It’s about that time again. Time to reiterate for all you stragglers who may not have gotten it an explanation for the existence of whatever exactly is going on here. Spring is here and spring is a time of renewal. That’s what the old man always said.
In a way that disclaimer ‘It’s Not About The Dogs’ isn’t true. It is about the dogs, but the dogs in the poem, the samoyed dogs that were, or are, “climbing up” onto that ship in English Bay sometime about 1912. The dogs in Blaise Cendrars’ poem “Vancouver”. Right? Were they real?
It doesn’t matter if the whole thing was fiction. That the poet, Blaise Cendrars, the Frenchman, just imagined it. Just imagined those “shape-shifting Samoyeds” as Mr. Colin Browne so eloquently put in in his introduction to a section in issue 3.23 / Spring 2014 of The Capilano Review devoted to Monsieur Cendrars, and whether or not he was ever actually in Vancouver. Mr. Browne subsequently challenged me to a duel, but I just don’t have any time for that right now.
For back information on this controversy you may want to look into the archives August 2014. Archives. Imagine.
“We bump against the dark bulk of the ship and on the Starboard quarter Samoyed dogs are climbing up Flaxen in the gray-white-yellow As if fog was being taken in freight”
There ain’t but one way to explain things and this here is it. It’s 1912. The dogs. Climbing up. Grimpent des chiens samoyèdes. Cool. Yes? No? As if fog was being taken in freight? Fog? As freight? Anybody? Dogs? Woof?
So that was it. The creative idea. The confusing, perhaps a little, perhaps not, self-indulgent reason why this thing is called samoyeddogs and isn’t about the dogs.
Those creepy, cuddly, fluffy, white, dog hair-bearing quadrupeds that you can read about anywhere but here. That’s them. Altogether now: “Samoyeddogs are climbing up, climbing up…”
Don’t you love titles like that? Nobody knows what you’re talking about and there’s too many words. Let’s just move on. But I had this urge, you see, for reasons that will quickly be explained, to come again after many a day to the Capilano Review, to acquire the most recent issue of this venerable and usually quite interesting, high-concept, well edited and, hopefully, well-funded publication that should always do well.
I was intrigued recently when, I can’t remember just how, I learned that the Capilano Review was publishing a story on French writers of the early 20th Century who had mentioned “Vancouver”, the city, in their writings. You know, in their stuff. In their writings.
I knew about Blaise Cendrars because he’s one of the reasons this blog exists. Of course it exists. He wrote a poem called “Vancouver”. He wrote it when Vancouver was, like, young. Cendrars too. I didn’t know that Apollinaire had written a poem that also mentions Vancouver. Or that Marcel Thiry, a Belgian poet, a guy, I must admit, I’ve never heard of, also wrote a poem around the same time as Cendrars and Apollinaire that mentions Vancouver. And it’s all here in the Spring 2014 Capilano Review article “Colin Browne & Ian Wallace / A conversation”. I know I know. It’s not spring anymore. What’s your point? It’s a great article.. Really enjoyed it. There’s a couple of questions though. Of course there are. But first this:
Ten P.M. has just struck barely heard through the thick fog that muffles the docks and the ships in the harbour The wharfs are deserted and the town is wrapped in sleep You stroll along a low sandy shore swept by an icy wind and the long billows of the Pacific That lurid spot in the dank darkness is the station of the Canadian Grand Trunk And those bluish patches in the wind are the liners bound for the Klondike Japan and the West Indies It is so dark that I can hardly make out the signs in the streets where hugging a heavy suitcase I am looking for a cheap hotel
Everyone is on board The oarsmen are bent on their oars and the heavy craft loaded to the brim plows through the high waves A small hunchback at the helm checks the tiller now and then Adjusting his steering through the fog to the calls of a foghorn We bump against the dark bulk of the ship and on the starboard quarter Samoyed dogs are climbing up Flaxen in the gray-white-yellow As if fog was being taken in freight
Okay members of the academy. This translation is still my favorite and was written by Monique Chefdor. I caught up with it a few years back in a volume published by The University of California Press. Impressive. The poem first appeared in the original French in 1924. It was a poem Cendrars wrote before The Great War. He lost his right forearm in that war. I bet that hurt.
The Capilano article includes an admirable new translation by Mr. Colin Browne himself. Nice job, but I still like Mme Chefdor’s for that image. ‘Samoyed dogs are climbing up’. ‘…grimpent des chiens samoyèdes…’ Got a nice beat to it. samoyeddogs are climbing out. Emerging, it might be, out of the fog. Like this blog. It gave me the idea for a name for this blog which I started some time ago for reasons now lost to me.
A fine article, as I say, although Messieurs Browne and Wallace put forth the canard that Monsieur Cendrars was never in Vancouver. It’s a lie. They claim he was never here, that he made the whole thing up and cribbed some of it from a French novel from the same period. Let’s set the record straight. Blaise Cendrars was in Vancouver. I had coffee with him in the defunct Marr hotel café down near the waterfront before he sailed. I’m lying.
Just a couple other things about this fine TCR piece. Mr. Wallace, in the course of a not overly long article, employs the word “trope” four times and the equally regrettable “tropes” twice. Mr. Browne uses the still regrettable word “trope” once. Mr. Wallace employs the even more regrettable word “meme” mercifully but once. Meme is not a manly word. It impresses nobody and in fact fogs things up. It never sharpens the focus. Get it the heck out of here.
I was surprised to see Mr. Browne misquoting his own translation of “Vancouver” stating at one point in the conversation that the passengers in the boat are being rowed out to the ship by a “little hunchback”. Again, not true. The hunchback is on the tiller as the poem clearly states. Wa.
Wa is a good word. I think we should see it more often.
Thank you for the memories Blaise! The “Normandie”, eh? Nice job.