Episode 6 of Poetry Fix. Miroslav Holub’s “Ode to Joy.”
In a recent post, I based a discussion about the relationship between the poetic line and print culture on some of Marshall McLuhan’s ideas. I was recently listening to the below lecture by McLuhan and he discussed the effects of the phonetic alphabet. He said that the phonetic alphabet divorced the visual sense from the other senses by emphasizing it above the others. This separation creates the possibility of linearity, the space for “logicians, analysts, classifiers, the individualist pattern of Greek life.” The phoenecian alphabet made possible Euclid, who revealed that visual space is continuous and connected and homogeneous and static. All the other spaces created by the other senses–of touch, acoustics, kinesthesial–all these other senses are discontinuous, resonant and dynamic.” He gives an interesting example to demonstrate this. A boy is on his first flight and asks his dad, “When do we get small?” The “canopy” of the plane limits the field of vision, creates a static environment. The moment a man with a parachute jumps out of the plane, he feels one inch tall.
When McLuhan described linearity (I think he actually used the term lineality…not sure if there’s a difference? Spell check doesn’t recognize the latter, if that means anything!), I couldn’t help but think about the poetic line and the way it is changing. As print culture (and hence the divorce made by the phonetic alphabet) ends, we move from the line, back to the field, back to non-linear, acoustic space.
In my experience, poetry workshops speak about how a poem looks on the page much more often than how the lines work. Perhaps this is describing the move from line (poetic line) to field (the page)? I think this line (!) of thought might yield much as we think about the developments of modern poetry (beginning with Baudelaire and the symbolists/high modernists), though I don’t have much time to chase it down the rabbit hole at this moment. Feel free to add your own thoughts in the comment section.
Watch the video. It’s worth your hour.
Episode 5 of Poetry Fix! Louise Gluck’s “Mock Orange.”
Episode 4 now available on YouTube. Wallace Stevens’s poem “A Rabbit as King of the Ghosts.”
Mary Karr and I have started a YouTube video series called Poetry Fix. Episode 3 is now available. Twice a week on Mondays and Fridays we’ll upload a 2-4 minute video where we read a poem and briefly discuss it.
We’re trying to pimp poetry for average humans. Any feedback is appreciated. We hope you enjoy. And if you do, consider joining Mary’s facebook page and following her on Twitter (@marykarrlit) for more updates. Also, please forward and spread the word!
Preamble of questions
Is there such a thing as “poetic language?” For example, which of the following words are poetic: Splat, emptiness, selvage, corporatization, loom, sequester, actually, rooster, surmise, demonstrate, fart, interpretation, destiny, tooth, ineluctable, meme, vector, duplicity, comma, consequence, drive, chant, teeter, tumult, fragrant, flounder, forget, suspend? Pick four words of five words from this list you think are most “poetic” and write a four line free verse or rhymed poem, using them.
The shadows of trees are a (loom)
On which you (sequester) your fear,
Containing it through the (ineluctable) (chant) of days,
through the weave, and thread of (tumult).
(Drive) South on routes 1 and 9,
Forsake (corporatization), and
the rotting (tooth) of conscience..
Oh love, (suspend) your adorations until further notice!
The lions (fart) in the sun.
(Fragrant) with longing, I think of them:
Those noble cats, ( teeter) on the heat waves of August,
on the verge of (consequence).
We (flounder), confused by a (vector) of days,
The (duplicity) of math baffles us—
This equation for happiness, this (interpretation)
No tongue can (demonstrate).
What (meme) for despair? (Forget) your body
a (comma) lost in the sentences of night,
Forget how it yearns to a be a semi-colon,
Holding independent but related thoughts together.
Remember the (rooster), the bright red (selvage)
of the East—those feathers cropped towards (emptiness).
The light raises its spurs, where blood (splats )
the wounded windows, (actually), the dawn.
We have used all the words in the list in these six examples. Now suppose we put these six four line stanzas together, using certain “connective” tissue. Let’s see what happens:
Actually, The Dawn
The shadows of trees are a loom
on which you sequester your fear,
containing it through the ineluctable chant of days,
through the weave and thread of tumult.
But drive south on routes 1&9,
forsake corporatization and
the rotting tooth of conscience.
Oh love, suspend your adorations until further notice!
For the lions fart in the sun,
And, fragrant with longing, I think of them.
Those noble cats teeter in the heat waves of August,
on the verge of consequence.
Meanwhile, we flounder, confused by a vector of days.
The duplicity of higher math baffles us—
this equation for happiness, this interpretation
no tongue can demonstrate.
What meme for despair? Forget your body,
a comma lost in the sentences of night.
Forget how it yearns to be a semi-colon,
holding independent but related thoughts together.
Remember, instead, the rooster, the bright red selvage
of the East—those feathers cropped towards emptiness.
Recall how light raises its spurs, where blood splats
On the wounded windows–actually, the dawn.
Now I did not know what I was going to do with these words. I chose four or five words each time to put into one of the six stanzas (quatrains to be more exact). “Actually, the dawn” is the most eccentric phrase in my opinion, So I took that as the title/ It can be read a couple of ways. We could think the speaker of the poem is saying this is the actual dawn. Or We could think the speaker of the poem is correcting an un-spoken error of perception, as in: “No, actually, it’s the dawn.” Actually is a hard word to get into a poem without sounding like a know-it-all. At any rate, I trust in certain liberties of poesis:
1. Metaphor and extended metaphor.
2. Invocation (such as “Let there be light!” We call this an imperative sentence, but it invokes, it wills, it demands—one of the oldest devices of poetry).
3. Animation or personification of the inanimate (light raises its spurs, wounded windows).
I could go on, but, here’s a good question: what the good god hell is the speaker saying? What does he mean? Lyrical poetry can be very dense. It can even be “high gibberish” (a form of ecstatic speech that does not yield readily to a standard meaning, but may create a mood, an orver all emotional or intellectual atmosphere). It does not usually explain. It is not prone to giving information in an overt and easy way. Why does it beat around the bush? Get to it! Say what you mean! Many a person has turned away from lyric poetry because it refuses to do the one thing people seem to insist on: get to the point!
This is exactly where modern poetry wanted poesis to go—to the thing, the object, the point. It wanted a vocabulary stripped of poetic “rhetoric” and overtly flowery speech. At the same time, it wanted the main meat of metaphor: the ability to link utterly different things together and make a connection between them—a paradox of sorts in so far as it was a connection of disconnects (What Rimbaud called a “derangement of the sense”). It wanted to get rid of abstraction: “no ideas but in things.” Actually, it didn’t want to get rid of abstractions (ideas, moods) so much as make abstractions covert. Take this famous poem by Ezra Pound:
At The Station of The Metro
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
This is considered the most famous example of imagist poetry. Note that Pound does not use the verb “are.” In regular metaphor we’d say: The apparition of these faces in the crowd are petals on a wet, black bough. In simile, we’d say: “The apparition of these faces in the crowd are like petals on a wet black bough. Pound allows the reader to make the connection between these disparate things. We don’t look at crowds standing in a subway station or train station and say: Wow… their faces look like flower petals on a wet black bough!” Note Pound uses a semi-colon, a form of punctuation that holds “independent but related clauses together.” Some readers might stress the independence over the relatedness. They might prefer to keep the apparitions of faces in the crowd, and petals on a wet thick bough separate—they might choose not to relate them. Other readers might go to great pains to see the relatedness: it must be raining because the bough is wet and black. Faces blur from a distance in the rain, and become “ghostly” (apparition). What does a crowd and petals share in common? They imply more than one. If things are blurry because of the rain, and you stand at a distance, you might see a similar effect of clusters—pale points of skin against a dark back round, or pale petals against a wet, black bough. IN either case, by removing the “are” Pound gets maximum juice from both the disparity and the linking of these two different orders. Petals are more traditionally “poetic.” Faces in a crowd at a sub way station are not considered a particularly poetic image, and, at that time, such an image would seem the anti-thesis of poetic. Pound has written an essay in these two lines, a great essay on what energy can be created by linking the traditionally “poetic” to the unpoetic. By doing so, he gives a crowd in a subway station the poetic value of flowers, while he makes the way we look at flower petals new. He empowers the new with the old, and the old with the new. Pound got much of this idea from Japanese and Chinese poems, and so we will look at such poems, which do not use metaphor or simile, but, rather, present one thing with a disparate thing to incite the reader to make a connection.
Try using all the words I listed, but first, make six four line stanzas using them at random (not in order). Good luck.
(Note: Picture by Steven Hudson taken from Chicago Art Magazine)
These are my loose translations of a form in Ireland known as “three things there be.” Long before Saint Patrick came, the Irish thought in threes. They were a triune people, with a Celtic triune God, and they, like most Celts, cast spells, and framed their tales by the magic of threes. I have translated some Triads previously translated by the wonderful Irish poet, Thomas Kinsella. I am arrogant after all. *wink*
Wendell Berry recently decided to pull his personal papers from the University of Kentucky, and it got me thinking.
While I know this news story isn’t directly related to the topic of poetry (and this is–loosely–a poetry blog), I can’t help but feel it connects on some other level as we (poets) think about the relationship of our poetry to the world around us. Most of my exposure to the world of modern poetry has taken place through the university system. And while I know there are many poets writing and thriving outside the university system, it seems to me that the relationship of modern poetry is hopelessly enmeshed with our modern universities. Let’s admit it, the modern university (as well as the various foundations, titles, etc.) gives us poets the prestige we desperately desire. Would we be satisfied reading in bars the rest of our lives? Some of us would, but many of us would feel cheated. We want, as it were, to be “overheard.”
Most modern universities are “research universities.” I find even explicitly “liberal arts” universities cast their value in scientific terms. If you’ve been to a grad conference recently, you know as well as I do that academics dutifully toils away in a very narrow slices of their field, increasing knowledge (wherever that is stored…), writing books, gaining tenure. The language of conferences and academic panels has become scientific, calculated, professional. When you are asked about your studies, you must cast it in “pitch” it, so as to demonstrate the entrepreneurial value.
How much of this has seeped into the world of modern poetry?
Does the modern university ennoble (if I may use such an unfashionable word!) those of us (I’m still there!) who dwell in its halls? Consider Berry’s excoriation of the “research university”:
At a 2007 commencement address at Bellarmine University, Berry railed against “the great and the would-be-great ‘research universities.’ These gigantic institutions, increasingly formed upon the ‘industrial model,’ no longer make even the pretense of preparing their students for responsible membership in a family, a community, or a polity. … The American civilization so ardently promoted by these institutions is to be a civilization entirely determined by technology, and not encumbered by any thought of what is good or worthy or neighborly or humane.”
There is little doubt also that the modern university is, as one thinker put it, “the handmaiden of the military-government-industrial complex.” Certainly the poet can be the voice of conscience on the campus, but at what cost? Berry has the strength of his convictions (and the status to sustain them).
Then again, he also has a farm if it all goes to hell.
My good friend, Chris Robinson, has started a YouTube series with Mary Karr called “Poetry Fix.”
I’ve been reading a lot of Marshall McLuhan in the last several months. I know he’s not the most fashionable critic anymore, but I admire his attitude toward culture. I’ve heard some call him a “futurist” but this seems to run directly counter to McLuhan as I read him. If anything, McLuhan is a medievalist who has adapted himself to our futurist culture in order to bring a rather old timey message.
McLuhan created what he called a “tetrad.” The general idea is that for every new medium, four things always happen.
1. The new medium enhances some aspect of us or our life.
2. The new medium obsolesces some aspect of us or our life.
3. The new medium, when pushed to its maximum, ultimately reverses some aspect of our life.
4. The new medium retrieves some past aspect of us or our life.
For example, the car:
1. It enhances speed.
2. It obsolesces the horse and buggy.
3. When there are many cars on the road, it ultimately ends up reversing that speed (in the form of traffic jams)
4. It retrieves the “knight in shining armor” in the form of the boy with the bitchin’ car.
Now pondering on the advance of the press (and now the digital age), I’ve been thinking about the effects of various mediums on poetry (which is itself a medium). When poetry was primarily oral, it was filled with mnemoic devices of all sorts that allowed for it to be memorized easily. Even during the manuscript era, poetry was necessarily oral poetry. Yet with the growth of the printed manuscript, one didn’t have to memorize as much anymore.
I have not done any formal research, but I suspect that as the written/printed word gained ground, the formal constraints on poetry (which were originally there to allow for oral memory) began to fall by the wayside. They were no longer necessary, though it seems the inertia of tradition kept these conventions in place for a while. Once the instrumental use was gone, it was only a matter of time before poets began exploring less oral-friendly forms.
Now, of course, we are entering the digital age, and I suspect the next thing to go (indeed has already gone) is the poetic line itself. Words no longer need the inertia of the line to carry them forward if digital animation can do so. WC Williams (with his visual foot) was already pushing in that direction, as has prose poetry. Is it possible that the poetic line as the bread and butter of poetry may be on its way out?
I would not be surprised if anyone has advanced this thesis before. Could anybody point me to another author who has written on this topic?
(it’s scaffolding) (it’s supposed to be temporary) (the domino effect) (had been forgotten about) (it was in storage) (nobody knew where) (that’s a logging road) (you can see its gutters) (they leave handprints) (they shudder with dolor) (nobody could settle on any particular color) (they meant different things to different people) (for luck) (on the cheap) (stop now) (flesh for sale) (fresh fruit) (insect free) (aquafarm) (moon control) (it was label-resistant) (nobody knew how to embroider it) (it felt like hailstones) (big as tombstones) (it strained everyone’s intelligence) (we had tooth problems) (we’d been flying too much) (our edges were curling) (we were like silt over sand) (we felt as if we were sugar dissolving in lime juice) (it was heavy-handed) (we were covered with treadmarks) (it was cosmetic) (like crystal handcuffs) (we were fish then) (we wanted our ladders) (most of them were rotten) (we can cut down some trees and build new ones) (we can contrive it out of convection) (say you’re a weatherman) (seed them some clouds) (remember how it felt to be scuds on a mountain) (we had good motivations) (like treeroots buckling up sidewalks) (we worked like treeroots) (we’d go anywhere looking for water) (we were hydrologists then) (we had stewpots) (we were fast-breaking) (we were aerosol) (we had currency) (we were paper airplanes) (our creases were in all the right places) (we hadn’t been stratified so many times) (it was because they were eye-minded) (they couldn’t see us) (we weren’t eyefuls) (we were just something to take note of when they weren’t working) (we were like scrimshaw) (you were one of the ones covered with flags and lady liberty) (she was an eyeful) (we were hay rolls) (then we were haywire) (we needed paperweights) (we needed dollys) (it was money-laundering they did as a sideline) (one little cooking fire stirred up all of that cloudcover) (we were walking through a ghosttown) (it was a terrestrial globe) (it wasn’t any bigger than an eyeball) (it was at the bottom of a fishbowl) (there weren’t any fish in it) (the water was gone) (and it looked as if it had been con- signed to oblivion) (do you still have it) (it’s somewhere around) (we tried to put it in a safe place) (in one of the treetrunks) (act like a lumberjack) (show them your blue ox) (your animal companion) (show them the marks left where you merged) (they said they were covered with scruples) (they needed some tearlifts) (you can seed them with dryice) (that will use up all of the liquid assets we have left) (then we can sell off some of the dunking contraptions) (we don’t need them) (we can act the way hummingbirds act) (we can fight the way hummingbirds fight) (you can wear your red vest) (you can wear your red cowboy hat) (it looks awful) (as if it were made for television) (the worst kind) (remember the scripts that were written to teach us something) (past the stratosphere the sky isn’t blue anymore) (we were unteachable) (we were woodblocks) (we lived in a sawmill) (when there was lightning) (it nearly burned down) (we were unwashed) (we were scoured) (we felt untouch- able) (and somewhat equivocal again in our science) (you were always exact to me) (like a storm cellar) (I liked it near your airstreams) (you never called me a social parasite and I felt good about that) (you never said things like the handwriting is on the wall) (you never said we were biding our time) (you weren’t a warden) (you weren’t a damper) (you didn’t live in a chimney) (you didn’t work for management) (we were still under construction) (there were warning signs all over us) (in that shocking pink orange) (like we’d been pickled) (as if we were beets or some other kind of root vegetables) (you weren’t a gladiator) (you weren’t resistant) (you weren’t a virus) (you didn’t know what a firewall was) (sometimes you did do a little fire-breathing) (not like a firebrand) (more like a fire that some- one banked in the evening waiting around until morning) (there were streets of clouds over the plains) (we were ice crystals) (laboratory grade)
|by Dara Wier|
I wanna know which friend will die young, so I can spend more time with them now
by Rachel Glaser
you hurt my feelings so I lie and say,
I do wanna fuck my roommate
I say, We’ve pushed our beds so they share a wall
dirty dishes are inevitable
when you were young and bumped your head on the table
your father would make a show of hitting the table
when you bumped your knee in the doorway
your father would kick the doorway
I wanna know which friend will die
so I can surprise my other friends
we climb into the car, lick the cd
pick the mountain with the most views
L e t ’s t r y p r i m a l s c r e a m t h e r a p y
S c r e a m a s l o u d a s y o u p o s s i b l y c a n
dogs learn terrible truths
teenagers cry over the telephone
C o m e o n , e v e r y o n e t r y !
but no one else will
W h a t e v e r, I say
Y o u r p e r s o n a l i t y w i l l s t a y t h e s a m e
W h i l e m y p e r s o n a l i t y e v o l v e s !
when you got a paper-cut
he’d march that paper to the shredder
I wanna know which friend it’ll be
so I can tease that friend about it
we all did our part in making the bathroom disgusting
one of the cats we hated, one we revered
both we tried to lose on Craigslist
there were so many views I felt ill
on our way to the mountain, the mountain was the view
on the mountain, where’d we been was the view
I met a boy
he had a thing you could put
I had a place you could go
my boobs looked so good I had to show his kitchen
clear stuff was all over his hands
There isn’t even a name for this, I said
That’s how elusive it is
I wanna know which friend
so I can become less good friends with them
MTV had already ended
our parents were still familiar
I’m a feminist, I said to his pillow
That means I get two orgasms and you get one
I pushed the boy’s balls into a shape
Stop making dick art, he said
I pushed them into another shape
I dropped down against the mosque wall
curled my shoulders in
let my feet fall apart
tilting toward the rubble-dusted floor
tried to still my lashes
as rifles came clanging in
their muzzles smelling out scent
heated off a pulse
I was playing dead
between the dead
a beast caught sight of my breath
blew off my face
“Now he’s fucking dead”
- – -
WATER sign of life: can hold a world of fleets at once: requiring a new OCEANOGRAPHY: useful to mimic waves in an assault and hit shore at same time: see also HELICOPTER WAVE: SCHEDULED WAVE: descends from garden hoses to rinse asphalt of brain matter: to rinse body on steel slab prior to shroud: streams on land: in gutters: excellent solvent: ask child you want a toy: then ask you want a grenade: watch him jump and startle: date fronds shaking with rain
- – -
The streets bend toward the Tombs,
a Chinatown of basement doctors,
and funeral parlors, of hell money and paper telephones
for the fire, and LOOK, how the BRANCHes
FLARE with cherry blossoms, how the knees
stay polite in their poetry reading seats.
LOOK, PULSEJET and RAINJET
but no blood jet.
LOOK, my father’s old Econoline, toolbox
for a back seat, his amber ashtray
and undershirts in front of the TV.
LOOK, our worried parents, the drink,
the bathroom with toilet paper chained to a pipe.
LOOK, the girl pushed to the ground
is still lying there, alkali in her mouth.
LOOK, the blindfolded HOSTAGE thinks
of oatmeal and house slippers and
no newspaper in the morning.
I teach myself to say yes
as restaurants collapse
their cold weather doorways and throw open
their windows. Women ride by in shorts,
miles of legs, flanked by bridges
and tunnels, an island
against itself. So often the TELLING
is good enough, is all I have,
the mouth willing to open
to its own surprise. I talk
to strangers on the subway,
even ask about a Dan Brown novel
to keep the face turned toward me.
On the SURVEILLENCE tape
the woman rides down the elevator
with her killer, watching the floors light up
until ground level over and over.
LOOK, the murderer is beautiful,
cheekbones and a white tee
and shoulders he hasn’t grown into yet,
slouched over the interrogation table.
I am the bully in the swivel chair
getting him to confess. I want
to MOUNT him without removing the gun
from his inside his head.
LOOK, my father HOLDs my floppy neck, worried
he’ll break me in those road-laying hands.
My mother brings me home to an Istanbul motel.
I see now how young she is,
how certain, already done
with writing and architecture. It will have to be me
Solmaz’s first publication found in here:
A World Between: Poems, Short Stories, and Essays by Iranian-Americans
DOD Dictionary of Military Terms Highly encourage you look up all the all caps words Solmaz uses in her poems
One of Solmaz’s sources of inspiration Our Lady of the Flowers
Three of Solmaz’s poems at The Association of Iranian American Writers
Solmaz in DIAGRAM
All poems printed or reprinted with permission from the author.
Photo by Bianca Stone.
CBC has an excellent radio show called Ideas, which is surprisingly high brow stuff. In particular, Ideas has been running a series based on McGill University’s Making Publics Project. CBC’s series of the same title has been tracing for listeners the origin of the modern public. It’s worth listening to from the beginning, but if you’re short on time, the last three episodes on Dutch painting, Elizabethan/Jacobean theater, and the formation of public through theater have all been especially worthwhile.
The last in particular is worth a listen if you’ve followed some of my blog posts on Allen Grossman’s The Sighted Singer. Grossman uses J.S. Mill’s idea that the speaker in lyric poetry is “overheard.” He is alone in his own mind, his own reverie, yet the lyric poet allows himself to be overheard by the audience, his readers. Compare this with the discussion in the Making Publics podcast about Hamlet’s famous soliloquy which begins “Now I am alone…” . In this, too, Hamlet self-consciously reveals his inner thoughts to an audience he does/n’t know is there. Perhaps this soliloquy is a proto-modern lyric?