A poet who loves language, Carol Rumens resists attaching labels to herself. ‘Am I a poet?’ she asks and answers it thus: ‘I hope so but how can I be sure? I would rather describe myself simply as someone who loves language, and who tries to make various things with it – poems, chiefly, but also essays, plays, translation, occasional fiction and journalistic odds and ends. Poetry can sometimes bring these different genres interestingly together.’ I quote from her website. The author of twenty-four collections of poems in addition to fiction, drama, translation, poetry lectures, she has also edited anthologies and journals, not to mention her ‘Poem of the Week’ for The Guardian. It would be safe to say that language is her métier.
In Mind’s Eye, engaging in a dialogue with the life and work of the poet Paul Celan, she resurrects him from ‘the tomb of language’ by offering ‘a tribute that reflects on the fragility of life, the endurance of art, and the complexities of survival.’ As Celan pointed out, a poem ‘lays claim to infinity, it seeks to reach through time.’ Widely acknowledged as one of the greatest European poets in the postwar period, in his 1958 Bremen speech, Celan refers to himself as one who ‘goes toward language with his very being, stricken by and seeking reality.’
In Animal People, Rumens altered our understanding of the scope of poetry, not just our appreciation of her work. Her poem, 'On Standby,' where having ‘tasted words,’ one is left in no doubt of her vocation. One of the epigraphs in Mind’s Eye is: ‘The poem is lonely. It is lonely and en route. The author stays with it.’ If the reader can join and stay the course, the poem finds company, a new home. Understanding the loneliness of a poem takes a special kind of empathy. The other is by Paul Celan: ‘But poetry too hurries ahead of us at times,’ from The Meridian Speech on the Occasion of the Award of the Georg Büchner Prize. In his speech, Celan points out ‘art forms the subject of a conversation that takes place in a room, …, a conversation that could go on endlessly, we feel, if nothing intervened.’ Something always does – from World War II death camps to pandemic hospital scenes in 2020.
In 'Star,' about the need to hide the Star of David badge that Jews were obliged to wear during Nazi occupation, we learn how ‘the park-bench was half in shade, and roomy / enough to test the poem – the poem that’s with you // wherever you’re allowed to take nothing with you.’ In 'Corona to "Corona,"' from Celan’s poem to hers, ‘in the wreathing of years / the word breathes differently – / a virus old as love and new as every / lover’s new mutation.’ Celan’s was a love poem: ‘We stand at the window embracing, they watch from the street: / it’s time people knew! / It’s time the stone consented to bloom.’ In her poem, 'Anniversary,' reminding us of Celan’s 100th centenary in 2020, Rumens writes: ‘Your April deathday fell, you weren’t quite fifty / and still the sun-prints travelled, still the petals remembered and novembered / all that had been golden in your time.’
The poems here are conversations, responses to Celan’s life and poetics. As she mentions in her 'Forenote,' the poems in 'Notelets are short letters to, or about Celan. They are not chronologically ordered, and only tenuously grounded in biographical reality.’ The second part, entitled 'Dialogues,' takes the form of conversations between Celan and 'an imaginary poem of his, un-titled and unfinished, but keeping him company during his last years of mental illness and suicide,' bringing new perspectives on grief, displacement, and the transformative power of words. The concept of this imaginary poem is just as powerful, if not more poignant, than Leonardo da Vinci working on the Mona Lisa till he died.
In 'Dialogues,' the conversation between poet and poem reveal a wry sense of humour. 'In the Asylum' begins: ‘“Art as necessity is very bare” / you might have been thinking / when Poem interrupted: Speak, you also – / you – thin coat I wear / not quite to freeze my balls in No-one’s Where.’ This is not just entertaining with knowing interruptions, the last two stanzas leap from the verb ‘to swallow’ to an actual swallow. ‘God may have an eye, Poem said (an agnostic). / Not yours, not 20-20: not without brightness. / Here swallow this. // You hurled the empty glass. Poem flew, / a swallow. Rose and sank. / Some other spaceman raced himself to the moon. / You found the harp-string slackened.’ These poems transform and soar through the darkest of times.
In the words of Anne Stevenson, Rumens’ writing ‘testifies to the generosity of her imagination and to the persistence of her dedicated wrestle with words and meaning.’ Rumens’ richly layered poems are widely admired for their technical brilliance, subtlety of subject matter and intensity of thought. In Mind’s Eye, the conversation between her and Celan, the struggle between poet and poem, resonates with the reader. What emerges is an intense realisation of the fragility of life. I am grateful to Rumens for leading me back to her poems and that of Celan’s with a greater understanding and appreciation of the relationship between words and life.
Shanta Acharya’s recent poetry collections are Dear Life (2025), What Survives Is The Singing (2020), Imagine: New and Selected Poems (2017) and Dreams That Spell The Light (2010). Her doctoral study, The Influence of Indian Thought on Ralph Waldo Emerson, was published in 2001 and her novel, A World Elsewhere, in 2015. The author of thirteen books, her poems, articles, and reviews have featured in various publications and her poems have been translated into several languages. www.shanta-acharya.com