Good News from the Green Mtn. State + Poem: Taha Muhammad Ali

Vermont joins Iowa, which last week joined Connecticut and the original pathblazer, Massachusetts, in approving same-sex marriage.Vermont, which was the first state to legislate civil unions, is also the first state to enact same-sex marriage legislatively, making its Senate's and today's House override of Republican governor Jim Douglas's veto a major historical triumph. This past week, the New York Times reported on a New England-wide push to legalize same-sex marriage, which I imagine will probably be in place within the next 5 years. Outside of New England, although Proposition 8 canceled out (at least so far) California's Supreme Court ruling permitting same-sex marriage, it remains to be seen whether the current attempts to overturn Prop 8 and maintain the existing marriages will succeed (I hope it will), though in a few years, perhaps less than half a decade, I foresee the state legislature, the new governor, and most California voters supporting new legislation permitting it. Where next? Illinois? New York State? New Jersey? For now, what great news for the Iowans, Vermonters, and now, let's push for the other 45 states to come on board and for full equal, civil rights for everyone.

***

Today's poetry selection is by Taha Muhammad Ali, a Palestinian poet I'm late in coming to, though he has garnered the acclaim of a wide array of the global literati. (Including Michael Palmer.) Today on WNYC, I heard Adina Hoffmann on the hapless Leonard Lopate's show discussing her brand new biography of Ali, entitled My Happiness Bears No Relation to Happiness (Yale, 2009), which she claims is the first biography of a major Palestinian writer, a claim that strikes me as incredible (Can this be true?)

Hoffman spoke about what distinguishes Ali's work for her, citing his combination of extraordinariness and his very ordinary background and life. Self-taught and a late starter, and still half his time maintaining a shop, Ali has managed to produce a body of work that can stand with the best, not only among his peers in the Middle East, but also globally. I admit that I've only read a handful of his poems, as I'm not that familiar with Palestinian poetry and have tended to read the work of the better known Adonis (whose poetry is more lyrical and experimental) and Mahmoud Darwish (who was work more overtly political), among others, but I found the few Ali poems I've read compelling. Back in 2007 he was featured on the News Hour with Jim Lehrer, and here's a snippet of what he said to interviewer Jeffrey Brown:

TAHA MUHAMMAD ALI: I think there is two kinds of language, one for the news, for the politicians, and this is broad, and one for poetry. And this is beautiful and descriptive. And they are different, very different languages.

JEFFREY BROWN: Muhammad Ali insists that his poetry does speak to the conflict around him, but indirectly.

TAHA MUHAMMAD ALI: In my poetry, there is no Palestine, no Israel. But, in my poetry, suffering, sadness, longing, fear, and this is, together, make the results: Palestine and Israel. The art is to take from life something real, then to build it anew with your imagination.

I'm posting the poem whose resonant, antitautological ending provided the title for Hoffman's book. (I found a copy of it on the Khalil Sakakini Cultural Center's website.) A trio comprising award-winner Peter Cole, Yaya Hijazi, and Gabriel Levin translated it. It's tight.

WARNING

Lovers of hunting,
and beginners seeking your prey:
Don’t aim your rifles
at my happiness,
which isn’t worth
the price of the bullet
(you’d waste on it).
What seems to you
so nimble and fine,
like a fawn,
and flees
every which way,
like a partridge,
isn’t happiness.
Trust me:
my happiness bears
no relation to happiness.

12.IX.88

Copyright © 2000, from Never Mind: Twenty Poems and a Story, translated by Peter Cole, Yahya Hijazi, and Gabriel Levin, Ibis Editions, all rights reserved.

Claro, empieza el Béisbol + Poem: Mónica de la Torre

It's officially Opening Day for the 2009 baseball season (the first game was played yesterday), and my ardor has cooled. Perhaps it's age or my mind on a different trip for a change or mental exhaustion, who knows, but I figure it'll gin up again after a weeks. Across the media spectrum the Yankees' and Mets' new taxpayer subsidized stadiums appear to be generating the major hubbub, when outrage should be the response for these millionaire-stacked teams that could both have afforded to finance out of their own deep pockets these new temples of commerce, but I bet that's far more humbug than any fans, especially supporters of the Yankees and Mets, want to hear now that the roid-reduced pastime is beginning again. Instead, it's now more about whether some team other than the two in New York, or the powerhouse in Boston, or these confounding and constantly underrated Florida squads will dominate. Or will this be the Chicago Cubs' year? Phantoms of failure aside, they do have one of the most solid squads in the National League. For me, it's always about the St. Louis Cardinals, first and foremost. They still have Albert Pujols (above, chrisoleary.com) and a reconstituted Chris Carpenter, but the rest of the team is a collection of question marks. (And strangely, in this day of increasingly diverse and global staffs, of global baseball, more monochrome than anytime since the early 1960s.) If the Cardinals emerge anywhere above the middle of their division, and overperform as they did last year, it'll be a miracle. I am hoping for a Bailout Series: Detroit's young team returns to the post-season to face the Mets. Autos against the capital of the diminished world: not likely, but it would be almost poetic.

***

At the Associate Writing Programs (AWP) conferences, I sort of lose my mind when I enter the book fair and always walk away with more books than I originally intend. One year it took me weeks to realize how many books I'd actually purchased (though my wallet knew right away), and I don't think I've finished reading all of them. This year I was much more restrained, and tried to select books judiciously, focusing on smaller presses, chapbooks, pamphlets, or works by authors I knew who were there to sign them. One book I picked up was Mónica de la Torre's Public Domain (Roof Books, 2008). I first encountered her work in several different literary journals after having heard about her repeatedly from friends who were poets or taught poetry, then I heard her read from her fantastic earlier book Talk Shows (linked at right), at an AWP panel last year in New York. Of my 2009 AWP haul, de la Torre's book is the only one I've managed to read twice, because between the brutal quarter and committee-related reading, I couldn't manage a single other book, of poetry, fiction or nonfiction more than once. But de la Torre's new book did beckon me more than once, perhaps because of its lively engagement with the boundaries between the oral and literary, the material and the virtual, the private and the public, the true and truthy/fictional, information and knowledge, Spanish/English/somebordertongue, those spaces and places of slippage where selves generated by and in language do and don't map onto each other.

A number of these poems do what other poets' poems are attempting to do in terms of relating to our contemporary technologically mediated social conditions, but do so in (to my eye) unexpected and often funny ways. This is a seriously funny, sometimes hilarious book. I'm not sure that like it more than her earlier book, but I have thought about it quite a bit since I've read it. Among its contents are an open-form found-text playlet on the Iraq War, several performance pieces, a email-form poem based mistaken identities, poems about mis- and dis-articulation, a multipage poem about economy (financial, political, linguistic) and the opening suite of poems, "The Crush," that play with several ideas, including lists, lyrics, overheard language, echoes and clichés, desire and notions of the romantic, distortion and noise, and the Babel-like technopolis through which the globe increasingly moves. I kept thinking about Tan Lin's book of found autobiography and how selves are constructed through and in virtuality as I read this section. It's hard to excerpt anything from the book, but here's one short poem from "The Crush" section, an almost ridiculous-seeming sound poem that ends up doing something else by its end. (Here's an essay she wrote on OuLiPo for Poets.org.)

Letters Are What Is in a Name

Tea, yes.
Meat + yams
+ yeast=
Yum.
Sake, más yum.

My Eye,
yé-yé.
My key: task.
Say sky.
Maya skate team,
yay!

¡Ey! ¿Amas?
¿Y tu kama?
Me matas,
me atas.
Súmate.
Tu suma, tema y meta.

My yute tee,
me yuky.
Muy musky.
Sema.

Tame yaks meet meek tusks.
Eye may meat my tusk.
Eye may meet my task.
As a.k.a. Mask.
Ay!



Lists are what they tell you to begin with if you want to be on top of things.

Copyright © 2008, from Public Domain, by Mónica de la Torre, Roof Books, all rights reserved.

Poem: Pura López Colomé

Today's poet was only an incidental reference to me at first, an attribution ("after Pura López Colomé") by the American poet, Michael Palmer, but I thought, if Michael Palmer is writing a poem "after" someone, particularly someone whom I've never heard of (as opposed to those that I have, like Carlos Drummond de Andrade, say), who must that be? And so what a revelation it was the first time I came across this major contemoporary Mexican poet's work, in translation by another great American poet, Forrest Gander (who was also a wonderful colleague some years ago), in the Australian-international online literary journal Jacket. Forrest's book of translations of her work, No Shelter: Selected Poems of Pura López-Colomé, was published by Graywolf Press in 2002. Her work, which I imagine is quite difficult to translate, often hermetically explores the self in its multiplicities, her selves, in their relation to language and form, and the poems unfold like journeys in forms that at times appear to be making themselves afresh. Here, then, is a poem by López Colomé, a little lyric fable of sorts with a bitter end, titled "Prism" (from Jacket):

Prism

Those coveting health —
I saw them making their way along the worn path,
the one trailing away from the city,
a part of the world,
a part of my own wounded humanity,
a sweet apparition for whomever awaits
me, living within but apart from me,
in my thirst, in my shifting
moments of trouble and peace.
I was them. I was myself.

They ascend toward Chalma, the pilgrims. Knowing that, on the way, their dry branch will break into blossom. Most are young. They carry water, a sleeping pallet, their daily lives. A few elders. Children on their shoulders. The sanctuary in search of its premises.

At once, with a single question,
their old age woke up in them.
For what do they petition
the Lord they worship,
a Lord whose body
is mortified by today’s exhaustion
and yesterday’s misery?
To be able to go on crying in fury or impotence,

to be able to sicken or to go beyond sickness,
to be able to testify to, to endure the terrifying absence of . . .
at the very core of the horn of plenty,
to be able to forget, yes,
the seven or eight year old ghost
impetuously flying without tail or string
by which it might be tugged back to earth,
to forget the future history,
the missing relinquishments to love.
That?
Oh, body, Lord and Master,
show me a tree made in your image,
synagogues, shrines, mosques,
filled out with your being.

They’ve made camp. Night. Groups of men over here, mixed groups over there, women with babies and children farther off. Around the campfires, standing, squatting. They share neither food nor coffee, each bringing out their own dinner, without making excuse for... and celebrating by sitting on the hard ground, letting the rocks bruise their thighs, nursing the baby in front of strangers. The warmth whelms from the nearness of arms, backs, necks, breasts; not from fire. From blood. There are those falling asleep, those about to, and those keeping vigil. None needs a roof.

All our fates
are measured out as breath
in the songs of stars.
A communion of luminous bodies,
I prayed in terror or envy,
a particular sequence,
a particular translation,
the joy of the indispensable.
Nothing more.

The next morning, full of admiration and rapture, I returned to those places, hoping to breathe in the last smells of what had been dreamt and shared. Going back as though to touch the votive stone, the feet or hands of the worn image of some miraculous saint:

I found nothing but garbage.
The Lord’s mouth agape,
his stinking breath.

Copyright © 2002, 2008, Pura López Colome, Translation by Forrest Gander, all rights reserved.

Poem: Kimiko Hahn

Somehow or another over the years I've been posting poems, I've missed out posting a poem by poet Kimiko Hahn (1955-, at right, Depauw.edu), whose name I heard for years and then, back in 1998, I finally got to hear her read, at the old Dia Center for the Art's great series in Chelsea (before that neighborhood turned into an art-and-commerce orangerie and Dia headed for the hills of Beacon, New York), and that was even more of a spur to read her poems, which I've been doing ever since. She's published a number of books, including most recently The Narrow Road to the Interior (W. W. Norton, 2008), which approximates a lyric notebook, mixing themes and genres, including the traditional prose poetic Japanese form (she is half-Japanese American), the zuihitsu, which she had used in earlier books, to create an often surprising, open-form work. Here's one of her poems that not only appeared on the Dia Center's poetry site and but also was printed as a broadside, which I can no longer find. I don't think I got her to autograph it. (I thought the Dia Center had begun to create audio files for all of its readings, but as far as I can tell that effort has ended.) Nevertheless, the poem speaks for itself. You can find a fairly recent interview (from Bomb), with Kimiko Hahn here.

In Childhood

things don't die or remain damaged
but return: stumps grow back hands,
a head reconnects to a neck,
a whole corpse rises blushing and newly elastic.
Later this vision is not True:
the grandmother remains dead
not hibernating in a wolf's belly.
Or the blue parakeet does not return
from the little grave in the fern garden
though one may wake in the morning
thinking mother's call is the bird.
Or maybe the bird is with grandmother
inside light. Or grandmother was the bird
and is now the dog
gnawing on the chair leg.
Where do the gone things go
when the child is old enough
to walk herself to school,
her playmates already
pumping so high the swing hiccups?

Copyright © Kimiko Hahn, 1998, all rights reserved.

Poem: Philip Levine

The news on the unemployment front, like a great deal of what we read and see on TV, has been growing grimmer by the day, and the social conditions behind it are certainly grimmer still. Several people I know well, friends and relatives, have lost their jobs, and others are struggling to make ends meet. Alongside the weak job market, other signs of the economy's sickness are evident everywhere: plummeting home values and rising foreclosures; the appearance of Bushvilles; the collapse of the commercial real estate market; personal bankruptcies resulting from people's inability to pay debts; and on and on. These are only a portion of of the social crisis the country faces, and conditions are as bad or worse overseas. We're officially at 8.9% unemployment, though the reality is probably far worse, which is the worst things have been since the recessionary period around 1983. That was the year I graduated from high school, and one of the reasons I'm able to look back on that period without nostalgia is because, despite my fond memories of particular aspects of being 17 and 18 years old, my perception of the national situation was clear-eyed. In case you don't recall, in 1983 the ur-right winger, Ronald Reagan, was in office; a claque of extreme conservatives were frothing in their new government positions; the Cold War still raged; the AIDS pandemic was steadily increasing, with little attention for the federal government; the crack epidemic was picking up steam, and the concomitant drug war and buildup of the penal system were underway; the US was meddling in a war in Iraq (against Iran, no less, while secretly funneling money from Iran to right-wingers in Central America); and on and on. While I, though penniless and the child of a working-class background, was heading off to college and what I hoped would be a decent future, I was quite aware that things were terrible for others. The lack of jobs, particular for the poor and working-class, for black people, for Latinos, for undereducated whites, was a pressing national concern, which the GOP exploited brilliantly. It would be 10 more years and another recession (along with a young and conservative Democratic president) before the country really turned around. I hope it does not take that long this time, though the underlying conditions do appear to be worse than they were in 1983, or 1993.

That said, I've been thinking about poems dealing with work and labor, and in particular poems I have not posted before (thus excluding "Those Winter Sundays") and one came immediately to mind: Philip Levine's "What Work Is." I first came across this poem when I heard Levine read it on public radio; I believe this was after the eponymous collection had won the National Book Award. That would have been back in 1991 or 1992. I remember tearing up when he got to the end of the poem, I was so verklempt, and I sought out his work, which I was utterly unfamiliar with, right away. About five years later, when I was in graduate school, Philip Levine was teaching a poetry workshop that I was unable to take, but he would sometimes sit in the graduate poetics class I audited (which did not, unfortunately, cover his work), something I've never seen another "famous" poet do (he knew the professor, but even still, it rarely happens), and I kept saying that I would introduce myself and praise his work, but I never did muster the courage. I got to hear him read his work live around that time, though, and when I got his autograph in my copy of What Work Is, I offered my little valentine. Here's his poem, which could have been written last week, about what occurred last week.

What Work Is

We stand in the rain in a long line
waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.
You know what work is--if you're
old enough to read this you know what
work is, although you may not do it.
Forget you. This is about waiting,
shifting from one foot to another.
Feeling the light rain falling like mist
into your hair, blurring your vision
until you think you see your own brother
ahead of you, maybe ten places.
You rub your glasses with your fingers,
and of course it's someone else's brother,
narrower across the shoulders than
yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin
that does not hide the stubbornness,
the sad refusal to give in to
rain, to the hours wasted waiting,
to the knowledge that somewhere ahead
a man is waiting who will say, "No,
we're not hiring today," for any
reason he wants. You love your brother,
now suddenly you can hardly stand
the love flooding you for your brother,
who's not beside you or behind or
ahead because he's home trying to
sleep off a miserable night shift
at Cadillac so he can get up
before noon to study his German.
Works eight hours a night so he can sing
Wagner, the opera you hate most,
the worst music ever invented.
How long has it been since you told him
you loved him, held his wide shoulders,
opened your eyes wide and said those words,
and maybe kissed his cheek? You've never
done something so simple, so obvious,
not because you're too young or too dumb,
not because you're jealous or even mean
or incapable of crying in
the presence of another man, no,
just because you don't know what work is.

Copyright © from Philip Levine, What Work Is, New York: Knopf, 1992.

April Fools Hoax + Poem: Geoffrey Chaucer

Before I post today's poem excerpt (because the original is one of the major long poems in English), I wanted to highlight this bit of outrageousness from Htmlgiant blog. Did you read it? That's right: as an April Fool's joke, the blogger posted a press release stating that Asian-American poet and fiction writer Tao Lin, whom I've written about before (I posted two of his poems last spring on the second day of Poetry Month) had won this upcoming year's Cave Canem First Book Prize, which is awarded annually to an African-American poet. (Previous winners include Pulitzer Prize-honoree Natasha Trethewey, Major Jackson, Dawn Lundy Martin, and Ronaldo Wilson. In full disclosure, yours truly was a finalist the year that Tracy K. Smith won.) The fake PR claimed this year was Cave Canem faculty member, Pulitzer Prize-winner, and NYU professor Yusef Komunyakaa, and offered the following false quote: "After last year, when the judge declined to even award the prize, I thought it was time to shake things up. If Tao Lin had the courage to unironically enter a contest for which he was entirely unqualified at every conceivable level, then maybe we should try and reward that courage, as a message to other young African American writers out there."

I first heard about this today when poet Remica Bingham forwarded the notice to the CC listserve, and no one has posted on it there yet, but all it will take is a little Googling and webtrawling to find nodes of Lin's artistry, comprising a constellation of sites which Lin may or may not be directly involved in. It's only fitting, then, that Lin, a prolific young writer whose work veers close at times to Flarf and other new forms, was included in this bit of hookum. While the fake quotes attributed to Komunyakaa are indefensable, and the one I quote above is particularly contemptible as it takes a backhanded swipe at last year's CC First Book Prize submittees and black poets in general, I thought the overall joke was clever, as it trod the line between being too ridiculous to be believable and yet almost convincing in its rhetoric. It also fascinated me that Htmlgiant chose an Asian-American poet for this, though, as I say, given Lin's prodigiousness and ascent over the last few years in a portion of the US literary firmament* (New York Magazine profiled the wunderkind last year), it makes sense. I was surprised that the New Yorker didn't select him for its most recent poet profile instead of these two, but I imagine it's coming soon.

*I included Tao Lin's "Suburban Teenage Wasteland Blues," from his story collection Bed (Melville House, 2007), in my graduate MA/MFA fiction writing class this past fall. The responses were mixed.

***

Now to today's poem excerpt, as I say, which needs little introduction, as nearly every English major, and many a non-major who took English classes in high school, will be familiar with it. I am talking about none other than the prologue to Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury Tales (1387-1400), which mentions the very month we're now in. (Chaucer image from Liam's Pictures From Old Books site.) April is no stranger to poems, as John Masefield, T. S. Eliot, Sara Teasdale, Dorothy Parker, Claude McKay, Loss Pequeño Glazer, and quite a few other poets could attest, but Chaucer penned his tribute before any of them, noting as he did that this first full month of spring was also the month when England's weather cleared and thus the Medieval pilgrimages, in the case of his poem to Canterbury Cathedral, the site of St. Thomas à Becket's shrine and once one of the major Benedictine monasteries in England, began.

Chaucer's (1343-1400) greatest and truly remarkable poem is always worth citing and reading for numerous other reasons, not least its centrality to the development of vernacular English as a literary language and of English-language literature in particular. But I am reprinting the introductory portion here both because I love its music and because of its invocation of the arrival of spring in language that is as vivid and inimitable as you'll find in any poem written today. As a courtesy I'll print both the Middle English version and a contemporary version, to which I have made a few tiny changes. Enjoy!

General Prologue: Introduction to The Canterbury Tales

Here bygynneth the Book of the Tales of Caunterbury
(Here begins the Book of the Tales of Canterbury):

        Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
5 Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
10 That slepen al the nyght with open eye-
(So priketh hem Nature in hir corages);
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
15 And specially from every shires ende
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for to seke
That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seeke.
    Bifil that in that seson, on a day,
20 In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay
Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage
To Caunterbury with ful devout corage,
At nyght was come into that hostelrye
Wel nyne and twenty in a compaignye
25 Of sondry folk, by aventure yfalle
In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle,
That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde.
The chambres and the stables weren wyde,
And wel we weren esed atte beste;
30 And shortly, whan the sonne was to reste,
So hadde I spoken with hem everichon
That I was of hir felaweshipe anon,
And made forward erly for to ryse
To take our wey, ther as I yow devyse.
35 But nathelees, whil I have tyme and space,
Er that I ferther in this tale pace,
Me thynketh it acordaunt to resoun
To telle yow al the condicioun
Of ech of hem, so as it semed me,
40 And whiche they weren, and of what degree,
And eek in what array that they were inne;
And at a knyght than wol I first bigynne.

And then the more contemporary version:

    When in April the sweet showers fall
That pierce March's drought to the root and all
And bathed every vein in such liquor
To generate therein and sire the flower;
5 When Zephyr also has with his sweet breath
Filled again, in every holt and heath,
The tender shoots and leaves, and the young sun
His half-course in the sign of the Ram has run,
And many little birds make melody
10 That sleep through all the night with open eye
(So Nature pricks them on to ramp and rage)
Then folk do long to go on pilgrimage,
And palmers to go seeking out strange strands,
To distant shrines well known in distant lands.
15 And specially from every shire's end
Of England they to Canterbury went,
The holy blessed martyr there to seek
Who helped them when they lay so ill and weak
    It happened that, in that season, on a day
20 In Southwark, at the Tabard, as I lay
Ready to go on pilgrimage and start
To Canterbury, full devout at heart,
There came at nightfall to that hostelry
Some nine and twenty in a company
25 Of sundry persons who had chanced to fall
In fellowship, and pilgrims were they all
That toward Canterbury town would ride.
The rooms and stables spacious were and wide,
And well we there were eased, and of the best.
30 And briefly, when the sun had gone to rest,
So had I spoken with them, every one,
That I was of their fellowship anon,
And made agreement that we'd early rise
To take the road, as I will to you apprise.
    But nonetheless, whilst I have time and space,
Before yet further in this tale I pace,
It seems to me in accord with reason
To describe to you the state of every one
Of each of them, as it appeared to me,
40 And who they were, and what was their degree,
And even what clothes they were dressed in;
And with a knight thus will I first begin.

Many thanks to Librarius.com, and do visit their site for more of the Canterbury Tales online.

Poetry Month Begins + Poem: Gwendolyn Brooks

It's April 1, which means it's Inter/National Poetry Month! To start off the month, here's a poem by one of my favorite poets, Gwendolyn Brooks (1917-2000), that I find particularly mete for this particular national and global moment. Brooks's poem also brings to mind Langston Hughes's powerful and more bitter take, "A Dream Deferred"; her argument is wittier and more open-ended, a mirror held up to how most of us, most of the time, tend to deal with life's little and sometimes immense adversities.

kitchenette building

We are things of dry hours and the involuntary plan,
Grayed in, and gray. “Dream” makes a giddy sound, not strong
Like “rent,” “feeding a wife,” “satisfying a man.”

But could a dream send up through onion fumes
Its white and violet, fight with fried potatoes
And yesterday’s garbage ripening in the hall,
Flutter, or sing an aria down these rooms

Even if we were willing to let it in,
Had time to warm it, keep it very clean,
Anticipate a message, let it begin?

We wonder. But not well! not for a minute!
Since Number Five is out of the bathroom now,
We think of lukewarm water, hope to get in it.


Gwendolyn Brooks, “kitchenette building” from Selected Poems. Copyright © 1963 by Gwendolyn Brooks. Reprinted with the permission of the Estate of Gwendolyn Brooks.

Source: Selected Poems (1963)