September 2, 2007

H.C. ten Berge & Lindsay Hill

Sunday September 2nd, 7:30 pm

New American Art Union
922 SE Ankeny

$5.00 suggested donation

H. C. ten Berge is a Dutch poet who has also published prose fiction,
essays, and translations. He was also the founder and sole editor of the
literary quarterly Raster (Grid) in the Netherlands. A selected poems
title The White Shaman appeared in English translation in 1991; his
translations of contemporary poets (including Pound, Tarn, Schwerner,
and Villaurrutia) culminated in the publication of On a Mat of Yellow
Feathers: Translations 1968-2003. His novel The Secret of a Cheerful
Mood won the Multatuli Prize, and in 1996 he was awarded the prestigious
Huygens Prize for his entire body of work. In 2006 he received the P. C.
Hooft Prize, the highest award for literature in the Netherlands.

Lindsay Hill was born in San Francisco and graduated from Bard College.
He is the author of five books of poems, including NdjenFerno (Vatic
Humm) and, most recently, Contango (Singing Horse). His poetry has been
widely published in journals including Caliban, Sulfur, To, and New
American Writing. He is the former co-editor of the journal Facture.
Lindsay lives in Portland and is a member of the Spare Room collective.

from Down Piazzolla Street

Often it's
the placing of objects
on a table
      someone wrote in a letter.
The milk bottle, a hairpin,
a rose in a vase
without water
refreshed by the hand of a girl.

How you begin
is a question
that matters each time anew
no end in sight, the path
you follow innate strategies,
conflicting bright ideas, supple
or unbending
and all contained by the rules of an enigmatic game.

   —H. C. ten Berge

from Comet

If you can't go to sleep wake me up.

A boy grew up beside a sea of hooks; and he learned to swim in that sea
and to notice th hooks as they rose and fell and twisted in the tides;
and he learned to feel his way; at first very slowly in the sea of
hooks; and he noticed that all around him people had hooks in their
skins and were being pulled in many directions; and many of the hooks
were small and hard to see; barely silver in the glinting light down
deep; barely visible and numerous; and some from the place of his birth
would not put a toe in that sea; and some lived their entire lives full
of hooks in the underneath.

   —Lindsay Hill