide. They exchange looks and grin, they winked at each other. And, again, you notice that there is no trace of anything in

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the end, that once the original purpose of the world has been destroyed, or is no longer present, then we have no sense of what is expected of us, no sense of what the world is all about. But here the two people seem rather happy, if they are

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Adam and Eve, because at least they have their freedom. III. THE DREAM OF THE WHITE PEBBLE A hand rose out of the earth, threw the pebble in the air. Where is the pebble? It didn't return to Earth, it didn't reach

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the sky. What happened to the pedal- pebble? Did the heights devour it? Did it change into a bird? What happened to the pebble? Did the heights devour it? Did it change into a bird? Here's the pebble. It remains stubbornly inside itself,

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neither on earth nor in heaven. It obeys only itself, a world among other worlds. IV. THE WHITE PEBBLE'S LOVE The white pebble fell for beautiful, round, blue-eyed,

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frivolous eternity. It has changed into the white of her eye, only she understands it, only her embrace has the shape of its desire, dumb and endless. It has captured all her shadows in itself. Blindly in love, it sees no other beauty except the

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one it loves, who will cost it its life. You know in existential philosophy, no matter how -- and this is the absurd situation as defined by Albert Camus, no matter how we reason or try to understand the universe, we

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never find anything. And the world just keeps going on, it has nothing to do with us. It just, you know, just keeps moving forward, or if you don't want to get into forward or backwards, it just keeps being no matter what we do, and in the

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end, will kill us because we are here, we are born and then we will die. Okay, number five of the "White Pebble." V. THE ADVENTURE OF THE WHITE PEBBLE Fed up with the circle, the perfect circle around it, the

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white pebble stopped short. Its burden is heavy, the burden inside it. It drops it. The stone was hard, the stone it was made of which it left behind. It was cramped where it lived, in its own body, it stepped out of it. It has hidden from itself,

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hidden in its own shadow. VI. THE SECRET OF THE WHITE PEBBLE The white pebble filled itself with itself, gorged itself on its hard flesh. Is it ill? Ask it, don't be afraid, it doesn't

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beg for bread. It is petrified in an ecstatic cramp. Is the pebble pregnant? Will it give birth to a stone? A beast, a streak of lightning? Ask it as much as you'd like. Don't expect an answer though. Expect only a lump on the head or a second

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nose, a third eye, or who knows what. VII. They stare at each other daily, two pebbles looking at one another. Two candies yesterday on the tongue of eternity. Two

00:39:20.320 - 00:39:48.280

stone tears today on the island of the unknown. Two fleas of sand tomorrow in the ears of deafness. Two happy dimples tomorrow in the cheeks of daylight. Two victims, two little jokes, silly jokes, without a joker. They stare at

00:39:48.280 - 00:40:23.770

each other, with their cold asses they stare, they speak out of their bellies into the wind. Here's a most curious sequence by Popa called, "The Little Box." And it goes like this- and again, this is about trying to

00:40:23.770 - 00:40:39.910

put the universe in a box, you know, it almost goes with that popular cliche, you know, let's put it in a box, let's get everything boxed, let's just put every solution into the box, don't leave anything out, and it's really sort of like a

00:40:39.910 - 00:40:54.850

control metaphor, which of course, the universe is much bigger than a box, much bigger than to be controlled, however, here we go. I. THE LITTLE BOX

00:40:55.530 - 00:41:14.970

The little box gets its first teeth, and its little length, little width, little emptiness. It has all the rest. The little box continues growing, the cupboard is inside it that it was inside before, and it grows bigger, bigger, bigger, now the

00:41:14.970 - 00:41:34.410

room is inside it, and the house, and the city, and the earth, and the world it was inside before. The little box remembers its childhood and by a great, great longing, it becomes a little box again. Now in the little box, you have the whole

00:41:34.410 - 00:42:01.050

world in miniature. You can easily put it in a pocket, easily steal it, easily lose it. Take care of the little box. II. THE CRAFTSMAN OF THE LITTLE BOX Why do you stare at the little box, which in its own emptiness

00:41:56.890 - 00:42:09.640

Don't open the little box, the cap of heaven will fall out of it. Don't close it for any reason, it will bite the trouser holds the entire world? If the little box holds the world and leg of eternity. Don't drop it on the earth, the sun's eggs

00:42:05.610 - 00:42:21.280

its emptiness, then the anti-world holds the little box in its anti-hand. Who will bite off the anti-world's anti-hand will break inside it. Don't throw it in the air, the earth's bones will break inside it. Don't hold it in your hands, the

00:42:15.660 - 00:42:30.360

ith its five hundred anti-fin ers? Do you believe you can bit it off with your thirty-tw teeth? Are you waiting for t dough of the stars will go sour inside it. What are you doing, e little box to fly into your mo th by itself? Is this wh

00:42:27.190 - 00:42:47.390

for God's sakes? Don't let it out of your sight. [III.] THE TENANTS OF THE LITTLE BOX Toss a stone into the little box, you'll take out a bird. Toss in your shadow, you'll take out the shirt of happiness. Toss

00:42:47.390 - 00:43:05.750

in your father's route(?), you'll take out the axle of the universe. The little box works for you. Toss a mouse into the little box, you'll take out a shaking hill. Toss in your mother of pearl, you'll take out the chalice of eternal life.

00:43:06.320 - 00:43:22.680

Toss in your head, you'll take out two heads. The little box works for you. [IV.] THE ENEMIES OF THE LITTLE BOX Don't bow down to the little box which supposedly contains

00:43:22.680 - 00:43:40.320

everything, your star and all other stars. Empty yourself in its emptiness, take all the nails out of it and give them to its owners to eat. Make a hole in its middle and stick in your clapper. Fill it with blueprints and the skin of its craftsman

00:43:40.470 - 00:44:01.650

and stomp on it with your feet. Tie it to the cat's tail and chase the cat. Don't bow down to the little box, if you do, you'll never straighten up again. V. THE VICTIMS OF THE LITTLE BOX

00:44:02.950 - 00:44:19.510

Not even in a dream should you have any business with a little box. If you see it full of stars, you'll wake up without heart or soul in your chest. If you slide your tongue into its keyhole, you'll wake up with a hole in your forehead. If you

00:44:19.510 - 00:44:38.650

break it into pieces between your teeth, you'll get up with a square head. If you ever see it empty, you'll wake up with a belly full of mice and nails. If you ever have business in a dream with a little box, you better not wake up.

00:44:42.850 - 00:45:39.900

VII. THE JUDGES OF THE LITTLE BOX [VIII.] THE PRISONERS OF THE LITTLE BOX Open the little box. We kiss your bottom, your cover, your keyhole, and key. The entire world lies crumbled inside you,

00:45:40.020 - 00:46:05.040

it resembles everything except itself. Not even Mother Serenity would recognize it anymore. Rust will eat your key, our world and us there inside you, and finally you too. We kiss your four sides, and four corners, and twenty-four nails and anything

00:46:05.040 - 00:46:23.040

else you have. Open, little box. [IX.] THE LAST NEWS OF THE LITTLE BOX The little box which contains the world fell in love with itself and gave birth to another little box inside it. The little

00:46:23.040 - 00:46:42.060

box of the little box also fell in love with itself and gave birth to yet another little box inside it, and so it goes forever. How the world in the first little box should reveal itself in the last box, to be born of all the little boxes,

00:46:42.840 - 00:47:08.240

but none of the little boxes inside the little box in love with itself, it's the last one. Let's see you find the world now. And I will read now from my memoirs of Vasco Popa's visit

00:47:09.860 - 00:47:22.790

and you'll get some sense of the man. In the fall of 1969, Charlie Simic phoned me from the East Coast. George Hitchcock had put out Simic's first book, "What the Grass Says," in 1967 and released a second, "Somewhere

00:47:22.820 - 00:47:44.000

Among Us, A Stone Is Taking Notes," a month before the phone call. Now he was calling to inform me that Vasko Popa had been invited to an international poetry symposium to be held in Washington DC the following spring. The State Department had

00:47:44.000 - 00:47:58.850

asked Charlie to be Popa's host on the East Coast and he -- knowing I had dedicated my first book to Popa, and that a long article comparing my poetry and Popa's had been published in the leading literary journal in Yugoslavia -- he, Charlie, had

00:47:58.850 - 00:48:13.400

suggested me as Popa's host on the West Coast. Was I interested? For the next few months we planned and arranged the tour. After Washington, Popa would have several readings on the East Coast, in the South an at the now, at the n

00:48:13.400 - 00:48:29.720

w international translati n center Paul Engle had set up t the University of Iowa. I wou d pick Popa up in San Francisc , have him read at Cabrillo, a d through my connections wi h Czeslaw Milosz at UC Berkeley would provide him with a readin

00:48:29.720 - 00:48:45.050

at the University of Californi at Berkeley, sponsored by th Slavic languages department Milosz, who had never met Popa was excited at the prospect o meeting him and said he woul host a large party at his hous after the reading. The wee

00:48:45.050 - 00:48:58.010

before Popa was to arrive on th West Coast, Charlie called m with last minute instructions The tour had gone well on th East Coast and Popa's appearanc at the poetry festival i Washington had been a bi success, but Charlie wanted t

00:48:58.010 - 00:49:14.090

warn me about two things: th first was not to talk abou anything politically touch subject with Popa since th State Department interpreter who was accompanying him, seeme to be trying to bait Popa int making anti-Tito's comments, o

00:49:14.090 - 00:49:35.330

so Popa thought, and second an most important, I was to tel Popa I preferred red wine ove white, and make sure I had good supply of red wine on hand preferably Pinot Noir. What' that about? I asked. Vasko' first impressions of a perso

00:49:35.330 - 00:49:53.120

are all important, Charlie said and he's decided that people wh drink red wine exhibi preferences that show them to b people he can trust. Anythin else? Yes, the State Departmen is worried about security. The know Watsonville is populated b

00:49:53.120 - 00:50:18.910

Croats and Popa is not only communist, he's a Serb. Well not to worry, Charlie, but I'l keep my eyes open, I replied I met Popa at the San Francisco Airport on a raw, gray day in early spring. He was a big shambling man, over six foot

00:50:18.910 - 00:50:36.970

four inches tall, with jet black hair and sad black eyes. The pain I thought I detected in those eyes was accentuated by the pronounced bags under them. He was wearing a loose fitting, extremely lightweight brown suit and no top coat. The interpreter

00:50:36.970 - 00:50:56.500

introduced us and Popa, staring into my eyes, gripped both my arms and greeted me with a short stream of words in Serbo-Croat, searching my face for the answer. "Mr. Popa ask, Do you like white wine or red wine?" "Tell him, redwine," I answered

00:50:56.740 - 00:51:12.520

in the same somber tone in which the question had been asked. When Popa heard my answer, he broke into a smile and hugged me to him. "Good, good," he said. Popa walked on and on with me to the baggage area, making faces and rolling his eyes at the

00:51:12.520 - 00:51:26.110

interpreter who was walking ahea of us. I nodded that understood the situation and h was relieved. Vasko spoke only few words of English and wa unhappy that I did not spea French, but we overcame th language barrier in ingeniou

00:51:26.110 - 00:51:40.600

ways in the days to come an could communicate wit difficulty on the walks in th woods we took without th interpreter's presence. After picked up their suitcases, drove down the coast to Sant Cruz. "Popa," the interprete

00:51:40.600 - 00:51:57.430

said, "wanted to see the Pacifi Ocean," which was fine with m since I had planned to show hi the ocean on the drive south t Santa Cruz anyway. As we drov down the winding coast, Pop became more and more excite , expostulating wildly. "Mr. Po

00:51:57.610 - 00:52:13.720

a requests we stop near ocean," he interpreter said. I had been lanning that too, and when we approached one of my favorite beaches, a tidy expanse of sand surrounded by low, worn-down bluffs, I pulled in. "Tell hi this has Bean Hollow Beac

00:52:13.750 - 00:52:29.410

, called Frijoles Beach n Spanish." Popa repeated he Spanish aloud after he interpreter had explained wha I had said. I parked on a sm ll rise over the beach and we pi ed out of my Volkswagen. he weather was still gray and r

00:52:29.620 - 00:52:44.800

w. Popa ran ahead of us, his br wn suit billowing in the sea wi d, sprinting from one patch of w ld plant life to another, snatch ng a handful of succulents here nd scooping up wild flowers th re until he had an armload of flora. Then he marched into

00:52:44.800 - 00:53:04.210

he freezing ocean up to his thi hs and casting his bouquet into he water onto the water proclaim d, said the interpreter, a greet ng to the Pacific Ocean on beh lf of the Yugoslav people. We finished our ride with Pop 's teeth chattering, and the h

00:53:04.240 - 00:53:22.810

st and the heat in the car on hi h. If Popa was flamboyant, he as no clown. He was a hig ly emotional man who also had he canniness of a showman ab ut him. Nevertheless, he wo ld continually withdraw int a dark, if not painful, inter

00:53:23.020 - 00:53:38.290

or throughout the week, even in he middle of the parties nd gatherings of the many peo le who wanted to meet him. We managed to find half a do en people who spoke French, and so we could communicate without he help, and more important,

00:53:38.290 - 00:53:54.460

he presence of the interpreter ho was clearly getting on Pop 's nerves. They had trave ed throughout the country togeth r, and Popa believed the man wa a CIA operative who was constan ly baiting him, as Charlie ad said, into making anti-T

00:53:54.460 - 00:54:08.800

to statements. Popa and he interpreter stayed in separ te rooms in a downtown motel, nd every morning I would pick t em up and take them to my house in the mountains after we ad breakfast. Popa was most rela ed in the mountains playing with

00:54:08.800 - 00:54:24.010

my little daughter Jana, mak ng faces at my littlest daught r, Valerie, and dancing around w th both of them. He was charm ng and a natural ladies man ho flattered and fawned over my ife, but even then he w uld withdraw, it seemed to me,

00:54:24.010 - 00:54:38.890

nto a dark place full of ghosts and sufferings. Most of the mornings, we would work with the interpreter on the poems opa would read at Cabrillo and the University of Californi at Berkeley. He had brought ith him Charlie's translation

00:54:38.890 - 00:54:54.790

of several sequences and sev ral loose poems translate by Professor Nita Bauer who I'd worked with in San Franci co- when I lived in San Franc sco and had done my own vers ons from Anne Penningt n's translations that had appe

00:54:54.790 - 00:55:08.830

red in a Penguin book of Po a's poems the year before. With all these different versions i front of us and with th interpreters help, we made ne composite translations which w read at both places. Th interpreter knew next to nothin

00:55:08.830 - 00:55:23.380

about poetry, his tr nslations were accurate but li eral and didn't take into ac ount the metaphorical ri hness and implications that ar bounded from poem to poem wh ch I, by amazement, intuited in line after line. [u

00:55:24.670 - 00:55:39.400

intelligible] the afternoon's po t- Popa and I spent in co versation through his in erpreter and the French sp akers I found. We talked ab ut Europe, the war, his in luence on my poetry, and what we were both working on at pr

00:55:39.400 - 00:55:56.470

sent. He spoke of his wife, a ma hematics professor in Be grade who he missed more with ea h passing day. Certainly part of his brooding silences, I fe t, had to do with simple ho esickness. I took Popa to va ious restaurants, introduced hi

00:55:56.470 - 00:56:10.630

to colleagues, and had him at end classes where the st dents looked at him as if he we e a strange species of human or creature from the zoo, mainly be ause he spoke no English, and wh n he spoke, the sound of Se bo-Croatian struck their ears as

00:56:10.630 - 00:56:23.980

a jumble of sounds they had ne er heard before. But Popa's wa mth and friendly smile won th m over. They knew they were in the presence of an in ernational celebrity and li tened intently and co rteously to anything he said be

00:56:24.130 - 00:56:41.350

ore the translator, before th interpreter translated his wo ds. After each class or ga hering of colleagues, we wo ld retire to a restaurant or ba where Popa would drink co ious amounts of red wine and sy c it to a dreamy silence. I go

00:56:41.350 - 00:56:58.780

the impression after a while th t he was performing when he me people, and after the me tings were over, he would wi hdraw in exhaustion, his eyes fl oded with inner pain. I don't me n to romanticize Popa's di traction, distracted with- w

00:56:59.080 - 00:57:13.210

thdrawals, but I wasn't i agining them. Many times he s ruggled to talk to me, it eemed, on a personal level, but the language barrier was too great. Then again, the inner pain I thought I detected in him could have been physical, since

00:57:13.210 - 00:57:30.370

he had three ulcers that he thought he was controlling by drinking his daily quota of red wine. White wine, he thought, exacerbated his condition. On the other hand, red wine, he said, bound the ulcers together like a healing potion. Whatever

00:57:30.370 - 00:57:53.490

the nature of the pain, I saw him many times gnashing his eeth. [Commentary] Three days after his arrival, we read at Cabrillo and I'm going to skip to- well, maybe I'm not. I'm just going to

00:57:53.640 - 00:58:28.380

skip to the showdown with the interpreter. Doo doo doo doo- okay, now just looking for it. Okay, well, anyway, we go off to a restaurant and the manager who's a student of mine kept it open and stocked in a lot of wine and we're there with

00:58:28.530 - 00:58:41.400

various people: Maybe I had seen too many spy films so Popa's paranoia was taking hold of me. but the interpret's behavior was clearly insinuating and if nothing else, disturbing. The group at the

00:58:41.400 - 00:58:54.930

restaurant after the reading included a French professor from the university, an attractive woman, smartly dressed with neatly coiffed straight brown hair that hugged her head in a short haircut. She and Popa flirted harmlessly, and kept up

00:58:54.930 - 00:59:08.700

a running dialogue in French, which he broke off every few minutes to explain in English to the rest of us at the table. The wine continued to appear, served by one of my students who was the restaurant's night manager and was keeping the bar open

00:59:08.700 - 00:59:22.620

just for us. It was a good restaurant, it's wine list excellent, and Popa was enjoying it's fine selection of different California Pinot Noirs, every so often turning to the interpreter who was muttering to him. Although he consumed large

00:59:22.620 - 00:59:36.690

amounts of wine each day, Popa rarely seemed drunk, but the excitement of the reading and the letdown after it seemed to weaken his constitution and he was soon inebriated smiling too broadly. He was also getting more and more annoyed at the

00:59:36.690 - 00:59:51.240

interpreter's mutterings, and suddenly he leaped to his feet, reaching into his back pocket and taking a card from his wallet, he slapped it down on the table, yelling several sentences in Serbo-Croat. The interpreter slunked back in his

00:59:51.240 - 01:00:08.310

chair, his face white, then slowly turned crimson. Still standing, Popa turned to the French professor and said something in French with great vehemence, which she immediately interpreted for us. "Vasko said he had just enough. Vasko said

01:00:08.310 - 01:00:24.780

he had had enough of this wheedling interpreter and had thrown his Communist Party card on the table, telling him to look at it, that he would always be a communist because the card is signed in blood." Popa sat down and, in an intense but

01:00:24.780 - 01:00:39.210

deliberate voice, explained through the French professor, that in the first years of World War II, he had been rounded up with other young Serbs and sent to a concentration camp. Realizing they might well be executed, the entire camp had

01:00:39.210 - 01:00:55.200

rushed the wire and had escaped, scattering to different parts of Yugoslavia. Popa, as most of the others, went to the mountains and joined Tito, fighting for the partisans until the end of the war. We sat without speaking at the conclusion of his words,

01:00:55.560 - 01:01:12.920

but I thought I had an inkling about at least some of the reasons for Popa's distracted silences. As for the interpreter, his wheedling ways ended abruptly that evening. This is Mort Marcus saying thank you, I'll see you in a month.

01:01:41.400 - 01:01:54.930

Gary Shapiro: The following portion of programming here on KUSP contains language which may offend some listeners. If you're sensitive to that kind of talk, we suggest you tune out for the next thirty minutes or so.

01:02:13.950 - 01:02:32.880

Gary Shapiro: This is Central Coast Public Radio, KUSP Santa Cruz, and KBDH San Ardo, or on the web at KUSP.org. I'm Gary Shapiro, welcome to From the Bookshelf. I'm very excited tonight to have as my guest, Diana Spechler. She is a

01:02:32.880 - 01:02:52.020

fabulous writer and she is a Steinbeck Fellow at San Jose State. She's been published in the Crab Orchard Review, the Greensborough Review, Moment, Lilith, and lots of other places. She was the recent recipient of the Chris O'Malley

01:02:52.020 - 01:03:06.540

Fiction Prize and the Jerry Jazz Musician short story prize, and I believe, if I'm not mistaken, that she's going to be reading the story from that prize winning effort tonight. Diana, welcome to the show.

01:03:06.560 - 01:03:11.450

Diana Spechler: Thank you. Gary Shapiro: Glad you're here. What's the name of the story you're going to read? Diana Spechler: It's called, "Inheritance."

01:03:12.170 - 01:03:13.580

Gary Shapiro: Excellent. Well, take it away.