Saturday, September 30, 2006
Friday, September 29, 2006
Top 10 Poetry Pet Peeves
10. Nevermind, this post is a waste of time. But railing against poet blogs is like railing against reality TV: Neither have much to do with people's actual lives and you can always surf to something else, or turn it off.
9. The professionalization, which is basically the academicization, of "creative writing." It has fostered a neglect (if not fear) of heights, of lightness and of depth, in favor of that which ripples outward along the surface. Ultimately, though, this can't be too big a deal because it can't affect the "real work," only the reception of it.
8. Attacks against the professionalization and academicization by neo-con poemeisters, which too easily tie in with the larger cultural disdain for intelligence and art and especially the two together, and might make any distaste for professionalization and academicization seem purely reactionary and rear garde.
7. The sociology of poet communities as a topic of concern and aggressive posturing. See academic (about the eighth definition or so).
6. The John Doe Award for Poetry. The Jane Doe Award for Poetry. The Tweedledee Prize in Poetry. The Tweedledum Prize in Poetry. The What-a-Year-It-Was Award in Poetry. The Etc. Prize in Etc. Poetry Etc.
5. Prose poems as a specialty—write short stories or something—and, more generally, calls for genre bending works that transgress verse/prose/fiction/essay distinctions and waft across Borders and settle in formal blind spots. Also, calls for moratoriums on certain subjects or forms.
4. Continual flogging of dead-horse confessionalism, esp. combined with über-avant anti-lyric-eye gouging.
3. Interviews—more now than you can shake the side of a barn with. Wait, that doesn't work. Whatever, from now on I shall (heh, shall) refer to interviews as killer tomatoes.
2. Chapbooks—possibly more than you can wallpaper the side of every barn in the country with. At least electronic chpbks that suck don't waste paper.
1. I keep trying to hit the bull's eye, when I'm lucky if I even nick the target. Meanwhile, kids cry for attention or something like food, dishes wait to be washed, dirty clothes get worn over and over, and wife fumes waiting for responses to questions never heard. . . . Also, giving up as a reoccurring theme.
9. The professionalization, which is basically the academicization, of "creative writing." It has fostered a neglect (if not fear) of heights, of lightness and of depth, in favor of that which ripples outward along the surface. Ultimately, though, this can't be too big a deal because it can't affect the "real work," only the reception of it.
8. Attacks against the professionalization and academicization by neo-con poemeisters, which too easily tie in with the larger cultural disdain for intelligence and art and especially the two together, and might make any distaste for professionalization and academicization seem purely reactionary and rear garde.
7. The sociology of poet communities as a topic of concern and aggressive posturing. See academic (about the eighth definition or so).
6. The John Doe Award for Poetry. The Jane Doe Award for Poetry. The Tweedledee Prize in Poetry. The Tweedledum Prize in Poetry. The What-a-Year-It-Was Award in Poetry. The Etc. Prize in Etc. Poetry Etc.
5. Prose poems as a specialty—write short stories or something—and, more generally, calls for genre bending works that transgress verse/prose/fiction/essay distinctions and waft across Borders and settle in formal blind spots. Also, calls for moratoriums on certain subjects or forms.
4. Continual flogging of dead-horse confessionalism, esp. combined with über-avant anti-lyric-eye gouging.
3. Interviews—more now than you can shake the side of a barn with. Wait, that doesn't work. Whatever, from now on I shall (heh, shall) refer to interviews as killer tomatoes.
2. Chapbooks—possibly more than you can wallpaper the side of every barn in the country with. At least electronic chpbks that suck don't waste paper.
1. I keep trying to hit the bull's eye, when I'm lucky if I even nick the target. Meanwhile, kids cry for attention or something like food, dishes wait to be washed, dirty clothes get worn over and over, and wife fumes waiting for responses to questions never heard. . . . Also, giving up as a reoccurring theme.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Spontaneous Birthday Lines for T.S. (Belated)
In 1888, T.S. Eliot was born in St. Louis.
What does it mean to be an American
in the fine art of el Dia de los Muertos altar making?
This throwdown involves beer, sausage rolls, and meat,
plenty of sour cream and butter —
yellow cake, chocolate chips, and rainbow sprinkles—
what more could you want? Grilled sausages,
ice cream, a jumpy house for the kids? Time to dust
controversy throughout the religious world?
A mummified archbishop entombed in the altar?
That could be a rock ’n’ roll rumor
petting zoo for the kids, a hidden jewel
like growing orchids in the Arctic: "I used to spend
an hour, pacing the floor, chewing pencils.
I don't know if I ever expected it to take off,
but it did—like jet propulsion." Sweater puppies
advertised under EDUCATION 2006—
Back to School Guide. People don't realize
how rich this area is in art and music,
reclaimed lumber, vintage hardware and antique glass.
From house cats to a 24-foot stegosaurus,
from eagles to the Liberty Bell
after a glass of wine at the reception
for a talented group of seasoned and emerging writers
and a host of luminaries. "It's what we came
to do." There is such a broad base of talent here
which begins with the last man on Earth.
What does it mean to be an American
in the fine art of el Dia de los Muertos altar making?
This throwdown involves beer, sausage rolls, and meat,
plenty of sour cream and butter —
yellow cake, chocolate chips, and rainbow sprinkles—
what more could you want? Grilled sausages,
ice cream, a jumpy house for the kids? Time to dust
controversy throughout the religious world?
A mummified archbishop entombed in the altar?
That could be a rock ’n’ roll rumor
petting zoo for the kids, a hidden jewel
like growing orchids in the Arctic: "I used to spend
an hour, pacing the floor, chewing pencils.
I don't know if I ever expected it to take off,
but it did—like jet propulsion." Sweater puppies
advertised under EDUCATION 2006—
Back to School Guide. People don't realize
how rich this area is in art and music,
reclaimed lumber, vintage hardware and antique glass.
From house cats to a 24-foot stegosaurus,
from eagles to the Liberty Bell
after a glass of wine at the reception
for a talented group of seasoned and emerging writers
and a host of luminaries. "It's what we came
to do." There is such a broad base of talent here
which begins with the last man on Earth.
Monday, September 25, 2006
The Bukowski Bull
Not the biggest fan of Bukowski’s poetry, but this page, from the InDesign file of yet another upcoming posthumous book (The People Look Like Flowers at Last), caught my eye—not sure I've ever seen so many useless guides dropped on a page before, but they somehow seem to improve the poem.
Friday, September 08, 2006
In Honor of the 2006 Football Season
2005
Poetry could not
sustain me through
the dark hours of
the Cowboy season.
When lusty Panther
cheerleaders got
busted, I barely
noticed the void
chicken-scratched
across its once-blank
check
or how I felt
setup.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Welcome to the World, Dash
With a cough and a cry
our bungalow grows
a little more crowded
with umbilical love
as if consciousness could
expand or wing itself
fly.
our bungalow grows
a little more crowded
with umbilical love
as if consciousness could
expand or wing itself
fly.
Strum
The content and opinions expressed on this blog do not necessarily reflect the views of, nor are they endorsed by, the poem.
The poem will not acquiesce to poet distinctions of truth and untruth, perfect and imperfect, whole and fragment, cooked and raw, objective and confessional, scratch and exhaust, home and away, center and circumference, armpit and snatch, handout and charlatan, bogus and brave, benign and beyond, child and parent, open and closed, waking and sleep, service and severance, vaccine and virus, apostle and apostate, known and unknown, forgiving and unforgiving, what and what not, more and less, self and other, tenured and diapered, all or nothing.
The poem will not acquiesce to poet distinctions of truth and untruth, perfect and imperfect, whole and fragment, cooked and raw, objective and confessional, scratch and exhaust, home and away, center and circumference, armpit and snatch, handout and charlatan, bogus and brave, benign and beyond, child and parent, open and closed, waking and sleep, service and severance, vaccine and virus, apostle and apostate, known and unknown, forgiving and unforgiving, what and what not, more and less, self and other, tenured and diapered, all or nothing.
Friday, September 01, 2006
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Stop To _____ ___ _____
Search under every veil
for the pale eyes, pale
lips of a sick child,
in each doorway glimpse
her reluctant limbs
for whom no kindness is,
to whom cares and kiss
come nightly more amiss,
whose hand no gentle hand
touches, whose eyes withstand
compassion. Say: Done, past
help, preordained waste.
Say: We know by the dead
they mourn, their bloodshed,
the maimed who are the free.
We willed it, we.
Say: Who am I to doubt?
But every vein cries out.
—Basil Bunting, no. 35 from the First Book of Odes
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Exhausted yawp, or yawn
The poem longs to be exhausted
The poem longs to be compact and infinite
(The poem longs to be speared my treatment)
The poem is a filter of silences
The poem knows the transcendent cannot be signified
The poem knows the transcendent does not cross does not in fact transcend
The poem knows what is and what isn't
The poem knows it's easy to see this for nothing is hidden
The poem loves the hole that envelops the poem and devours the poet
The poem loves the hole the poet passes through to bring the poem to the world
The poem touches it lightly
The poem accounts for as much as ninety-five percent of universal mass
(That's a lot)
The poem abhors mirrors and cell phones
The poem injects itself into the earth around a termite home
The poem is a pesticide unnatural and potentially harmful when breathed
The poem abhors the word "death" in a poem
The poem abhors "God" and "soul" and "capital"
The poem has death wrapped around its voiceless vowels
The poem does not age but advances
The poem becomes its opposite before butchering both poles slabs of cow
The poem picks its moments from its monster nose
The poem is relentless
The poem could just as easily pass out of existence
The poem comes to a stop without stopping
The poem is a stop sign in halogen headlight brilliant red glazed with rain water the white letters shivering starry-night-like at the darkness
The poem stops the poet in his animal tracks
The poem bites back, ass, and ear
The poem touches it lightly
The poem splits its head to reveal a volcano
The poem never itself erupts it exists ever on the verge of eruption
The poem races the poem traces the poem displaces
The poem itself aces high will not judge the collateral damage of war
The poem puts "do or die" in quotes
The poet can't resist
The poet could slip and fall and break his neck rushing down the stairs to pen and pad
And the poem would not shudder the poem would not blink
The poem goes on
The poem longs to be exhausted
The poet is a flamethrower fueled of the sun
The poet is a two-dimensional figure a zero on the page
The poem downloads at its own furious nonchalant pace
The poet wants to burn the poem to disk
The poem couldn't care less
The poem longs to be compact and infinite
(The poem longs to be speared my treatment)
The poem is a filter of silences
The poem knows the transcendent cannot be signified
The poem knows the transcendent does not cross does not in fact transcend
The poem knows what is and what isn't
The poem knows it's easy to see this for nothing is hidden
The poem loves the hole that envelops the poem and devours the poet
The poem loves the hole the poet passes through to bring the poem to the world
The poem touches it lightly
The poem accounts for as much as ninety-five percent of universal mass
(That's a lot)
The poem abhors mirrors and cell phones
The poem injects itself into the earth around a termite home
The poem is a pesticide unnatural and potentially harmful when breathed
The poem abhors the word "death" in a poem
The poem abhors "God" and "soul" and "capital"
The poem has death wrapped around its voiceless vowels
The poem does not age but advances
The poem becomes its opposite before butchering both poles slabs of cow
The poem picks its moments from its monster nose
The poem is relentless
The poem could just as easily pass out of existence
The poem comes to a stop without stopping
The poem is a stop sign in halogen headlight brilliant red glazed with rain water the white letters shivering starry-night-like at the darkness
The poem stops the poet in his animal tracks
The poem bites back, ass, and ear
The poem touches it lightly
The poem splits its head to reveal a volcano
The poem never itself erupts it exists ever on the verge of eruption
The poem races the poem traces the poem displaces
The poem itself aces high will not judge the collateral damage of war
The poem puts "do or die" in quotes
The poet can't resist
The poet could slip and fall and break his neck rushing down the stairs to pen and pad
And the poem would not shudder the poem would not blink
The poem goes on
The poem longs to be exhausted
The poet is a flamethrower fueled of the sun
The poet is a two-dimensional figure a zero on the page
The poem downloads at its own furious nonchalant pace
The poet wants to burn the poem to disk
The poem couldn't care less
Last night's roasted
The poem doesn't fear the soft surrealism of American poetry that blunts the blue serrated edge jagging through alternating black and green landscapes
The safe surprises that tug with baby teeth at the French fell seams of the red parachute in the oblivion sky
The poem trusts what will endure or else it does not care
While the poet frets, warped guitar, and the poet stews, last night's roasted carrots and red potatoes.
The safe surprises that tug with baby teeth at the French fell seams of the red parachute in the oblivion sky
The poem trusts what will endure or else it does not care
While the poet frets, warped guitar, and the poet stews, last night's roasted carrots and red potatoes.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Nobody in the books
As if I have enough attention (or time but who has that) to give to one blog, which is destined to be neglected for another long period of time, if not right after Dash finally comes sliding out into the world, due date was today now yesterday, then shortly thereafter, last week I went and produced a spin-off, Nobody in the books. It's nothing, really, but a gathering of links to online poems, but it has meant that much of whatever "free" computer time I have (of course, things in real life, hmm, are never quite stated that way, I'm supposed to be one of the adults in the household after all) has been spent, and will be spent assuming it's there to be spent, surfing through back issues and such. I'm not sure there's any point to it. I used to do stuff like this, photocopying or typing up poems, and collecting them in binders, but that fell wayside years ago. I suppose this is a kind of reconnecting with that impulse. It's times like this... who? what? huh? Shit.
I hate that "the sound of one hand clapping" has become a cliche. Because this is it.
The poem in her bed pulling her stuffed animals toward her
The poem is out of the crib and into the twin
The poem needs the animals to sleep
The poem does not fear dreams the poem is afraid of
The poem pulls the covers up to her nose
The poem is mandatory at a certain point of the night
The poem is the sleep more than the sleeper
The sleeper cannot be separated for the poem is a siamese twin
The poem steps off a short yellow bus with the help of the driver
The poem does not fear the driver only the drive
The poem walks into the arms of its mother
Snaps out of its dream for the poem cannot walk
The poem is helped into the wheelchair
The poem's mother smiles to the driver and steps behind the chair
The poem's mother will push
The poem up the ramp through the brown brown row of public housing
The poem sleeps above my computer nook
The poem keeps me typing
The poem is the severed limbs of Little Bear
The poem bleeds when you scratch it
The puppet called Monster dances on the limbs of Little Bear
The poem can't control the puppet
The driver of the bus has driven the animals into darkness
The computer nook palpitates with a palpable starkness
The poem delivers the words on a slate gray vibration ruffling under the yellow walls
The poem opens and disappears
The poem beats the head of Little Bear against the bathroom wall
The poem is not potty trained
The poem breathes deeply hugging her stuffed animals
The poem rolls to the floor
Wakes and cries and mommy and daddy rush to her surprise
The poem needs to be soothed and told Tomorrow will be a good day
I hate that "the sound of one hand clapping" has become a cliche. Because this is it.
The poem in her bed pulling her stuffed animals toward her
The poem is out of the crib and into the twin
The poem needs the animals to sleep
The poem does not fear dreams the poem is afraid of
The poem pulls the covers up to her nose
The poem is mandatory at a certain point of the night
The poem is the sleep more than the sleeper
The sleeper cannot be separated for the poem is a siamese twin
The poem steps off a short yellow bus with the help of the driver
The poem does not fear the driver only the drive
The poem walks into the arms of its mother
Snaps out of its dream for the poem cannot walk
The poem is helped into the wheelchair
The poem's mother smiles to the driver and steps behind the chair
The poem's mother will push
The poem up the ramp through the brown brown row of public housing
The poem sleeps above my computer nook
The poem keeps me typing
The poem is the severed limbs of Little Bear
The poem bleeds when you scratch it
The puppet called Monster dances on the limbs of Little Bear
The poem can't control the puppet
The driver of the bus has driven the animals into darkness
The computer nook palpitates with a palpable starkness
The poem delivers the words on a slate gray vibration ruffling under the yellow walls
The poem opens and disappears
The poem beats the head of Little Bear against the bathroom wall
The poem is not potty trained
The poem breathes deeply hugging her stuffed animals
The poem rolls to the floor
Wakes and cries and mommy and daddy rush to her surprise
The poem needs to be soothed and told Tomorrow will be a good day
Friday, August 25, 2006
Poem Cube Poem
Finally visited Jason Nelson's Poem Cube last week. Improvised a poem for the Bridgewater Fair, which was an exciting day for Vaughn. Here's a slightly revised version of what I posted there.
At the Bridgewater Fair
Goats are lions
The quiet roads are Mia Farrow
When the clouds cattle over
We milk the day
Bees will chase us
My daughter my wife and me
Where there is no bridge
And the only water is rain
The sky pulled tight as Joan Rivers
Ah Connecticut decay
Bees sting our cattle hearts
We are the goats my daughter feeds
From her hands—to our quiet fair wells
The rain means a chance to milk
The wells we lion and chase ourselves through.
At the Bridgewater Fair
Goats are lions
The quiet roads are Mia Farrow
When the clouds cattle over
We milk the day
Bees will chase us
My daughter my wife and me
Where there is no bridge
And the only water is rain
The sky pulled tight as Joan Rivers
Ah Connecticut decay
Bees sting our cattle hearts
We are the goats my daughter feeds
From her hands—to our quiet fair wells
The rain means a chance to milk
The wells we lion and chase ourselves through.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Friday, August 11, 2006
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Monday, August 07, 2006
On the New Design
It might not be pretty, but it's at least homemade. I hope to be making some small improvements in the near future. But with Dashiell set to be born in the next few weeks, and two bedrooms needing painting, I'll probably just stop paying attention to the blog altogether for another two years.
Friday, August 04, 2006
On a Review of Pieces of Air in the Epic
How is writing a volume of poetry based on a concept tricky business? How often do contemporary American poets do this? How often has it been done in the past? What is the success rate? Is writing a single poem not tricky business? What makes Hillman's hands so adept? What is the pitfall she is avoiding? How is tricky business a pitfall? If air can change and is therefore a master of disguise, what is the missing premise? How is an affected trope distinguished exactly in a work which self-consciously draws attention to its artifice? What is negative about an affected trope in such a context? Is it the definition of "affected?" What does it mean to call wind, space, and breath different guises of air? Is the difference between them supposed to be vast? Is the difference even moderate? Why don't we always recognize whether the poem is about air in general, or about air in detail, or about air doing something? Does Hillman place extra space between words and phrases? Are such spaces just to provide pauses and enticements to pondering possibilities? Is such intention as simple as opening a window, "to let in some air," or is there a deeper, more specific reason?
What is Hillman's approach? And what does it have in common with "language poetry?" Is all opaque writing influenced by the L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E movement? Why not replace transition with transformation? What is the line being tip-toed here? Is the import such that we could not bring ourselves to make the edit completely? If something is cryptic what does it matter whether it's intentional or not? What is the skill required? Syntax is torqued, pronouns shift, and a griffin appears: why a griffin? Why did Hillman choose the tired techniques of the post-avant over the tired techniques of the traditional lyric? Are materials themselves "a little bit of [meaning]"? Why not explicate the little bit of meaning that is there? Or is all meaning made in the mind of a reader? Was this an interesting thought in 1968? Is it an interesting thought in 2006? Were such a thought laid bare and broken into five relatively wordy lines would the result be recognized as "absolutely dazzling" by the post-avant activist? What is it about Hillman's lines that should make readers want to "put [the materials] together" themselves? Does every response of "What the fuck? This is nonsense?" mean the reader is confused or alienated? Why would such a response be inaccurate here? Should the reader feel bad that little epics have hurt feelings because they're not big epics? Is "little epic" French for orgasm? What would Shakespeare do with this material? What about Whitman? What about Tu Fu? If those aren't fair questions, what if we make adjustments for inflation? What are the people who find "exactly what they are looking for" in Hillman's work looking for? What is the freedom her poems achieve? Is it the freedom of a former slave? Could a reader be something other than liberated by this freedom? Could the freedom lead to a kind of oppression? Or is it really, truly a complete freedom? Is it possible? Is a former slave ever anything else?
It may be true that "we must trust" Hillman, but should we? What hints are there that it will be worth our time? What good is it if only "she knows the way through her poems?" What if I get distracted in the middle of a poem, how will I find my way back into it? Is the path different every time? Most of the time? Some of the time? If only she knows the way, but the reader is making the meaning, then who is in control? What if I'm the reader and I don't feel like engaging in this tug-of-war? Am I included in the "we" of this review? Do we ever get the feeling that we're in a not-for-profit version of The Matrix? Is this how we want to spend our days before we die? If avoiding order is a worthy goal why make poems and not bombs? How can we tell that Hillman is "willful" in her violent treatment of sense? If a great disorder is an order, is the poet back where she started? If a great disorder isn't an order, why not make every poem out of random words plucked out of a hat? How will readers piece together meanings when they can't even acquire expectations? I could have the expectation that something unexpected will constantly be happening, can't I? When one expects something unexpected is the unexpected very interesting? Even if it's possible, could it possibly be likely? How would one figure? What is significant about Hillman's "fractured, refracted, dispersed by space" vision? How is this not an affected trope?
What does the injection of "pure lyricism" into a non-lyric poem do for the poem? How about to the reader? Is it beautiful? The "intersection of abstraction and the real world" may be "a fair description of what we encounter in subsequent poems," but isn't it also a fair description of what we encounter in the poems of any number of post-Modern poets? Why not the periwinkle noise of sparrows? Or the pepper spray noise of sparrows? Would "someone else's dream" be stranger than mine? Do dreams bleed off the trim or do they cry? Are moments of clarity and precision always this dizzy and vague? Have we, perhaps, reached a point of agreement?
Are lyrical threads and narrative lines necessarily non-associative? What is the form Hillman takes away from her poems? How does association help her get to the heart of her poems exactly? Could there be an ordering of words, random or otherwise, in which the words don't accumulate in sense, here broadly defined, and sound? How does "often whimsical" language lead to an "intentionally cryptic" approach? Would being willfully whimsical in the course of being "deliberately opaque" imply that the whimsy is just affect? Is the incomprehensibility of the world an accomplished fact? The existence of meaning is arguably meaningless, but is there really no order in the world? If Hillman's work is like holding up a mirror to the world, why not hold up a mirror to the world and forget the words? What is gained by holding up an opaque mirror? Why not a self-portrait in a convex mirror?
Wouldn't the "I" have to feel less like a narrator in a non-narrative poem? Why use "I" to enter into self-referentiality? Why not a greater disordering of pronouns? Is this a case of being trapped in a tank? Where is the air here? If air is invisible why are there words in the poems at all? Why not an epic composed of blank pages? Why write lines that "create and keep a certain distance" when the reader must trust the writer to blaze a path through the poems? Is this supposed to introduce air into the text, as if it's merely an affected trope? What does it mean to write an existential riff and include it in a book of poems, to publish it and wait for it to be quoted in a review and recognized as such? Would any reader have thought it more heartfelt question than intellectual musing? More question period than musing? Why bother? What is the greater sensibility behind these poems? Greater than who? Greater than what? If a question is a rhetorical question, to the point that the question mark is left out in favor of a period, why not say: this is a rhetorical question? Who could argue that idle questions aren't the devil's balls?
Wouldn't it be better to be whimsically political or cryptically political than forthrightly political? Why the change of heart? How long ago did we reach the point where it became a cliche to state that being political in a poem is "risky?" Crossing the street is risky and it's a cliche, too, but why should the reader care? If Hillman's language gains force when being forthright, why not be forthright all of the time? Most of the time? More of the time? Has she achieved the perfect one-part-this / five-parts-that balance? How can we tell? Why are the moments of unmistakable meaning interesting when contrasted with the abstract wording surrounding them? Is bluntly referencing the president more political than opaquely referencing the world in which he lives that has no order? What would an American poem of epic sweep be without Greek references? Am I included in the "we" of this review? So she's saying we're all side stories? Is this the news Williams was referring to? Why only include "the gods, men and women of classical mythology?" What about the rest? What about the breath of all the people in all of the cultures of all history? Shouldn't that breath be joining ours, too, in this affected trope we call a world?
What is Hillman's approach? And what does it have in common with "language poetry?" Is all opaque writing influenced by the L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E movement? Why not replace transition with transformation? What is the line being tip-toed here? Is the import such that we could not bring ourselves to make the edit completely? If something is cryptic what does it matter whether it's intentional or not? What is the skill required? Syntax is torqued, pronouns shift, and a griffin appears: why a griffin? Why did Hillman choose the tired techniques of the post-avant over the tired techniques of the traditional lyric? Are materials themselves "a little bit of [meaning]"? Why not explicate the little bit of meaning that is there? Or is all meaning made in the mind of a reader? Was this an interesting thought in 1968? Is it an interesting thought in 2006? Were such a thought laid bare and broken into five relatively wordy lines would the result be recognized as "absolutely dazzling" by the post-avant activist? What is it about Hillman's lines that should make readers want to "put [the materials] together" themselves? Does every response of "What the fuck? This is nonsense?" mean the reader is confused or alienated? Why would such a response be inaccurate here? Should the reader feel bad that little epics have hurt feelings because they're not big epics? Is "little epic" French for orgasm? What would Shakespeare do with this material? What about Whitman? What about Tu Fu? If those aren't fair questions, what if we make adjustments for inflation? What are the people who find "exactly what they are looking for" in Hillman's work looking for? What is the freedom her poems achieve? Is it the freedom of a former slave? Could a reader be something other than liberated by this freedom? Could the freedom lead to a kind of oppression? Or is it really, truly a complete freedom? Is it possible? Is a former slave ever anything else?
It may be true that "we must trust" Hillman, but should we? What hints are there that it will be worth our time? What good is it if only "she knows the way through her poems?" What if I get distracted in the middle of a poem, how will I find my way back into it? Is the path different every time? Most of the time? Some of the time? If only she knows the way, but the reader is making the meaning, then who is in control? What if I'm the reader and I don't feel like engaging in this tug-of-war? Am I included in the "we" of this review? Do we ever get the feeling that we're in a not-for-profit version of The Matrix? Is this how we want to spend our days before we die? If avoiding order is a worthy goal why make poems and not bombs? How can we tell that Hillman is "willful" in her violent treatment of sense? If a great disorder is an order, is the poet back where she started? If a great disorder isn't an order, why not make every poem out of random words plucked out of a hat? How will readers piece together meanings when they can't even acquire expectations? I could have the expectation that something unexpected will constantly be happening, can't I? When one expects something unexpected is the unexpected very interesting? Even if it's possible, could it possibly be likely? How would one figure? What is significant about Hillman's "fractured, refracted, dispersed by space" vision? How is this not an affected trope?
What does the injection of "pure lyricism" into a non-lyric poem do for the poem? How about to the reader? Is it beautiful? The "intersection of abstraction and the real world" may be "a fair description of what we encounter in subsequent poems," but isn't it also a fair description of what we encounter in the poems of any number of post-Modern poets? Why not the periwinkle noise of sparrows? Or the pepper spray noise of sparrows? Would "someone else's dream" be stranger than mine? Do dreams bleed off the trim or do they cry? Are moments of clarity and precision always this dizzy and vague? Have we, perhaps, reached a point of agreement?
Are lyrical threads and narrative lines necessarily non-associative? What is the form Hillman takes away from her poems? How does association help her get to the heart of her poems exactly? Could there be an ordering of words, random or otherwise, in which the words don't accumulate in sense, here broadly defined, and sound? How does "often whimsical" language lead to an "intentionally cryptic" approach? Would being willfully whimsical in the course of being "deliberately opaque" imply that the whimsy is just affect? Is the incomprehensibility of the world an accomplished fact? The existence of meaning is arguably meaningless, but is there really no order in the world? If Hillman's work is like holding up a mirror to the world, why not hold up a mirror to the world and forget the words? What is gained by holding up an opaque mirror? Why not a self-portrait in a convex mirror?
Wouldn't the "I" have to feel less like a narrator in a non-narrative poem? Why use "I" to enter into self-referentiality? Why not a greater disordering of pronouns? Is this a case of being trapped in a tank? Where is the air here? If air is invisible why are there words in the poems at all? Why not an epic composed of blank pages? Why write lines that "create and keep a certain distance" when the reader must trust the writer to blaze a path through the poems? Is this supposed to introduce air into the text, as if it's merely an affected trope? What does it mean to write an existential riff and include it in a book of poems, to publish it and wait for it to be quoted in a review and recognized as such? Would any reader have thought it more heartfelt question than intellectual musing? More question period than musing? Why bother? What is the greater sensibility behind these poems? Greater than who? Greater than what? If a question is a rhetorical question, to the point that the question mark is left out in favor of a period, why not say: this is a rhetorical question? Who could argue that idle questions aren't the devil's balls?
Wouldn't it be better to be whimsically political or cryptically political than forthrightly political? Why the change of heart? How long ago did we reach the point where it became a cliche to state that being political in a poem is "risky?" Crossing the street is risky and it's a cliche, too, but why should the reader care? If Hillman's language gains force when being forthright, why not be forthright all of the time? Most of the time? More of the time? Has she achieved the perfect one-part-this / five-parts-that balance? How can we tell? Why are the moments of unmistakable meaning interesting when contrasted with the abstract wording surrounding them? Is bluntly referencing the president more political than opaquely referencing the world in which he lives that has no order? What would an American poem of epic sweep be without Greek references? Am I included in the "we" of this review? So she's saying we're all side stories? Is this the news Williams was referring to? Why only include "the gods, men and women of classical mythology?" What about the rest? What about the breath of all the people in all of the cultures of all history? Shouldn't that breath be joining ours, too, in this affected trope we call a world?
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Sketches Comment
With Book of Sketches, Kerouac's main problem is being saddled with Penguin as the publisher, which is no longer in the habit of producing fine books. The best example of their decline in quality is the cheap paper on which they choose to print most of their Penguin Poets titles. They didn't really give Sketches much design attention, basically using a template: the typical Penguin Classics these days is set in Sabon 10.25/12.25; Sketches is set in Sabon 10/12.5. It's clear that, for Penguin, poetry is primarily seen as a money loser and hence something not to be taken seriously. From what I could tell, the attitude is not just shared by the higher ups, but by the design and production staff as well. The result is a kind of shabbiness, a McBook not much removed, as an object, from a mass market romance novel, but with a nicer cover (though the kerning has been adjusted nicely throughout Sketches which wouldn't happen with a mass market).
That said, matching the spacing and indentations to the manuscript present a moderate typesetting challenge which has been carried through about as well as it could within the constraints of Penguin's requirements. I don't have the book on hand, but as I recall there are at least a handful of instances where space breaks occur mid sentence. They belong there. It's too bad Penguin didn't elect to scan and include, say, at least a half dozen pages of the manuscript, so that readers could get a feel for the source document and judge for themselves whether the translation is successful.
An insightful introduction by someone like Clark Coolidge, or any number of other contemporary poets (Tom Clark or Dale Smith spring to mind), would have been a fine improvement, but the important thing is that the work, in all of its unevenness, is at least available.
That said, matching the spacing and indentations to the manuscript present a moderate typesetting challenge which has been carried through about as well as it could within the constraints of Penguin's requirements. I don't have the book on hand, but as I recall there are at least a handful of instances where space breaks occur mid sentence. They belong there. It's too bad Penguin didn't elect to scan and include, say, at least a half dozen pages of the manuscript, so that readers could get a feel for the source document and judge for themselves whether the translation is successful.
An insightful introduction by someone like Clark Coolidge, or any number of other contemporary poets (Tom Clark or Dale Smith spring to mind), would have been a fine improvement, but the important thing is that the work, in all of its unevenness, is at least available.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Melancholia's Tremulous Dreadlocks
The first issue of Andrew Lundwall's new poetry Webzine, Melancholia's Tremulous Dreadlocks is up. Some fine poems by Chris Toll and Eileen Tabios, among others. Ambitiously, Andrew is looking to update/publish MTD bi-weekly. If I had any readers, I might suggest they send some good work along to him to help get this project rolling.
Friday, July 28, 2006
Review
Robert Creeley,
sage green crayon,
whose poetry
is Peter Pan,
whose voice might age,
be truth, but told:
against the grain,
does not get old.
By verse I mean
not to insult,
just to suggest
that magics jolt
thru such ample
space of words
that hold sudden,
timeless turns
thru the secret
world not so—
the not not secret
world of we know.
—July 8, 2004
sage green crayon,
whose poetry
is Peter Pan,
whose voice might age,
be truth, but told:
against the grain,
does not get old.
By verse I mean
not to insult,
just to suggest
that magics jolt
thru such ample
space of words
that hold sudden,
timeless turns
thru the secret
world not so—
the not not secret
world of we know.
—July 8, 2004
Monday, July 17, 2006
The Age of Vinyl
Dioxins from Louisiana
manufacturing plants
migrate on the winds
and concentrate
in Great Lakes fish.
Dioxins are found
in hazardous concentrations
in the tissues of whales
and arctic polar bears.
Dioxins concentrate in
breast milk to the point
that human infants now
receive high doses, orders
of magnitude greater than
those of the average adult.
The most potent synthetic
carcinogen ever tested
in laboratory animals.
A dioxin cloud hung
over lower Manhattan.
manufacturing plants
migrate on the winds
and concentrate
in Great Lakes fish.
Dioxins are found
in hazardous concentrations
in the tissues of whales
and arctic polar bears.
Dioxins concentrate in
breast milk to the point
that human infants now
receive high doses, orders
of magnitude greater than
those of the average adult.
The most potent synthetic
carcinogen ever tested
in laboratory animals.
A dioxin cloud hung
over lower Manhattan.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Monday, July 10, 2006
Things To Do This Week In Utah
"RIP YOUR STRIP" Let the Utah Rivers Council
show you how to xeriscape your parking strip
and save water at the same time.
PORCUPINE HILL CLIMB - raise money for cancer
research at the Porcupine Pub & Grill. Meet
at 10:30 a.m. back at the grill
for an awards ceremony and a breakfast.
learn the basics of photography
RED BUTTE GARDEN "Splash!"
INDIGO GIRLS
SOLD OUT.
hang around to see
if anything
becomes available.
explore the art of Egypt, Greece and Rome
Utah Museum of Fine Arts,
410 Campus Center Drive
$100.
IN THE PARK Intertribal pow-wow demonstrations
Learn how to make sourdough egg muffins at noon
make animal-themed puppets for the County Fair
Pick up a wish list at the children's desk.
let those wacky scientists from Mad Science
show you how to discover science stuff
in your own backyard
Bring your coolers and blankets or low-rider chairs.
Mark your calendars for
high school reunion
at the Homestead Resort
sign up for classes with master magician
self-defense awareness workshop
show you how to xeriscape your parking strip
and save water at the same time.
PORCUPINE HILL CLIMB - raise money for cancer
research at the Porcupine Pub & Grill. Meet
at 10:30 a.m. back at the grill
for an awards ceremony and a breakfast.
learn the basics of photography
RED BUTTE GARDEN "Splash!"
INDIGO GIRLS
SOLD OUT.
hang around to see
if anything
becomes available.
explore the art of Egypt, Greece and Rome
Utah Museum of Fine Arts,
410 Campus Center Drive
$100.
IN THE PARK Intertribal pow-wow demonstrations
Learn how to make sourdough egg muffins at noon
make animal-themed puppets for the County Fair
Pick up a wish list at the children's desk.
let those wacky scientists from Mad Science
show you how to discover science stuff
in your own backyard
Bring your coolers and blankets or low-rider chairs.
Mark your calendars for
high school reunion
at the Homestead Resort
sign up for classes with master magician
self-defense awareness workshop
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Who Cares About Literature Anyway?
Poems which start out by referencing the act of writing are easily dismissed as too self-involved and usually have to be fairly well-written to be published. This is especially true when the poem's arguably provocative thesis is quickly dispensed with because of faulty memory, though the rest of the poem's images purport to offer figurative support. When the poem proceeds into cleverness and an even clunkier rhythm than it started out with, a reasonable mind would think that even a fringe literary magazine would pass on it. Throw in a weather report, a platitude, and a brave but unsuccessful attempt to retrieve an image from cliche-ville, and most certainly the poem is destined for a fistful of rejections and, at best (if the circumstances are right) publication in the juvenilia section of the late poet's collected works, perhaps on the strength of its humorous final stanza—even though, there too, the lineation is questionable. But none of this applies for established poets, in which case, the poem will appear in a respected-by-most biannual poetry journal. If it were only that, I wouldn't be writing this. But what's more, the poem, in this case Franz Wright's "Publication Date" will be selected for the Poetry 180 program ("a poem a day for american [sic] high schools"—all lowercase: so contemporary, so cool) so that the nation's youth can be subjected to poor writing and equate that with poetry for the rest of their lives. Yee-hah. Go poet laureates! Keep fighting the good fight.
All poets have their clunkers—and if I can be considered a poet it's despite the fact that most-if-not-all of my poems have been just that—but there's no excuse for whichever editor (is this still Billy's gig?) selected the poem for such a high-profile space—and for pedagogical purposes to boot. Then again, some readers really like this poem. When Wright's latest book was reviewed in The Harvard Crimson, the poem was highlighted for its "slapstick desperation" and the reviewer finds the poem a hoot. Last year, poet Peter Pereira felt compelled to post the poem on his blog. (But then, Pereira's next book is titled What's Written on the Body and the judgement of any poet who would use that for a book title after Jeanette Winterson's brilliant novel Written on the Body is at least suspect.)
Anyway, if all the poets who stand around lamenting the lack of poetry readers, young and old, really want to get kids, at least, interested, then they should start a campaign to ban it. Just ban poetry books from ever being on school grounds: automatic suspension for any student caught with On Earth or Ring of Fire. But be clear that rock star poetry doesn't count under the ban, to help avoid confusion. Also, be sure to demand that rating labels be placed on all poetry and poetry-related book covers. You may have to wait a few years for the stigma to fade, but then watch: The loot will accrue in stacks and rolls.
All poets have their clunkers—and if I can be considered a poet it's despite the fact that most-if-not-all of my poems have been just that—but there's no excuse for whichever editor (is this still Billy's gig?) selected the poem for such a high-profile space—and for pedagogical purposes to boot. Then again, some readers really like this poem. When Wright's latest book was reviewed in The Harvard Crimson, the poem was highlighted for its "slapstick desperation" and the reviewer finds the poem a hoot. Last year, poet Peter Pereira felt compelled to post the poem on his blog. (But then, Pereira's next book is titled What's Written on the Body and the judgement of any poet who would use that for a book title after Jeanette Winterson's brilliant novel Written on the Body is at least suspect.)
Anyway, if all the poets who stand around lamenting the lack of poetry readers, young and old, really want to get kids, at least, interested, then they should start a campaign to ban it. Just ban poetry books from ever being on school grounds: automatic suspension for any student caught with On Earth or Ring of Fire. But be clear that rock star poetry doesn't count under the ban, to help avoid confusion. Also, be sure to demand that rating labels be placed on all poetry and poetry-related book covers. You may have to wait a few years for the stigma to fade, but then watch: The loot will accrue in stacks and rolls.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Chicks Flushing, But I Can't Eat a Grouse
Poetry Daily has posted an awesomely bad poem today about flushing birds. I can only imagine that "Furniture of the World" was published in the Boston Review because the author resides in Cambridge. Perhaps she met somebody? It's funny how PD reports that a poem is selected "for its literary quality"? I thought PD was trying to attract new readers of poetry, not send them scurrying away? (Stop trying already! All of you!)
It's not clear whether the birds are being flushed or if they're actually doing the flushing themselves. Maybe it's a metaphor, you know, like there's a bunch of chicks in the lady's room that I'm spying on. That, at least, might explain why I fall to my knees. And I have to assume she's talking to me, since the "you" of the poem isn't defined at all, not even hinted at (I'll take hinted at!) as being herself or some lover or other friend or relative or enemy. Maybe the birds are simply turning red, and the poet just didn't care that many readers will laugh at the first line as they initially read the opening words to the sound of a toilet. The poet won't deign to say why the bird would be turning red; but it's too bad she couldn't at least specify what bird it was, that could clear things up. Bird specificity shows up in the next line, though, with "a hazel grouse" I couldn't eat for some reason. (I don't normally eat a whole fowl anyway, just a breast usually.) Do American restaurants serve hazel grouse? Why not a bigger grouse? Why not a kind of turkey or chicken or duck? I'd love to cook somebody's goose. But at lest she tells me why I couldn't eat a grouse for what I make of the chicks flushing the lady's room; it's because of "the soft berth of [my] own / great reliable outcome." Apparently I have a soft "spot" reserved for the ship of the things that I almost always do. Or maybe the berth is a bed to bunk in once my day is done? Who knows? In the real world something is configured in order to meet certain requirements. In this poem I configure myself "out of the quiet blood of beasts" (although quiet blood would seem to be blood of the dead, but even still: my dad was not quiet, and: are you calling my mom a beast?) so that I may be a toy. Why would I make myself into a toy? Aren't there better ways to become mild as a giraffe? Is this there to reassure me that I'm only a peeping tom with my "discrete, unrequired interest" in the flushing chicks. That being "mild" I'm really harmless, not a stalker, or a rapist. Well, jeez, that's nice to know. Did I really have to configure myself to do that? Are you sure I didn't have any help? Ah well, just cut out a phrase from a catalog and stick it over the words. There, we have a poem. Let's just hope somebody doesn't "tie [it] to a chair with rope / and torture a confession out of it."
It's not clear whether the birds are being flushed or if they're actually doing the flushing themselves. Maybe it's a metaphor, you know, like there's a bunch of chicks in the lady's room that I'm spying on. That, at least, might explain why I fall to my knees. And I have to assume she's talking to me, since the "you" of the poem isn't defined at all, not even hinted at (I'll take hinted at!) as being herself or some lover or other friend or relative or enemy. Maybe the birds are simply turning red, and the poet just didn't care that many readers will laugh at the first line as they initially read the opening words to the sound of a toilet. The poet won't deign to say why the bird would be turning red; but it's too bad she couldn't at least specify what bird it was, that could clear things up. Bird specificity shows up in the next line, though, with "a hazel grouse" I couldn't eat for some reason. (I don't normally eat a whole fowl anyway, just a breast usually.) Do American restaurants serve hazel grouse? Why not a bigger grouse? Why not a kind of turkey or chicken or duck? I'd love to cook somebody's goose. But at lest she tells me why I couldn't eat a grouse for what I make of the chicks flushing the lady's room; it's because of "the soft berth of [my] own / great reliable outcome." Apparently I have a soft "spot" reserved for the ship of the things that I almost always do. Or maybe the berth is a bed to bunk in once my day is done? Who knows? In the real world something is configured in order to meet certain requirements. In this poem I configure myself "out of the quiet blood of beasts" (although quiet blood would seem to be blood of the dead, but even still: my dad was not quiet, and: are you calling my mom a beast?) so that I may be a toy. Why would I make myself into a toy? Aren't there better ways to become mild as a giraffe? Is this there to reassure me that I'm only a peeping tom with my "discrete, unrequired interest" in the flushing chicks. That being "mild" I'm really harmless, not a stalker, or a rapist. Well, jeez, that's nice to know. Did I really have to configure myself to do that? Are you sure I didn't have any help? Ah well, just cut out a phrase from a catalog and stick it over the words. There, we have a poem. Let's just hope somebody doesn't "tie [it] to a chair with rope / and torture a confession out of it."
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Berman's Poet Nicknames
With NFL training camps still a few weeks away from "kicking off," Chris Berman, ESPN's self-annointed football swami, was kind enough to take some time to email me his "top ten" contemporary American poet nicknames. I'm not sure why the list goes to thirteen. Is he two-upping Nigel Tufnel? Alluding to Wallace "Even" Stevens? I didn't ask.
John "Lightning And" Ashbery
Charles "Burn, Baby," Bernstein
Louise "I'm Rubber, You're" Glück
Lisa "Anecdote Of The" Jarnot
Michael "Hi, I'm Troy" McClure
Laura "Call Me Dean" Moriarty
Eileen "I Can See For Miles And" Myles
Alice "She Loves Me, She Loves Me" Notley
Hoa "You Know, You Just Can't" Nguyen
Linda "The Past Is" Pastan
Kit "Here's To You, Mrs." Robinson
Mark "One Day I Wrote Her Name Upon The" Strand
Anne "Another Brick In The" Waldman
John "Lightning And" Ashbery
Charles "Burn, Baby," Bernstein
Louise "I'm Rubber, You're" Glück
Lisa "Anecdote Of The" Jarnot
Michael "Hi, I'm Troy" McClure
Laura "Call Me Dean" Moriarty
Eileen "I Can See For Miles And" Myles
Alice "She Loves Me, She Loves Me" Notley
Hoa "You Know, You Just Can't" Nguyen
Linda "The Past Is" Pastan
Kit "Here's To You, Mrs." Robinson
Mark "One Day I Wrote Her Name Upon The" Strand
Anne "Another Brick In The" Waldman
Look It, A Fragment
Vaughn composed her first poem last fall. She was a few months shy of her second birthday, and KC was at work. Vaughn was doing well speaking-wise, already stringing sentences together with relative ease, so I figured why not ask her if she wanted to write a poem. Excited, she said yes and grabbed my pen. I found another pen as she spoke the first line or two. But no sooner had I jotted down the lines in her oversized art pad, her mind was onto something else: setting up a party for her stuffed animals. I decided I would keep writing down whatever she said. After a few lines, she became curious, came over and looked down at what I was writing. The poetry idea was on again. She spoke a few, unprompted lines about the moon and Sharma (our cat). Then she went back to her stuffed-animal party. I continued writing down whatever she said; soon she returned again to see what I was doing. She swayed herself around a bit, then declaimed a few, final lines. I titled the poem "Look It," since those words (obviously they "should be" "Look At") started three lines, including the last two. When KC got home from work later that afternoon, it was a great surprise. Not just the project itself, but also the flow, the rhythm, and the interesting way it captured Vaughn's stream of consciousness. We talked about how we had to type up the poem. We talked about it again later in the week. And later in the month. And then the next month. Unfortunately we never did type it up, and of course the art pad became pretty mangled as fall turned to winter turned to spring. Eventually it was tossed. Now what's funny is how we sometimes will struggle to remember a phrase or an image—grasping at fragments, then holding onto them, repeating them slowly as if to get some sense of the forgotten work to which they once belonged. It's not unlike reading fragments of Anacreon or Sappho. "Look it my pen everybody. / Look it my pen."
Monday, July 03, 2006
Clock Radio
Modern digital alarm clocks
typically featured a radio alarm
as well as a beeping or buzzing
alarm, allowing a sleeper to awaken
to music or news rather than harsh
noise. Most offered a "snooze button,"
a large button on the top that stopped
the alarm and set it to ring again
a short time later. Some alarm clocks
also had a "sleep" button, which turned
the radio on for a set amount of time,
typically one hour. This was useful
for people who liked to fall asleep
with the radio on. Later digital clock
radios often used a battery backup
to maintain the time in the event
of a power outage. Without this feature
digital clocks would reset themselves
incorrectly when power was restored,
causing the alarm trigger to fail.
typically featured a radio alarm
as well as a beeping or buzzing
alarm, allowing a sleeper to awaken
to music or news rather than harsh
noise. Most offered a "snooze button,"
a large button on the top that stopped
the alarm and set it to ring again
a short time later. Some alarm clocks
also had a "sleep" button, which turned
the radio on for a set amount of time,
typically one hour. This was useful
for people who liked to fall asleep
with the radio on. Later digital clock
radios often used a battery backup
to maintain the time in the event
of a power outage. Without this feature
digital clocks would reset themselves
incorrectly when power was restored,
causing the alarm trigger to fail.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
People Who Died
With my father's-day twenty-percent-off coupon and seven five-dollar reward certificates in hand I was finally able to afford The Collected Poems of Ted Berrigan—a fifty-dollar book for seven and change: not too shabby. He's been a favorite poet ever since I first came across his work about twelve years ago. I actually had to bring my copy of his Selected Poems into one of my undergraduate poetry workshops so the professor could familiarize herself. She wasn't all that impressed—you know, his poems didn't fit the workshop model all that well. Hard to believe that was nine years ago already. In the one graduate poetry writing course I finished, none of the other fifteen or so students had even heard of Ted (one or two people at least knew the anti-Vietnam War protester, Daniel Berrigan, and thought I meant him). Even that class was already six years ago: the excuse there, I guess, is that it was a small, state school filled with evening students who, mostly, had real jobs and families to raise during the day. Three years before that I had quickly dropped out of a "top-twenty" MFA program: cost too much to stick around and find out what their excuse was. (Yeah, Silliman's blog post yesterday about unread grad students may have stirred up some bitterness; maybe I should meditate later. ) Anyway, somewhere back there my point was going to be that Berrigan's Collected Poems was sorely needed, not just for dedicated readers, many of whom like me were too young to dig his poems when he was still kickin, but so that more people can see what he was all about, that he's not so easily dismissed, and so that more workshop leaders from now on might be spared the embarrassment of not being hip to his words.
But I was a little surprised by Alice Notely's note to Ted's most well-known poem, "People Who Died," even if what relative notoriety it has is due to the Jim Carroll song." She reports: "Ted considered that with this work he had invented a form which anyone might use to write a poem. That is, every person has a list of 'people who died.' Jim Carroll took Ted at his word and wrote and recorded a song called 'People Who Died,' which is his own list of dead friends." If that's true, Ted's heart is, as usual, in a real cool place, but he didn't invent the form in question. A poem that's primarily a list of people who have died was written at least once before Ted did it (and perhaps there's an even earlier instance I'm not aware of). César Vallejo's "La violencia de las horas" was written about thirty or so years before "People Who Died." Check out the link and you can get a feel for the poem even if you don't really know Spanish. Just as the Carroll song is cool, but not as good as Ted's poem, so Ted's poem is cool, but not as good as Vallejo's. From the limited resources on hand, I can't tell if the Vallejo poem would have been known to Ted—who very well could have come to the form on his own. He just wasn't the first.
Seems like this kind of thing happens with New York School poets. I remember reading a Paul Auster quote where he called Joe Brainard's I Remember "totally original." I love Brainard's poem, and Auster is downright brilliant, but at one point in his poem "Tortoise Shout," D. H. Lawrence repeats "I remember" at the beginning of eight out of ten lines. There's a coincidence involved in that "Tortoise Shout" happened to be one of the poems I read when I was first waking up to "real" poetry (it was in one of those old Oscar Williams anthologies, Little Treasury of Modern Poetry I think—equipped with photos of the poets in back and everything), so the resonance was loud when I came across the Brainard poem. But I just always pictured Joe tinkering with and taking off from the Lawrence piece, and so could never see it as truly original. Maybe I'm too literal. Still, I can see there being something innovative in the cumulative effect of the Brainard poem, maybe more content-related than form-related, unless the form in question is the comprising of a book.
And hasn't some student somewhere yet written a publishable-quality thesis on all that Frank O'Hara and John Ashbery lifted from Apollinaire? (And considering his supreme importance isn't Apollinaire—maybe along with Reverday— becoming the most overlooked of the important French avant-garde poets? Or maybe I just haven't been paying attention lately, which is true, I haven't.) Heck, even the students Silliman blogged about could connect these dots: you don't need to be all that enterprising: Jerome Rothenberg and Pierre Joris have given a head start by highlighting Apollinaire's this-and-that-ness in the selections they chose for Poems for the Millennium. (Critics loved to peg Ted as a Frank O'Hara knock off, but he no more built on O'Hara than O'Hara built on Apollinaire.) After that, just grab a copy of Alcools and try to find what doesn't presage the better part of Ashbery's most acclaimed/anthologized work.
But I was a little surprised by Alice Notely's note to Ted's most well-known poem, "People Who Died," even if what relative notoriety it has is due to the Jim Carroll song." She reports: "Ted considered that with this work he had invented a form which anyone might use to write a poem. That is, every person has a list of 'people who died.' Jim Carroll took Ted at his word and wrote and recorded a song called 'People Who Died,' which is his own list of dead friends." If that's true, Ted's heart is, as usual, in a real cool place, but he didn't invent the form in question. A poem that's primarily a list of people who have died was written at least once before Ted did it (and perhaps there's an even earlier instance I'm not aware of). César Vallejo's "La violencia de las horas" was written about thirty or so years before "People Who Died." Check out the link and you can get a feel for the poem even if you don't really know Spanish. Just as the Carroll song is cool, but not as good as Ted's poem, so Ted's poem is cool, but not as good as Vallejo's. From the limited resources on hand, I can't tell if the Vallejo poem would have been known to Ted—who very well could have come to the form on his own. He just wasn't the first.
Seems like this kind of thing happens with New York School poets. I remember reading a Paul Auster quote where he called Joe Brainard's I Remember "totally original." I love Brainard's poem, and Auster is downright brilliant, but at one point in his poem "Tortoise Shout," D. H. Lawrence repeats "I remember" at the beginning of eight out of ten lines. There's a coincidence involved in that "Tortoise Shout" happened to be one of the poems I read when I was first waking up to "real" poetry (it was in one of those old Oscar Williams anthologies, Little Treasury of Modern Poetry I think—equipped with photos of the poets in back and everything), so the resonance was loud when I came across the Brainard poem. But I just always pictured Joe tinkering with and taking off from the Lawrence piece, and so could never see it as truly original. Maybe I'm too literal. Still, I can see there being something innovative in the cumulative effect of the Brainard poem, maybe more content-related than form-related, unless the form in question is the comprising of a book.
And hasn't some student somewhere yet written a publishable-quality thesis on all that Frank O'Hara and John Ashbery lifted from Apollinaire? (And considering his supreme importance isn't Apollinaire—maybe along with Reverday— becoming the most overlooked of the important French avant-garde poets? Or maybe I just haven't been paying attention lately, which is true, I haven't.) Heck, even the students Silliman blogged about could connect these dots: you don't need to be all that enterprising: Jerome Rothenberg and Pierre Joris have given a head start by highlighting Apollinaire's this-and-that-ness in the selections they chose for Poems for the Millennium. (Critics loved to peg Ted as a Frank O'Hara knock off, but he no more built on O'Hara than O'Hara built on Apollinaire.) After that, just grab a copy of Alcools and try to find what doesn't presage the better part of Ashbery's most acclaimed/anthologized work.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Look What Happens
Sheesh. Take a break for a few weeks. Then a few more weeks. Then get a new computer. Forget your login info. Actually have a handful of times where you want to post something but don't feel like bothering with blogger help (even though it only takes half a minute or so) . . . and look what happens. Not that I plan on posting much new stuff here, but I thought I should at least have access to the site—just in case. And, while here, why not take the ol' blog out for a spin....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
