Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Politely Declined

I think I make up a little ground here though.

Does anyone else see a resemblance, aesthetically and just in general shamanistic awesomeness, between Ariel Pink and LRSN? (You’ll notice that Pink lists his genre on MySpace as “Melodramatic Popular Song.” Who that’s read it can forget LRSN’s classic “On Melodrama”?)

Pink is a fuzzy condensary of American garage pop, like LRSN contains the whole face-off between orality and the grapheme in even his casualest pieces.

Tuesday, July 29, 2008

Tinny Spark

I feel like a dick for liking this song.

Monday, July 28, 2008

The Anger Scale & Musee Mechanique

From the ashes of Traffic, Modern Americans has managed to procure the smoking review below that was meant to appear there. Thanks to Sharon Mesmer for letting me post it here.
The Anger Scale, Katie Degentesh, Combo Books, 2006
ISBN 0-9728880-2-0

Musee Mechanique
, Rodney Koeneke, BlazeVOX [books], 2006

ISBN 0-9759228-0-7

Katie Degentesh and Rodney Koeneke have produced two expansive, generous collections of flarf. Does that seem like a strange, slightly oxymoronic thing to say about flarf, that naughty, “not okay” spawn of Google and the many generations of the New York School? Many things have been said about flarf, but one thing that’s been overlooked is the expansive “meta-mind” aspect of it: how, by constantly incorporating bits of the posted poems into the new poems, the content of each subsequent poem reflects the collective sensibility and contains the indelible stamp of its origin, no matter who wrote it—like Tin Pan Alley meets TAZ in Darwinian cyberspace. One of the pleasures of being a member of the flarf collective is observing with delight how the poems produced by the list members are constantly morphed by the poem-responses to them. Of course that kind of riffing on your friends’ poems can be (and has been) construed as exclusionary in-joking. But the generosity I mentioned resides in precisely what is included, what gets incorporated, which is just about everything. In The Anger Scale and Musee Mechanique, eloquent phrases culled from search engine results are allowed to stream into goofiness (also culled from search engine results) …


Things are good, good is sweet, sweet is gnarly, and gnarly has
the musty reek that reminds me of the cow fetuses
I had to dissect a couple of months ago

(Degentesh, “I See Things or Animals or People Around Me That Others Do Not See”)

I remembered a door that turns in upon the slothful,
I remember the slothful in bed. I remembered
Oprah’s trainer is Bob Greene. Then I remembered them
under my mattress.

(Koeneke, “I Remember”)

. . . beautiful images become silly, then get beautiful again …

If it’s all in your life, you can create
a whole kermess of distinctions
or a single phrase that, centuries hence, will be remembered
as a shorthand for a kind of beauty
dominated by McCartney’s overbusy basswork.

The vowels of the text
form a short but very important obbligato
in the wheezy symphony of what you are …

(Koeneke, “Obligate Nose Breather”)

Come hither purposely
with typhus vapors
And I will spit in
the piano room

(Degentesh, “Someone Has Been Trying to Poison Me”)

… and Internet lingo meets “the poetic”:

And even though I haven’t won a game yet (!!!)
the breath of life is vivid and arresting.

(Degentesh, “I Do Not Tire Quickly”)

emo? hard core rock? punk rock? post-punk? grunge?
In the neighborhood of make-believe the big oak tree.

(Koeneke, “X the Owl”)

Degentesh inhabits the overarching organizational conceit as well as the linguistic minutiae of her work with a careful attention to—heck, I’ll go out on a limb and say love of—the quotidian: the everyday selves that emerge from her poems are shifting amalgams of familiar personae. And they “speak” via the organizational conceit: the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory, an assessment consisting of 566 true/false questions designed to help identify personal, social, and behavioral problems in psychiatric patients. Degentesh describes how she employed the inventory to Google-sculpt the poems in the “About This Book” section:

“Once I had access to all the questions, I began to use them to write the poems themselves by feeding phrases … into internet search engines and piecing the poems together from the results pages.”

The poem titles are statements from the inventory. Thus the arbitrary and magpie-ish flarf system (which makes fun of verity) is reined in by the use of another arbitrary system, the MMPI (which passes itself off as verity) and suggests that readers graft the question “what defines ‘mental health’?” onto “what defines ‘poem’?” Both sets of questions are unanswerable if not looked at through the prism of history. But since flarf delimits history by its use of Google-sculpting, a constant “now” speaks that is both funny under examination and critical of itself. The poem, “I Do Not Tire Quickly,” starts off the collection (Degentesh’s debut, by the way) with a surprising statement: “Even if your heart is messy, I will clean it up.” It’s a tender impossibility, for what is a messy heart? And how can it be “cleaned”? And who is the person who believes it can be done? The word “heart” appears in this book at least six times, and I don’t think that’s a fluke: the personae that Degentesh channels—those amalgams of search engine personalities—are always a little vulnerable, and the poet throws that vulnerability into vivid relief by her choices regarding the lines that buttress (or, perhaps, leap off of) that quality:

I have not had sex, etc.
I have been experiencing some darkness in my soul

(“My Soul Sometimes Leaves My Body”)

When I’m near someone missing an arm or leg
I feel weighted down by clothes,
the faithful, and celebrities

(“I Feel Uneasy Indoors”)

This “I” changes a lot–sometimes it’s robust, linear, at other times fragile, intuitive. The personae come across like disembodied voices–the new ghosts in the machine.

The machine is never far from either of these poet’s methods, of course. In Koeneke’s “Afterword” (where he discusses his involvement with flarf and its compositional methods—just as Degentesh does, in part, in hers), he says, “It’s not the machines that are shocking, but the use we keep putting them to.”

What’s shocking is the generous uses we’re putting them to: we’re more connected to each other, and to strangers, than ever. Koeneke speculates that this “connectivity” in its various guises is our ghost dance for the post-9/11 era, “a time when one kind of America dropped away and another, more unhinged one emerged.” Musee Mechanique begins with a quote from Hart Crane: “For unless poetry can absorb the machine, i.e., acclimatize it as naturally and casually as trees … The computer has become an outside-the-body-brain, and we are undecided as to whether that’s a good thing or not. But Musee furnishes possibilities to consider: the opening salvo, “Use Dips to Initiate,” sets up—as the first poem of The Anger Scale did—an interesting (im)possibility robustly passed off as verity:

Whisker was first used
in the air-sparging tube
to regulate transient voltage dips
for the whole modular village

hordes of unshorn unicorns
served as insecticides …

That a whisker could be used for anything, or that hordes of unshorn unicorns could serve as anything, actually seems possible for a second, and then your thoughts run parallel to the poem itself:

that tape shall be used in every threaded fitting.
that Cheese dip appears at the Welcoming Committees.
that Outfall from dips and lead-off ditches be fed
to native plants …

There’s a damn good chance that cheese dip does appear at welcoming committees, and that’s the funny “duh!” moment that runs through poems like this one and “Sky Hook”:

sky hook? It’s a thing that attaches
to the sky.

Well, duh! And it’s utilitarian, too …

Marines shimmy up it. Sky Hook Structure
establishes “snakiness,” provides shade—protection—
from aerial predators.

Many of Koeneke’s poems explore the issues of utility and correctness in a world besotted with possibilities:

thing is cute for the first 5 minutes, then
starts to wear thin—dummy comes to life,
takes over carnival. How do you set things right?

(“Evil Dummy”)

Kitty Goes Postal—
wants pizza.
Kitty has hat & cape and looks
like a magician …

Then the pizza guy [not the cute
pizza guy, worse luck]
comes to the door and says, “Peace, Kitty!”

(“Pizza Kitty”)

One aspect of Musee that works its way stealthily to the surface is the skillful—oh, okay, I’ll say it: poetic!—manipulation of phrases. In “Let Arch Rot,” there’s incredible riffing on the words “let” “arch” “rot” (and also, at the end of the poem, on “drop/droop”)”

Stems which do not branch, but arch,
posts that droop and rot, sagged forward,
cracked: the body falls. Springs now

hang that much lower. One drop
to make arch floral, thought:
then day drooped.

That kind of music wends its way through a flarf fable, too:

a grackle and a sparrow
(the grackle is a creature
of the night, the sparrow of the day)
both in song, a song of night and sorrow
with this important difference:

the sparrow trills for vespers;
the grackle he sings for his life.

(“The Grackle and the Sparrow”)

Whereas Degentesh’s personae were filtered through an “I,” Koeneke’s flow through a “My,” especially in the section called “My Service on Parnassus.” “My Cream” discloses the troublesome vagaries of the poet’s existence within the ghost dance:

Beauty yields to grunting: girl/boy harmonies,
fecal toms, worried strings …

Spring offers its business solutions
to that vacant e-kiosk, me: Blake’s Zoas,
Yeats’s gyres, Pound’s dollars, my cream.

“My Cream” is a special kind of sonnet: the idea behind lines 13 and 14, the usual final envoy of the form, are laid bare, and then something else gets added:

In sonnets, this line should act as a pivot: if sweet,
will gently curdle, if dark add creamy tincture
to grunts of private grief

But, happily, it doesn’t end there, but goes on with images of chimps in the gloaming, and ends with the unafraid-to-be-lovely “O stars …

In both these collections, the language and methods of poetry are constantly redefined, refined and expanded. And in that expansiveness, there’s room for everyone.

SHARON MESMER is a two-time New York Foundation for the Arts fellow in poetry. Her two recent poetry collections are Annoying Diabetic Bitch (Combo Books) and The Virgin Formica. Her blog is http://virginformica.blogspot.com/.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Writing & Parenting

New website designs are springing up like bridge tolls around the Bay, first Small Press Traffic’s, then venerable navigator that is SPD. One victim of the improved onlinism is SPT’s paper journal, Traffic, which just went the way of all print and decided to stay trees. The double issue, 3/4 (doubles always mean danger), would have held between an original “Boykoff” cover Sharon Mesmer’s review of The Anger Scale and Musee Mechanique, along with a forum on Writing & Parenting. Paul Hoover’s already posted his contribution; mine was this:
The most obvious thing to say about writing and parenting is that once you’re a parent, you don’t have time to write. Being a parent is a miraculous exercise in the obvious, the tedious, and the banal: all the things you don’t want your writing to be. I have a new affection for the obvious since we had Auden. My life’s flattened to the contours of a toddler’s world, it’s more dependent on small variations in a limited scale, more Stanzas in Meditation than The Cantos.

I don’t fight that so much anymore, as a writer; I’m closer to being at peace with the extra-literary, or anti-literary, nature of parenting. It’s hard to push the experience of having kids into language without falling into sentiment and commonplace, a problem with trying to put anything into language—that artifice for holding experience in common, flattening it into the names we exchange—but in writing about parenting the problem looms larger, because the pre-made shapes for pouring the experience into are so insistent, well-worn, and policed. The most obvious thing to say about writing and parenting is that whatever you say about parenting in writing is obvious.

Once you’re a parent, you don’t have time to write. Every writer I’ve talked to who’s a parent says the same thing. Parents always say the same things: parenthood is an exercise in the obvious. There’s a narrow range of delights and concerns the role imposes, which is one reason it’s so annoying to be around one if you’re not one. There are writers who aren’t parents who say they have no time to write, too; writers, like parents, live in a circumscribed zone of pleasures and glooms which also makes them annoying to be around if you’re not one. The huge number of manuals on parenting and on creative writing suggests that there’s money to be made in soothing the makers of children and texts with the obvious: parents are as anxious to know their problems are “normal” as writers facing a “dry spell” are.

If parenthood itself is a dry spell, which it’s been so far for me, that’s a different order of problem, or two different problems pushed together and compounded. The problem of writing and the problem of parenting. Time considered as a writer: the stuff I always needed more of—to waste, to socialize, to bore myself with all the excuses there are for not writing. Time considered as a parent: the stuff I never have enough to give, to Auden, to writing, to relationships outside the tight boundaries of the family. The time I used to burn, find, spend, or steal for writing was always mine. Now it’s held in common: what I take for myself, for my writing, is time taken away from someone else. The things I used to do for inspiration now seem selfish, what used to be dedication—to a community, a tradition, an experiment in conducting a life in poetry—can feel like irresponsibility. Considered strictly as a writer, being a father so far has been disastrous. Considering a writer strictly as one who writes, being a parent is being a disaster.

As a writer, I’ve never enjoyed being a technician of the discourse, even to critique it. What I wanted was invention, imagination, originality: the countertop appliances of the soul. As a parent, I’ve learned more about what it means to be, or to want to be, common. To hold concerns in common with other parents that have nothing to do with being a writer; to know that the most powerful and unique thing that’s likely ever to happen to me is among the most common happenings in the world. Parenting is absolutely unique for everyone in approximately the same way. I don’t want anything wildly different for Auden than anyone else who loves their kid does. I want him to be a normal, happy child, I want him protected and loved. I admire originality in poetry, but I can’t picture clearly what it would mean to be an “original” parent. Being a parent is an exercise in always having something in common.

When I do start writing again, really writing, it won’t be the same I that writes. I don’t belong to myself, or to my writing, in the way that I did before. I don’t have the same relationship to time, or the old worshipful feeling about writing. I think having a kid has done for me what many writers describe poetry as doing for them: it’s taken me out of the word and into the world, but a world scrambled and reassembled for having its presence—Auden’s—within it.

What will Auden think of this when he’s old enough to read it? I’ve never loved any living thing so much; I cry (but don’t write) with ease when I consider it. But what parent wouldn’t say the same thing?

—Rodney Koeneke
February 2, 2007

Friday, July 11, 2008

Wednesday, July 09, 2008

Various Positions

I’ll be in San Francisco this weekend, July 11th and 12th, for the two poetry-plus events below. Would love to see you there.
FRIDAY, JULY 11, 7 PM
RODNEY KOENEKE & STAS FELDMAN
Both Both Reading Series
Pierce Street, Lower Haight, San Francisco

(check site for location details)

If you’re here, you know me; STAS FELDMAN sings in Conspiracy of Beards, San Francisco’s a capella Leonard Cohen cover choir. I know he’ll be versing, I hope he’ll be singing (accordion, at minimum). Sakkis will be back from Greece with retsina.
SATURDAY, JULY 12, 8 PM
THE NEW TALKIES: LIVE FILM NARRATION 2008
Artists' Television Access
992 Valencia @ 21st St., San Francisco

The bill features these writer/performers, taking on clips from the following movies:

Jaime Cortez: "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?" (1967)
Cynthia Sailers: "The Passion of Anna" (1969)
David Larsen: "Logan's Run" (1976)
Douglas & Nicole Kearney: "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom" (1984)
Rodney Koeneke: "Mary Poppins" (1964)
Clive Worsley: "Jeremiah Johnson" (1972)
Charles Schulz & Erika Staiti: "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf" (1966)

Wednesday, July 02, 2008

Tuesday, July 01, 2008

Orono Mac Low

“... mere social encounter can't be legibly called polity until it envisions its future as a socius.”

Patrick Durgin's Orono paper on Jackson Mac Low got criminally cut short by a lax Chair, but this insight from it came home with me like a souvenir pen. Is it too late to print up T-shirts?

Here endeth the Orono chatter. Steve Evans had the presence of mind to park all the blog links here. Between that and the ThoughtMesh, there's still a lot of conference to catch if you couldn't teleport in.

Monday, June 30, 2008

"Off the Record" Orono (Fin)

Bernadette Mayer sat for her reading, having recently hurt her neck, which lent her the paradoxical authority frailty confers. There must be something awkward about being feted like this, your poems rolling through the basement of the Paul J. Schupf Wing for the Works of Alex Katz at the Colby College Museum of Art, where the contrast with the ‘70s you lived through and the one being frozen into history before you is so stark. “Museum” is just a few letters away from “mausoleum,” there's the same coolness and echoey reverence, and there you are representing, in part, the thing you were then.

Ann Lauterbach had read the night before, and seemed uncomfortable with the set-up, most of all I thought (though of course I can’t know) with the idea that she might be serving as a piece in our Cabinet of ‘70s Curiosities. I must have stopped taking notes by then, since I can’t find it in my Mead, but I remember asides about not intending to read much work from the ‘70s, not liking that writing or feeling close to her peers in that era, being unconnected to a group or generational cluster, having to relearn how to be “American” after six years away in the art world of England. There was a mixture of hostility (“Wake up!” while clapping her hands into the mike) and vulnerability (“I’m just the warm-up act”) in her reading, not so much in the work itself but in the large number of comments she made to frame it, which suggested to me at least an anxiety about us of the Mayer/Coolidge/Language ilk misunderstanding her writing without them.

By contrast, Mayer dealt with the “Cabinet of Curiosities” problem by sitting just to one side of the pedestal erected for her. She remarked on the large audience, asking if Elvis was here somewhere. She joked about the length of Jonathan Skinner’s career-spanning intro. She asked if we knew anyone who’d publish her 400-page manuscript, which was disarming but also a little barbed: so you can honor me in Orono but you can’t get my work into print? Mayer recalled readings she did with Coolidge in the ‘70s that were so long they were meant to drive everyone from the room, but never did, because reading long then was “trendy” and a few always stayed. “So that’s what we’re doing now,” she said, with an answering laugh from the audience, but kind of a guilty one I thought, since she’d so deftly pointed out the difference between that era and our more sober, corporate-clock-driven one. “This is from the ‘70s,” she announced before one poem, “but having been to this reading, you’ll know more about the 2000s.” This was exactly right.

After the reading, I played a little outside with Alicia Cohen and Tom Fisher’s daughter, who plays sometimes in Portland with my son. We were building a knight’s tower out of dirt under the tree, studding it with acorn tops and a leaf flag, when I heard someone say: “What are you making?” I looked up and it was Bernadette, smiling and interested, pedestal-free and on her way back to upstate New York. So we told her. “Sorry to subject you to this, but it’s no worse than poetry.”

Friday, June 27, 2008

"Off the Record" Orono (Part 2)

The next day, Clark Coolidge gave one of the best readings I’ve seen him deliver. A benefit of living in the Bay Area was Coolidge bombing down from Petaluma every few months to read in all kinds of situations, often with David Meltzer, at tiny bookstores or in the modest basement of Moe’s, at memorials for other poets, sometimes to auditoriums, sometimes to just 10 or 12. He didn’t do anything different than I’ve seen him do before, but the large slab of work he read—stripped of intro, contextual remarks, orienting asides, or even I think a drink of water—wove image phrases of (presumably) childhood memories and alien invasion (“even the saucers have given up on us”) with those patented Coolidge one-liners that manage to insinuate one fraction of a conversation you wish you’d heard the whole of, with its atmosphere of razzing, zippy insult (“you deserve a good shrugging”), and stoned inspiration.

For me, a lot of the pleasure and “meaning” or whatever of Coolidge lies in the reader’s work of imagining the social contexts in which the conversational fragments of the poems might be said, just as his way with names—most often just listed as names, no further information given—compels you to create the character who might carry a moniker like that. “On the Nameways”—nouns as names, names as beginnings of movement and tumult, not fixed & given things (“I think I’ll name my garage ‘Adobe Marge.’”)

Immediately after the reading, as everyone filed out to Alex Katz or up to Joe Brainard, I hung back to tell Coolidge how much I’d liked the reading. He was in deep tête-à-tête with I think Peter Baker and I think Sam Truitt, talking with great intensity about Bernadette Mayer: How much of her work is still unpublished, who should release it, why someone hasn’t yet, how great it’ll be when it’s all in print, etc. So absorbed I never managed to break in.

I thought this was kind of magnificent. I’m sure Coolidge has had his share of cult adulation over the years, but to sort of cede your “moment” to a detailed publication discussion of your friend’s work was … well, it was like “Thelonius Monk sinking a drop shot—you could be that.”

Great reading, Clark.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

"Off the Record" Orono (Part 1)

The fun of getting so many poets into a single dorm in inland Maine should be the gossip, so here are a couple “off the record” items.

In a way this was the Mayer/Coolidge ‘70s. There was a buzz in the air about their presence, they were scheduled to respond to panels on their own work (creepy), their back-to-back plenary readings at the Colby Art Museum took on the gravity of ritual as we loaded onto buses, entered the gleaming vestibule of the state-of-the-art gallery, wound confusedly past Brainard Nancys and Alex Katz cut-outs into the echoey bowels of the facility like Theseus seeking out the Minotaur of Poetry.

Everything about the event suggested a Canonical Moment: here’s our ‘70s, it seemed to announce, shorn of the dreck, the paupers revealed to be princes, crowns set on proper heads.*

Mayer and Coolidge dealt with the pressure in different ways. Clark and Susan Coolidge attended every plenary reading I did, no matter how late the schedule ran, nodding and applauding poets whose work seemed the kind Coolidge saved us from. I spotted them between panels, at mixers, talking to poets new and old. Their engagement with just about everything that was going on seemed to deflate any idea that this Orono was a secret Coolidgepalooza; the feeling I got watching them move through the conference was that it was less important to be plenaried and CLARK COOLIDGE than it was to just be in the band.

Mayer struck me as more Coyote: sly & funny, with a strong dash of the trickster. She arrived later than scheduled, so missed the chance to respond to her own panel (itself a very ‘present’ sort of absence). She was there for the big lobster banquet though, where Steve Evans gracefully delivered a passel of thank you’s, and Marjorie Perloff remembered by proxy Burton Hatlen, taking a dig along the way at how “corporate” this once-cozy conference had become. With the ‘c’-word still hanging in the air, the University president got up to unveil the Burton Hatlen Room—apparently the only air-conditioned room in Neville Hall—that the English Dept. will be building to his memory.

However kindly you eye it, there’s something inherently official and yes, a little gold-watch-at-retirement-corporate, about the dedication of a memorial room at a banquet. It had me thinking about what a different ‘70s a future university president—even a kindly Berkeley liberal one—and a Bernadette Mayer must have occupied.

Suddenly, in the middle of the proceedings, someone started laughing. Light and friendly, not derisive exactly, but loudly, enough that I could hear it in the front, and so could the President. It was Mayer, of course, a famous laugher, who could have been chuckling at just about anything, but in this situation, whatever the intention, it was like someone had opened a window from the “other” ‘70s and attentions bent gratefully in the breeze.

*“Paupers” I mean in the eyes of “Official Verse Culture” (or mainstream verse or “prized” poetry or whatever), whose '70s look so different, as Phil Metres points out. I like his phrase “OVC people”—"We aaarre ... OVC People."

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Buggeryvilless

Chris Piuma's beat me to the punch in reporting on his and Sarah Mangold's close-packed lovefest of a reading Saturday, so I'll just join all the other Portland poets whose names begin with letters in an alphabetic system in saying "ave atque vale." We'll have those cards arranged into something Piuma-like by your first visit.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

My Orono '70s (Part 2)

A few other ‘nots’ of the ‘70s that emerged from the panels I attended:

+ Poetry was NOT just poetry. It was “sticky” (Eileen Myles’s phrase) and adhered to other art forms, political engagements, and social movements more easily than it does in the newly independent Slovenia of poetry today. Performance art, conceptual art, Marxist politics, queer identity, punk rock, and feminist theory were all perhaps distinguishable but rarely distinct from emerging poetics, at least in the papers I saw. (“When I thought of poetry in the ‘70s,” said Myles, “I always thought of it in relation to something else.”) Was this a feature of the era—the links between the poem and the “not poem” so intense the two blurred? Or does that sense of “adherence” arrive retroactively, on plenary sessions at future Oronos? For three days in Maine at least, I sort of bought it, this idea that “I’m not just a poet” was a more intense and necessary statement in the ‘70s than it is in poetry today, where you can say something like that—and many do—but there’s not the same feeling that you should.

+ “Avant-garde” was NOT always avant-garde. This inelegant koan arrived almost entirely from two panels I attended: “Queering the ‘70s” (Dodie Bellamy, Kevin Killian, Eileen Myles) and, right before it, “New Narrative-New Sentence-New Left” (Robin Tremblay-McGaw, Kaplan Harris, Rob Halpern). One take on this idea came from Eileen Myles—that the ‘70s was an era when “avant-garde” was still a “gay man’s game,” as she put it: not a series of formal commitments and innovations so much as an elaborate code for signaling without saying. As the closet began to collapse with her generation, the need for the code dropped away, and many younger gay writers turned to other forms of expression, creating the conditions for the '80s phenom of the “gay universalist” (Myles’s phrase; my shameless reduction of her reading).

New Narrative
writers, too, found the avant-garde as it had come to be practiced in late-‘70s poetry circles around the Bay too “arriere” for the new social energies and fears they hoped to chart, creating a sort of deliberate “not poetry” with their turn to a different kind of narrative. K. Lorraine Graham was asking the other day for “particular poetics statements” from New Narrative and 3rd-generation New York School writers. While I’m sure they exist, part of the point I’d think was to maybe not do poetics in the patented “poetics statement” sort of way; another silence to attend to when screwing the avant-garde into the mason jar of the ‘70s. The reasons for “not poetry” deciding to be “not”—and for innovative and highly political literary forms that explored new social identities to feel uneasy within the mantle of the existing avant-garde—seemed key to the meaning and import of the ‘70s. The silence speaks. (The arguments for this reading of the '70s arrived mostly via Robin Tremblay-McGaw and Rob Halpern's papers, as well as the particular way of doing poetics Kevin Killian performed in his subversive essay on John Weiners, transsexualism, and Myra Breckinridge. Apologies if I'm a little off in the details.)

+ Just one more ‘not’: not quite sure how to put this into a neat lavender heading, but it had to do with the papers I heard that called attention to code, alternate forms of signifying, or ‘extra-literary’ ways of meaning that condition but don’t necessarily find direct expression in the apparent content of the poem. Whether this was an accident of the panels I attended, or something significant about the ‘70s—where poetry reached out to conceptual and performance art with a special intensity—is hard to puzzle out. I’m thinking especially about:

  • Bern Porter’s Wastemaker (1972), an assemblage of ads, typeforms, and pictorial elements that might be read as an instance of “blank” signifying—the signs calling attention to their status as signs—but under Kasey’s close reading bloomed into kind of a silent autobiography grappling with gender, consumerism, science, and painful personal reminiscence. It asks you to “read” its story in a peculiar, non-narrative way that risks being mistaken for non-sense if you don’t care to work its visual code.
  • The Grand Piano plenary reading with Steve Benson, Kit Robinson, and Barrett Watten. Each read a section from The Grand Piano, but interspersed with passages from a stack of different books on the table in front of them. While this on-the-spot interleafing went on, another panel member might be writing, or might start reading his own passage, apparently a reenactment, if I understood Lytle Shaw’s introduction rightly, of a game the group used to play in the ‘70s, where someone would write while another read aloud from a book pulled from the shelves. I would have missed this game-like quality of the project’s intersubjective structure if I hadn’t seen this performance.
  • My own paper on Hannah Weiner got me to the conference thinking about Weiner’s idea of “knight’s thinking”: her attention to the communicative structures that get missed in normative “linear communication.” Weiner’s own fascination with codes and visual signs connects with the elisions, compressions, abbreviations, and excisions of the clair-style, which asks the reader to be especially alive to the interruptions of the “off-code” or not fully said.
  • Bill Howe gave a very interesting paper on Robert Grenier's Sentences, and the impossibility of imagining a “complete text” of the cards that embraces all the staggering variety of ways to read through them. If I remember right, Howe argued the actual words on the cards take a back seat to the conceptual project of probing or defying the state of being “complete.” So the work's meaning takes shape against the act of imagining what can't be there.

Another key “not,” of course, was in the panels I didn’t attend. There was a “financial” ‘70s, ably covered by Jasper Bernes, with David Harvey I guess as its presiding saint. A Coyote's Journal ‘70s, a No More Masks! ‘70s, a Black Arts '70s, a William Bronk ‘70s, a DC Poets '70s, a Bishop/Walcott '70s (!)—even Orono’s most heavily empaneled era, the Ashbery ‘70s— all whizzed just past my ear. Steve Evans said they wanted to make sure every panel decision at the conference was one that would break your heart, and they succeeded. Of the “just out of the frame” ‘70s, the two most present to me at the conference were Hannah Weiner’s and Bern Porter’s, but that’s a post for a future time. Does all this cloudy info still by 2012?

Monday, June 23, 2008

My Orono '70s (Part 1)

Here were the questions about the poetry of the ‘70s that appeared in the NPF Conference Announcement:
What emerged? What suffered eclipse? What happened just out of frame? What connections brought poetry into dialog with other fields? What social and political contexts mattered most? What of the present can be traced back to that moment? What poets, poetic formations, tendencies in poetics warrant our continued attention? What accidents of reception might we now revisit and perhaps repair?
There were probably as many answers as there were panels, and lordy there were lots of panels. The ‘70s is the most recent decade an NPF conference has ventured to touch, and you can see how things could be touchy, with so many of the participants still alive and just entering the pink of their sixties, ambulatory and active and rarin’ to stick up hands at Q&As.

I thought this might lead to a Potemkin ‘70s, burnished and airbrushed by the folks who had a stake in making it glow. Instead, the risk turned out to be in losing a ‘70s altogether in the act of reviewing so intensely a period that hasn’t been canonically groomed and thinned. I had the feeling the plenary readers and some of the other conference subjects shared the decade like you might share a public bus, everyone sitting in casual proximity waiting for different sets of stops. But that extra work you needed to do to shake a usable ‘70s out of all the panels turned out to be the most memorable feature of the conference for me, especially as it heightened the problem of churning any decade’s milk into the portable butter of history.

You could make the argument that the “decade” itself is a faulty container for cultural information, and even so far as it holds, it catches poets at wildly different speeds: Bern Porter or Kenneth Patchen or Louis Zukofsky’s ‘70s takes on a different luster than, say, Dodie Bellamy’s. (In my Top Five favorite conference quotes was Bellamy’s remark: “Me and the Seventies are about as marginal as you can get.”*) But I more or less share the conference premise: decades are still meaningful ways to sort and talk about our collective experience. Not all are equally useful though, and some decades—as those of us who minnow after the boomers feel so sharply—seem to carry more charge than others. As 10-year increments go, the ‘70s strikes me as one of the baggiest. Unlike, say, the ‘30s or the ‘60s, so compact and epochal they practically sort themselves, the ‘70s is one of those “middle child” decades, caught between the glitter of the ‘60s and the ugly of the ‘80s. Like any middle child, it ends up taking punishment from both, and pleads for our attention in ways different from its siblings. I found at the conference that “sounding” the ‘70s took a lot more conscious attention to silence, code, and the things that didn’t happen than the “easier” decades do: the Seventies that came out of Orono for me were largely apophatic, with meaning arriving in the form of the unsayable or the not said.

Case in point: Kaplan Harris’s excellent paper on “The Small Press Traffic School of Dissimulation,” Bruce Boone’s wry name for the late-Seventies reading group that included Boone, Ron Silliman, Kathleen Fraser, Robert Gluck, Steve Benson, Steve Abbott, and Denise Kastan, then director of Small Press Traffic. One reason it’s hard to picture these writers electing to be in the same room is that they weren’t for very long—the group fell apart after six months, and Harris’s paper set out to explain why. I’d butcher the details of his careful analysis—maybe it’s available on ThoughtMesh by now [the abstract's here]—but what impressed me was the framework: his accounting for what didn’t happen and why, what it is that could have been, and why that “could have” wasn’t. (More tomorrow...)

*She followed this up with a generous memoir of her time in the Feminist Writer’s Guild that caught how dated the group seems now while also paying homage to the things it succeeded at providing, especially measured against the leaner, meaner writing scenes that came after.

Friday, June 20, 2008

Acquired in Orono

Patrick Durgin and Jen Hofer, The Route (Atelos, 2008)*

Benjamin Friedlander Drastic Measures, An Anachronism (porci con le ali, 2008)

Rob Halpern
, Imaginary Politics (A Tap Root Edition, 2008)*

Kevin Killian and Dodie Bellamy, editors Mirage #4/Period(ical) #149 (special travel-sized edition) featuring work by Jared Hayes, John Sakkis, Elizabeth Terrazas

Bern Porter, Sounds That Arouse Me: Selected Writings (Tilbury House, 1992)

Carl Rakosi, The Collected Poems of Carl Rakosi (National Poetry Foundation, 1986)

Lev Rubinstein, Catalogue of Comedic Novelties: An Evening with Lev Rubinstein, translations by Philip Metres (poems and program notes for November 5, 2007 event at John Carroll University)

James Schevill, Where to Go, What to Do, When You Are Bern Porter: A Personal Biography (Tilbury House, 1992)

Nils Ya, An Awkward Alphabet (Slack Buddha Press, 2008)

SPOTTED & CRAVED: Ronald Johnson: Life and Works Joel Bettridge and Eric Selinger, editors (National Poetry Foundation, 2008)*

*So new the book still smells good.

Thursday, June 19, 2008

Upcoming Readings

Two readings of note in a span of three days--that's the equivalent of a perfect storm in Portland poetry terms. See you this week at:
THURSDAY, JUNE 19, 7 PM (TONIGHT)
BETHANY IDES & EMILY KENDAL FREY
The Unwin-Dunraven Literary Ecclesia
The Mizpah Church, 2456 SE Tamarack Ave.


BETHANY IDES
is a poet, performance-installation artist, teacher & independent curator. Her poetry has been published widely in journals such as Tarpaulin Sky, Fascicle, The Brooklyn Rail, and Octopus, and her fourth chapbook, “From Whence Undone,” is forthcoming from Cosa Nostra Editions. Ides teaches time-based arts and art theory at the Pacific Northwest College of Art in Portland, OR, and lives happily ever into with Joseph Bradshaw, the Fearless.

EMILY KENDAL FREY lives in Portland, Oregon. Recent work is forthcoming from New York Quarterly, Spinning Jenny, and 42opus. Collaborative work with Sarah Bartlett will appear in Portland Review, Bat City Review, and the horse less press anthology New Pony. Poems from Something Should Happen at Night Outside, a collaboration with Zachary Schomburg, will appear in Pilot, Sir!, Diode, and Jubilat.
SATURDAY, JUNE 21, 7:30 PM
SARAH MANGOLD & CHRIS PIUMA
Spare Room, Concordia Coffee House
2909 NE Alberta

SARAH MANGOLD is the author of Household Mechanics (New Issues) and a slew of chapbooks, most recently Parlor, a limited edition print and e/chap from the Dusie Kollectiv. She publishes Bird Dog, a journal of innovative writing and art, and coedits FLASH+CARD, a chapbook and ephemera press, with Maryrose Larkin. She lives and works in Seattle.

CHRIS PIUMA
is one of those poetry stalwarts who creates the oxygen scenes need to breathe, has been doing it for 8.5 years here in Portland, and is giving his last local reading before scuttling off to grad school in Toronto. Attendance is mandatory. You can catch the wit and considerable lexical wisdom of Chris online here.