{"id":244,"date":"2016-03-08T14:30:44","date_gmt":"2016-03-08T14:30:44","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/blogs.kcl.ac.uk\/english\/?p=244"},"modified":"2019-01-15T12:16:33","modified_gmt":"2019-01-15T12:16:33","slug":"ruth-padel-drafts-capoeira-boy","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/blogs.kcl.ac.uk\/english\/2016\/03\/08\/ruth-padel-drafts-capoeira-boy\/","title":{"rendered":"Ruth Padel drafts ‘Capoeira Boy’"},"content":{"rendered":"

An open drafting process of ‘Capoeira Boy’ from Ruth Padel’s collection,\u00a0Learning to Make an Oud in Nazareth<\/em> (Chatto, 2014).<\/p>\n

Introduction<\/h4>\n

by Penny Newell<\/em><\/p>\n

Sometimes poetry mutters, sometimes it sings, oftentimes it catches our eye and looks. There\u2019s a line from a poem of Ruth Padel\u2019s collection, Learning to Make an Oud in Nazareth <\/em>(Chatto, 2014), which manages\u00a0all three. It runs: \u2018I am looking too hard, or this scene is looking too hard\/ at me.\u2019<\/p>\n

You need only read the commentary below to realise that here we overhear the poet muttering to herself, pen and notebook in hand. Yet we also hear a clue to the song that Padel plays on the oud<\/em>. The oud<\/em> is both the instrument, and perhaps a Middle Eastern homonym of the ode <\/em>(from the Greek \u2019<\/em>\u03b1\u03bf\u03af\u03b4\u03b7 <\/em>[aoide], \u2018a song\u2019). The oud<\/em> is a solemn song, sung by a chorus of CNN, Youtube and eBay, refugee camps and tanks. Last week, Jo McDonagh and Rowan Boyson asked \u2018How might the humanities contribute to an understanding of the current refugee \u2018crisis\u2019?\u2019<\/a> Padel\u2019s poetry is alive to this question. The poems of this collection catch our eye with it,\u00a0and let it look at us hard.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Below, the\u00a0illuminating drafts of \u2018Capoeira Boy\u2019 show us the process that a poet goes through to allow poems such powers. At times, this is a nerve-wracking read. \u00a0Words and phrases that you cherish (‘thistle-light acrobalance’) surface, and teeter on non-existence. Other times, this process is utterly\u00a0relieving. You breathe with Padel when the poem breaks out of its 10-line stanzas. Throughout, this is a process that shows a poet\u00a0finding a balance of sight and insight. Or a poise of question and statement, through which the poem sings.<\/p>\n

On Writing and Revising a Poem<\/h4>\n

by\u00a0Ruth Padel<\/em><\/p>\n

Whatever it is, that odd process we call \u201cwriting a poem\u201d, it\u2019s different for every poet, maybe for every poem.
\nSome poets get the rhythm before anything else.
\nSome poems begin with a phrase or image.
\nSometimes lines come word by word over weeks, even years.
\nSometimes a lot comes all in a rush, and then stalls.
\nBased on the way I tend to work, I sometimes suggest to students it can be useful to think in terms of two different ways of making sculpture.<\/p>\n

At first, when you are getting the poem down, trying for a first draft, you might get involved in what people sometimes call researching. But \u201cresearch\u201d sounds active and this process can be pretty passive: like standing motionless in a forest, opening yourself to every sensation, every wind, rustle, fall of a leaf. Every tiny thing you hear, see or feel might be important. \u201cResearch\u201d can mean an utterly tense, still, waiting, silence. \u00a0You\u2019re waiting on the outer world, holding yourself abnormally aware and open to 365 degrees of concrete things, but also on your inner world, letting associations, memories, thoughts float into your imagination.<\/p>\n

At this stage, the reception and gathering moment, you\u2019re like a sculptor working in soft material like clay or wax, or trawling for bits and pieces to collage. It\u2019s very exciting: anything you meet or think or remember may be relevant. Everything can come in – until you have a draft.<\/p>\n

Then a gelling or hardening sets in. The poem exists and has its own presence. Now, what you have to listen for is what it needs.<\/p>\n

You become a different sort of sculptor, no longer gathering in<\/em> but chipping away<\/em>, freeing the image in the stone. There’s the block of marble \u2013 and you have to carve away everything that mutes or dulls the poem, stops it being its own best form.<\/p>\n

I can see myself doing that with a poem called \u2018Capoeira Boy\u2019, which now ushers in the last third of my collection Learning to Make an Oud in Nazareth<\/em> but was I think the last one I wrote for it.<\/p>\n

I knew I had on my hands a book about the Middle East and creativity. Palestine, Israel: holy land with a geological rift, and a sense that humanity itself is rifted. The heart of the collection would be a sequence on the Seven Last Words of Christ on the Cross. Then someone happened to mentioned capoeira, the dance that is also combat. I looked it up online. The first thing I saw was on You Tube: dedicated members of an international NGO called Bidna Capoeira<\/em> teaching kids in a Palestinian refugee camp to dance. Learning capoeira gives these pent, traumatized children not only physical skills, achievement and well-being, but social ones: a community sense, new powers of give and take, and above all self-esteem.<\/p>\n

Portuguese friends told me more about the history of the dance. Capoeira began in Brazil. It is the name of a kind of tall grass. African slaves there were forbidden by their \u201cowners\u201d to learn or practise combat, or to carry or use weapons. But they weren\u2019t forbidden to dance. So they evolved a dance which is also a form of practising combat. They cleared a ring in tall grass \u2013 not to be seen – and everyone stood in a circle, the roda<\/em>, watching two dancer-combatants, in the middle.<\/p>\n

Capoeira is popular today in the west. If you watch on You Tube you can see the swipes are really savage: its art is the grace of mutual evasion as well as attack. Your opponent is also your partner.<\/p>\n

I suddenly felt this art of lethal tussle, of self-hood, mirroring and interdependence, belonged in my Palestine book. And anyway, the dance I saw was set there – in a refugee camp. I needed this poem – if<\/em> I could get the tone right.<\/p>\n

\"Ruth<\/a>
Ruth Padel, ‘Capoeira Boy’ (early draft)<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Capoeira Boy early draft <\/em>is a page from the first phase, when everything was coming in. A lot of things in it didn\u2019t make it into the final poem: asylum seekers, the three Magi, an incarnation of Vishnu, and the importance of capoeira in Iran. (Where, someone told me, you were allowed to fight but not dance, the opposite of the slaves\u2019 experience in Brazil.) But the core is there, watching a particular boy learn to dance. And so is the tone. A speaker who is not pretending to be there, who doesn\u2019t know much, and yet, watching on You Tube, the speaker feels engaged with the boy, worried for him.<\/p>\n

\"Ruth<\/a>
Ruth Padel, ‘Capoeira Boy’<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

In Capoeira Boy 1, <\/em>the poem is trying to settle into stanzas of three short lines, with 2, 3 or 4 beats in each. But it\u2019s not working. A stanza, to be a stanza, has to have its own integrity, its own reason for being a unit. Looking back, I can see the poem, like an animal refusing the wrong food you try and give it, is telling me something: it is saying, Junk the three liners<\/em>. Something about them doesn\u2019t fit this musical canvas which is built round a longer phrase or unit of thought than I realized at first.<\/p>\n

Plus there\u2019s a lot of stuff in this version that needs to go.<\/p>\n

In the next version I am still using three liners and those stilted short lines. I haven\u2019t been listening hard enough to what the poem was saying.<\/p>\n

THE CAPOEIRA BOY 3<\/p>\n

I saw him on You Tube
\nlearning a martial art, the fight
\nthat masks itself as dance.<\/p>\n

Eagerness shone out of him
\nunder the eye of Brazilians
\nteaching children of Jalazoun<\/p>\n

Refugee Camp the thistle-light
\nacrobalance
\nof self-defence<\/p>\n

and the back-and-forth, foot-to-foot ginga
\n<\/em>for leverage
\nto face the galaxy of kicks and swipes<\/p>\n

you expect from an opponent
\nand to leap, spin, skim, soar, feint
\nwith him like firebirds among the stars.<\/p>\n

He was seven or eight
\nthis boy, wearing glasses
\nwith a partner-antagonist so confident<\/p>\n

in nature\u2019s unfair gift
\nof easy movement!
\nBut the teacher was encouraging.<\/p>\n

So was the ring of boys
\nchanting to the tambourine.
\nWatching, you worried for him<\/p>\n

at least I did, but I saw he was loved.
\nA favourite perhaps, or anyway on track
\nto give hope a chance<\/p>\n

over experience
\nin the dance that is also combat
\ndespite the awkwardness, the lumbering<\/p>\n

faintly victim stance
\nas the two circled each other
\nholding their arms off their trunks<\/p>\n

like cormorants
\ndrying their wings.
\nThey were in the Tape Roda! They knew<\/p>\n

it was ancient and strong
\nand came from the old plantations
\nof Brazil, where slaves<\/p>\n

allowed to dance but never fight
\nwove a resistance
\nstrategy disguised as acrobatics –<\/p>\n

now big in Iran
\nwhere they say (but is it true?)
\nyou\u2019re allowed to fight but not to dance<\/p>\n

and taught to kids like them in Palestine
\nwhere blocks of gold sunlight
\npress on the No-Go Zone<\/p>\n

behind the wall.
\nI saw him on You Tube
\nin a refugee camp of Hebron<\/p>\n

learning the fight
\nthat masks itself as dance.
\nThey were having fun.<\/p>\n

The tutor, laughing, taped
\na circle on the beaten ground,
\nand handed out instruments –<\/p>\n

pandeiro, <\/em>atabaque<\/em> drum
\nand silver bells. He was young
\nhimself, he supervised the falls,<\/p>\n

blows, cat\u2019s whisker escapes.
\nOut of each other\u2019s way! Attack
\nand spin – it\u2019s a rhythm thing –<\/p>\n

on your haunches in sync
\nand flat on your hands. Aim your kick
\nin his face, let him duck.<\/p>\n

Air-somersault, back-roll,
\ncartwheel and flip. This is all about you
\nbut you can\u2019t do without him. Headstand,<\/p>\n

loose-limbed and free
\nas in the no man\u2019s land
\noutside Damascus, the Al-Tanf<\/p>\n

camp for orphans
\ndisplaced by violence
\nwhere capoeira<\/em> began for refugees<\/p>\n

then spread to the West Bank
\nteaching tolerance:
\nhow to contain<\/p>\n

the waves that break
\ninside you. Let them melt into foam
\nlike a ghost of the Milky Way<\/p>\n

and be done with
\nwhile the six-lane highway
\nnext door, shaking the camp<\/p>\n

with its vibrations
\nbrightens its lamps
\nand on the other side<\/p>\n

the twenty-foot raw cement
\nwall leans like a stage-set
\nfor Macbeth.<\/em><\/p>\n

I saw lemon-blossom in the distance
\non a hill black with tanks
\nwhere I guessed his father was born<\/p>\n

and would never set foot again.
\nAs the boy settled into a dance
\nlike the sparring of Orpheus with Death<\/p>\n

I pictured the black flame
\nof a split aorta
\nin his father\u2019s chest \u2013<\/p>\n

a man who\u2019d lived his grown-up life
\nin a camp
\nand would die in one now.<\/p>\n

The heat of afternoon
\nflowed like the midday daemon
\nthrough lines of canvas tents<\/p>\n

like mist coming off black jade
\nas each boy became
\nthe other\u2019s mirror.<\/p>\n

They were twin lights in a sconce,
\npanther cubs perfecting life-skills
\nin dark rays of the jungle:<\/p>\n

timing and speed, the weave
\nof twisted threads for the roda
\n<\/em>of life, each pitting all he was<\/p>\n

against the other
\nin the little space
\nbetween self\u2019s flying heel and other\u2019s face.<\/p>\n

By the fifth draft, I\u2019ve got the message. Not<\/em> three liners. And longer lines, please. But with six line stanzas the simplicity, which sprang from my sense of these young eager boys, has gone. So has the poem\u2019s sense of space, which in the earlier draft tried to mirror the capoeira\u2019s own cleared circle where the dancers\/sparring partners move.<\/p>\n

And<\/em> I\u2019ve imported other unecessary things, like Orpheus and Death. And it\u2019s all too dense. Too many adjectives \u2013 and several phrases are too explainy. People come to poetry not for explanation but to meet a question, or a suggestion, a possibility and a resonance. Or for the flick of the tail of some important thing they want to go on wondering about afterwards.<\/p>\n

CAPOEIRA BOY 5<\/p>\n

I saw him on You Tube, learning the martial art
\nthat masks all our fights as dance. Thistle-light
\nacrobalance, and back-forth foot-to-foot ginga
\n<\/em>facing the galaxy of kicks and swipes you expect
\nfrom an opponent. How to spin, soar, feint
\nand tarentelle<\/em> with your brother among the stars.<\/p>\n

I saw he was loved. A clumsy favourite, perhaps.
\nLoved enough, anyway, to give hope a chance
\nin the dance that sings, that is combat
\ndespite his lumbering faintly victim stance
\nas the two circled each other, holding their arms
\noff their trunks like cormorants drying their wings.<\/p>\n

He was seven or eight and in glasses. Eagerness
\nshone out of him in the ring of boys chanting
\nto a tambourine. They knew this dance-fight,
\nnow big in Iran where you\u2019re allowed
\nto fight but not dance, came from slaves allowed
\nto dance but not fight. And that kids like them<\/p>\n

on the West Bank could learn it in Hebron.
\nI saw him on You Tube, in Jalazoun Refugee Camp.
\nThe teacher, laughing, encouraging, supervised
\nblows, falls and slips, cat\u2019s whisker escapes. Flat
\non your hands! Squat and spin, aim your kick
\nin his face. Let him duck. And then cartwheel away.<\/p>\n

This is all about you but you\u2019re nothing without him.
\nDance sets you free. Free of the six-lane highway
\nshaking the camp with vibrations. Free
\nof the twenty-foot wall of cement, a stage
\nset for Macbeth. <\/em>I saw olives flutter on amethyst
\nhills where I guessed his father was born. As the boy<\/p>\n

learned the sparring of Orpheus with Death
\nI pictured the black flame of a split aorta
\nburn in his father\u2019s chest. Who\u2019d lived his days
\nin the camps and would die in one now. I saw the heat
\nof afternoon flow through passage-ways
\nbetween tents like mist coming off black jade<\/p>\n

as each lad became the other\u2019s mirror.
\nThey were twin lights in a sconce, panther cubs
\nperfecting life-skills. Timing and speed,
\nthe weave of twisted threads for the roda
\n<\/em>of life, each pouring all he was in the little space
\nbetween self\u2019s flying heel and other\u2019s face.<\/p>\n

In the seventh draft, I see I tried to put it back into three liners, but with longer more flowing lines.<\/p>\n

CAPOEIRA BOY 7<\/p>\n

I saw him on YouTube learning the martial art
\nthat masks fighting as dance; the rocking, foot-
\nto-foot ginga <\/em>bracing him for kicks, swipes<\/p>\n

and thistle-light acrobalance. He was finding how to spin,
\nfeint, soar with his opponent. You could worry about him,
\nat least I did, but I saw he was loved. A favourite<\/p>\n

perhaps. Enough anyway to give hope a chance
\ndespite his lumbering, faintly victim, stance
\nas the two circled each other, holding their arms<\/p>\n

off their torsos like cormorants drying their wings.
\nHe was seven or eight, wearing glasses. Eagerness
\nshone out of him inside the ring of boys<\/p>\n

chanting to a tambourine. They knew slaves in Brazil
\nmade the rules. Only by dance do you learn how to fight<\/em>.
\nOnly by fight how to dance<\/em>. And also that kids like them,<\/p>\n

on the West Bank, could learn this in Hebron.
\nI saw him on YouTube in Jalazoun Refugee Camp.
\nThe teacher, laughing, supervised falls, accidents,<\/p>\n

cat\u2019s whisker escapes. I imagined he was telling them
\nSquat and spin! Flat on your hands! Aim your kick in his face \u2013
\nlet him duck \u2013 then cartwheel away. This is all about you<\/p>\n

but you\u2019re nothing without him. Let the dance-fight-dance
\nset you free. Free of the six-lane motorway
\nshaking the camp with its sorrowful vibrations.<\/p>\n

Free of the twenty-foot wall of cement, a stage set for Macbeth<\/em>.
\nGrey olives flickered beyond, on hills where I guessed
\nolder men like his grandfather were born<\/p>\n

and are forbidden to graze sheep or tend their trees again.
\nWhile the boys danced, I pictured the flame of a split aorta
\nin the chest of a man who has lived all his days in the camps<\/p>\n

and will die in one now. Afternoon flowed
\nthrough rows of tents like mist coming off black jade
\nas each became the other\u2019s mirror. They were twin lights<\/p>\n

in a sconce, tiger cubs perfecting life-skills \u2013 pounce,
\ntiming, split speed for the roda<\/em> \u2013 each pouring all he was
\ninto the little space between self\u2019s flying heel and other\u2019s face.<\/p>\n

In each draft, I see I\u2019m trying to bring new things into focus, like the boy\u2019s father, his caged life in the camps, the sight of his own unreachable olive trees.<\/p>\n

But the three liners still don\u2019t feel right. Why didn\u2019t I hear? The first lines of stanzas 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 10 and 11 all belong with the last line of the preceding stanza \u2013 it\u2019s wildly obvious but I am still<\/em> not going for the obvious solution. The phrasing was telling me: this poem\u2019s natural form is quatrains! Instead I went to the other extreme. Draft 8 has stanzas of ten<\/em> lines. It\u2019s as though I\u2019d got the journey of thought clear but something was stopping me understanding the separate stages or stations.<\/p>\n

Plus I\u2019m trying to say too much now. I\u2019m not letting the silences work, letting the poor poem breathe.<\/p>\n

Capoeira Boy 8<\/em><\/p>\n

I saw him on You Tube, learning the martial art
\nthat masks fighting as dance. Thistle-light acrobalance,
\nthe rocking, foot-to-foot ginga, <\/em>bracing him
\nfor kicks and swipes. He was learning how to spin,
\nfeint, soar with his opponent. You could worry
\nabout him, at least I did, but I saw he was loved,
\na favourite perhaps, anyway enough to give hope a chance
\ndespite his lumbering, faintly victim stance
\nas the two circled each other, holding their arms
\noff their torsos like cormorants drying their wings.<\/p>\n

He was seven or eight, wearing glasses. Eagerness
\nshone out of him, inside a ring of boys
\nchanting to a tambourine. They knew slaves in Brazil,
\nallowed to dance but not fight or bear arms,
\nmade the rules. Only by dance can you learn how to fight.
\n<\/em>Only fighting can you dance<\/em>. And also that kids like them,
\non the West Bank, could learn it in Hebron.
\nI saw him on You Tube in Jalazoun Refugee Camp.
\nThey were having fun. The teacher, laughing, supervised
\nblows, falls and slips, cat\u2019s whisker escapes.<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t get the Arabic. But I imagined him telling them,
\nSquat and spin! Flat on your hands! Aim your kick in his face –
\nlet him duck – and cartwheel away! This is all about you
\nbut you\u2019re nothing without him. The fight-dance
\nsets you both free. Free of the six-lane motorway
\nshaking the camp with its sorrowful vibrations. Free
\nof the twenty-foot wall of cement, a stage set for Macbeth.
\n<\/em>Olive trees flickered behind, far off, on blue hills
\nwhere I guessed the old men, maybe even his father,
\nwere born: and are forbidden to go, or tend the trees, again.<\/p>\n

As the boy learned, I pictured the flame
\nof a split aorta burn in the chest of a man
\nwho has lived his grown days inside camps
\nand will die in one now. I saw the heat of afternoon flow
\nthrough miles of canvas tents, like mist coming off black jade
\nas each lad became the other\u2019s mirror. They were twin lights
\nin a sconce, panther cubs perfecting life-skills.
\nTiming and speed, the weave of twisted threads for the roda
\n<\/em>of life, each pouring all he was into the little space
\nbetween self\u2019s flying heel and other\u2019s face.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s all too clumpy and dense. It loses the lovely young agility of the boys enjoying their moves which was really where the poem began.<\/p>\n

At last the penny dropped. Keep the sense of space, keep the flowing lines, but chip away the extraneous stuff. Let the poem live in the open – to fit the capoeira\u2019s origins in the grassy plains of Brazil, and the open air Palestinian camp. But, as with a sculptor facing a block of marble, the hard thing is to know exactly what is<\/em> extraneous. You don\u2019t want to cut away too much. The final chipping and polishing may take years.<\/p>\n

FINAL VERSION\u00a0\u00a0 Capoeira Boy
\n(from <\/span>Learning to Make an Oud in Nazareth,<\/em> Chatto, 2014)<\/span><\/p>\n

I saw him on YouTube. He was learning the martial art
\nthat masks fighting as dance; the rocking, foot-
\nto-foot ginga <\/em>was bracing him for kicks, swipes
\nand thistle-light acrobalance. He was finding how to spin,<\/p>\n

feint, soar with his opponent. You could worry about him,
\nat least I did, but I saw he was loved. A favourite
\nperhaps. Enough anyway to give hope a chance
\ndespite his lumbering, faintly victim, stance<\/p>\n

as the two circled each other, holding their arms
\noff their torsos like cormorants drying their wings.
\nHe was seven or eight, wearing glasses. Eagerness
\nshone out of him inside the ring of boys<\/p>\n

chanting to a tambourine. They knew slaves in Brazil
\nmade the rules. Only by dance do you learn how to fight<\/em>.
\nOnly by fight how to dance<\/em>. And also that kids like them,
\non the West Bank, could learn this in Hebron.<\/p>\n

I saw him on YouTube in Jalazoun Refugee Camp.
\nThe teacher, laughing, supervised falls, accidents,
\ncat\u2019s whisker escapes. I imagined he was telling them
\nSquat and spin! Flat on your hands! Aim your kick in his face \u2013<\/p>\n

let him duck \u2013 then cartwheel away. This is all about you
\nbut you\u2019re nothing without him. Let the dance-fight-dance
\nset you free. Free of the six-lane motorway
\nshaking the camp with its sorrowful vibrations.<\/p>\n

Free of the twenty-foot wall of cement, a stage set for Macbeth.
\n<\/em>Grey olives flickered beyond, on hills where I guessed
\nolder men like his grandfather were born
\nand are forbidden to graze sheep or tend their trees again.<\/p>\n

While the boys danced, I pictured the flame of a split aorta
\nin the chest of a man who has lived all his days in the camps
\nand will die in one now. Afternoon flowed through rows of tents
\nlike mist coming off black jade as each became the other\u2019s mirror.<\/p>\n

They were twin lights in a sconce, tiger cubs
\nperfecting life-skills \u2013 pounce, timing, split speed
\nfor the roda <\/em>\u2013 each pouring all he was into the little space
\nbetween self\u2019s flying heel and other\u2019s face.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

Ruth Padel is Poetry Fellow in the English Department at King’s College London. Learning to Make an Oud in Nazareth\u00a0<\/i>is her tenth poetry collection.<\/p>\n

Penny Newell is a PhD student in the English Department, and an editor of the King’s English Blog.<\/p>\n

\n

You may also enjoy<\/p>\n

Swallow (early draft), by Nadia Saward<\/a><\/p>\n

\n

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