Reinventing the Life of a Poet in the Modern World

Category: Lifestyles of Poets (Page 1 of 9)

Learning New Things

I am still making my way through a year’s subscription of New Yorker from 2021 but I only have a few issues left. I came across a good article last week called “Starting Fresh” by Margaret Talbot and it’s about learning new things as an older person and how this is good for preventing cognitive decline. This article interested me for a few reasons:

One, the women in my family have always been keen on preventing cognitive declines. My grandmother Ladd did this by religiously doing crossword puzzles and keeping track of storyline plots of soap operas. My mother does it with online games like Words With Friends, and cooking when she is able to still do that.

Secondly, I had a brain explosion many, many years ago when I took a ceramics class and got over the daunting idea that I would never be good at it. (See raspberry mask above.) We live in a society that instills in us a terror of attempting anything we might fail. So most of us like to stay in our comfort zones.

But as a writer working my way through my later years, I feel the need to keep exploring, as best I can anyway. This article talks about the benefits of learning new things later in life beyond the spiritual resetting of embracing a beginner’s mind. And also of the dangers of perfectionism earlier in your life.

“Maybe it could be an antidote to the self-reported perfectionism that has grown steadily more prevalent among college students in the past three decades. Thomas Curran and Andrew P. Hill, the authors of a 2019 study on perfectionism among American, British, and Canadian college students, have written that “increasingly, young people hold irrational ideals for themselves, ideals that manifest in unrealistic expectations for academic and professional achievement, how they should look, and what they should own,” and are worried that others will judge them harshly for their perceived failings. This is not, the researchers point out, good for mental health. In the U.S., we’ll be living, for the foreseeable future, in a competitive, individualistic, allegedly meritocratic society, where we can inspect and troll and post humiliating videos of one another all the live-long day. Being willing to involve yourself in something you’re mediocre at but intrinsically enjoy, to give yourself over to the imperfect pursuit of something you’d like to know how to do for no particular reason, seems like a small form of resistance.”

Yes it does.

Talbot talks about what kinds of cognitive abilities decline with age and which ones improve with age. There’s no perfect age, as it turns out, for the best cognitive ability in all areas. “Fluid indigence, which encompasses the capacity to suss out novel challenges and think on one’s feet, favors the young. But crystallized intelligence–the ability to draw on one’s accumulated store of knowledge, expertise and Fingerspitzengefühl—is often enriched by advancing age. And there’s more to it than that: particular cognitive skills rise and fall at different rates across the life span…”

The article states that your overall cognitive function will also improve if you try to learn a few new things at once. You don’t even have to be good at it. Just the attempt to do it. And researchers think this is because the act of learning multiple things at once replicates how children learn.

I’m fascinated watching how children learn things cognitively and socially. Following early child development educator Dan Wuori on Twitter is just as interesting as watching people try to solve mysteries or design things on TV. It’s watching the wheels spin. You can see it on countless reels of little kids. The first Dan Wuori video that hooked me was a little kid learning how to sort bags of different kinds of snack chips and it was compelling. The face of someone thinking is a wonderous thing.

Which is all to say I’ve started learning how to type on a braille typewriter I bought a few years ago. Back then I invited a friend over who works at a local school in Albuquerque where kids have some disabilities. So she has to take a braille test every year. It was a daunting lesson. First we had to figure out why the machine wasn’t working. Then she had to show me how hard it was to use!

I did a series of typewriter poems a few years ago and it took me like 60 pieces of paper to type out 6 poems. But I’m a comparatively good typist so that was easy compared to working with braille. There’s the same high expectation that there be no errors, (no white out sheets for my typewriter poems!), but you have to learn to type very slowly with multiple fingers engaged for every single word.

It took me quite a while to write a poem I thought worthy of the thing. Years. Then I used an online text to braille translator to map out the poem this week. Now it’s just days and weeks ahead of making many mistakes.

Wheeee!

The Essay Project: Concepts vs. Identities

I hear there’s a saying in recovery therapy that says, “don’t should on me.”

And I think about this phrase a lot when I’m reading and hearing how poems should be this way or that way, how people should be this way or that way, or how the problem with X,Y or Z is that it should be. Men should be. Women should be. The Other Side should be.

I’m slowly reading a book called Advanced Poetry, a sort of poetry course put together by Kathryn Nuernberger and Maya Jewell Zeller.

Each chapter has writing exercises and extra readings online and so reading it is taking me time. In fact, I’m only up to the chapter about a poet’s “voice” where they spend time discussing the New York School poets, specifically Frank O’Hara and all the experimental alternatives to writing confessional poetry. The chapter explores the tensions between the two exercises, writing confessional/identity poetry and writing experimental/modernist poetry, illustrated most clearly in two essays the author’s have included online.

Delusions of Whiteness in the Avant-Garde” by Cathy Park Hong  was a somewhat ground-breaking article that calls out conceptual or experimentalist poets for being clueless, and alternatively insensitive or rude, on the issue of identity politics, for not producing pure-language experiments, as they do, or for writing, as Stephen Colbert’s character would say on his old Comedy Central show, from the vantage point where “I don’t even see race.”

However you feel about the term “identity politics,” marginalized groups sharply feel their status in the world. For example, I can’t forget at any time that I am a woman. Honestly, I’ve led a pretty easy and privileged life. But I can still face obstacles as a woman. What if I get pregnant? What if I apply for a manly job, like kicker on a football team? What if I piss-off either other women or men but saying something perceived to be wrong for my gender? My womanness is very much a part of my idea of myself.

And my ideas of myself are always tricky. I get tangled up in them when I try to seek out a religious or cultural identity for myself because my father grew up on Indian reservations (as a white boy) and passed a lot of cultural artifacts down from the Hopi and Tohono Oʼodham (which is the childhood and young adulthood he experienced). That was passed down with our New Mexico heritage which is very hybrid as well. However, genetically I am not Hispanic or Native American. So what am I, culturally speaking? You can’t escape focus on your identity when it is blurred or marginalized or hated. You don’t have the luxury to not think about it. The world forces your identity upon you. And then you can criticized for talking about it.

From the point of view of modernists and experimentalists, we should be able to shred our identities and write in an authorless, language-based way. Hong calls this out as clueless. It is possible we will never get to a place of social equity ever and pretending this can be so (through art manifestos) doesn’t ever make it so.

The other essay is “Delusions of Progress” by Daniel Borzutsky which really takes some time to unpack Hong’s statements.

The experimentalists (or conceptualists) are pretty cliquey. That’s another issue. They can be pretty dismissive of other poetries. On the other had, political writers operate with such urgency, they often feel the same way. And their point can be well taken. For example, if we don’t solve the environment crisis and we all die off, there will be no humans to make the poetry experiments. So there.

This is not a new problem. I’m also reading about the beginnings of modernism. Modernist poets like T.S. Eliot wanted to push back against “sentimental poets,” women poets of the time. Poetry should be to escape the personal, he believed. Confessional poetry sprouted up to push back against that. Also, there were some women and minority poets during the time of Eliot who were using non-experimental or traditional forms and structures to talk about their lives in political ways.

It has always seemed to me more a matter of privilege than overt racism, although you could draw political lines between the two groups. The modernists were ironically very politically conservative. Eliot and Pound were famously antisemitic during WW2. They latter-day New Critics not only believed a poem should stand as an artifact free of biography, but as a critical force they shut down the poetry of the political left which disappeared from the canon and the academy for almost 100 years, along with popular poets of the day, whatever their politics were, poets like Edna St. Vincent Millay, Louise Bogan…etc. More recent modernists evaluations and anthologies in both America and England are just beginning to bring those poets back into our critical awareness.

This is not to say some experimentalists are not racist. But many of them just have the privilege of their race or sex not being a barrier or under threat. They can’t or don’t want to write about their whiteness. So they tool around with words instead. I just want to say that their doing this isn’t the problem. Their experiments in and of themselves are not clueless or wrong. It is all their critical judgements, their exclusive shoulding, their grand ideas about their own place in the poetry canon that is clueless.

I do get energized, myself, from procedural and language experiments but I have always sympathized with poets who want or need to write poems of witness and social concern. And now that I feel my own future jeopardized as a person in the new era of aggressive incels, I understand this much more viscerally.

Borzurtsky’s article is a good discussion on these struggles and he comes to conclude that maybe this isn’t a discussion about poetry at all, but how you “position yourself in the world, about how you want to live your life.”  He says, “the politics of form is really a discussion about the politics of content.”

To dismiss identity poetry is tragic, he feels, because he has seen “poetry have a transformative effect on individuals because of a poet’s willingness to speak, directly and honestly and vulnerability, about ‘identity,’ about political and social experience, about what it means to survive in a world that wants to kill you.” (or enslave you, or make rape legal…)

And we have to remember, in some countries you were (and still are) killed or jailed for writing witness  or political poetry. To say this kind of poetry isn’t “serious” enough is just absurd. No government is going to kill you for writing a procedural poem.

Borzurtsky goes on to say “I think about how small and incremental it feels to write poetry in our over-saturated, a-political landscape.”

Which reminds me of the joke, “Why are poets so cutthroat? Because the stakes are so small.” Poets are already marginalized. This becomes a nonsensical skirmish at some point. Because I would never want to see the poetries of witness vs. experiment made into opposing camps. Not only are there excellent and important poets who traffic in both exercises, we desperately need them both to exist.

I’ll say that again: we desperately need them all to exit.

We absolutely need a poetry of witness, identity, and social concern. But we also need the laboratory poets, the scientists’ scientist, the poets’ poets like Marianne Moore and Gertrude Stein (who ironically supported some antisemetic bad actors herself because she was so vehemently anti-left). Many Harlem Renaissance writers and women writers at the onset of modernism used traditional poetry forms to protest the idea that they were not smart or genius enough to write in forms (Claude McKay, Edna St. Vincent Millay). We need all the things.

Forms (like music genres) have no politics. It’s the judgement about them that has politics.

By the way, Advanced Poetry as a text-book is happily inclusive of British and American poets of all kinds. It really puts the “trans” in trans-Atlantic.

Sacred Sexuality in Ancient Egypt

So there is a podcast happening in the house, Monsieur Big Bang’s conversations about anthropology with John Lehr. As a result, copious packages of books have been delivered on every conceivable topic. I asked how many books were needed per podcast. I was told ten. (!)

For an upcoming show on contraceptives, the following book arrived, (and of course I plucked it out of the stack to peruse), Sacred Sexuality in Ancient Egypt, The Erotic Secrets of the Forbidden Papyrus. And I didn’t grab it just for the racy drawings (but there it did not disappoint).  There are poems in this thing, specifically in a chapter called “Love, Eroticism, and Sexuality in Literature.”

I was hoping the poems would be as risqué as the drawings.

They weren’t.

Apparently “the people of the Nile had a great love of writing” and they wrote on everything: rocks inscriptions, leather, plaster-coated wooden tablets (which were erasable like white boards),  earthenware vessels. And apparently they loved to make sexual innuendos and saucy insults (aww, they’re just like us). They even swore and said obscene things. For example, a common insult to a man was someone with his “testicles far away.” (Things never change.) Another ancient insult to women (especially older ones) was to call them an “old tube.” (Oy my! That is offensive!)

Anyway, you’d think some of that might be found in the poetry included in the book?

Alas, no.

Here are some samples (and it’s handy to know these Ancient Egyptians called their beloveds brother and sister):

The One, the “sister” who has no equal,
More beautiful than all the rest,
To look on her is to see the star that rises
At the beginning of a good year.
She of the radiant perfection,
Of the resplendent complexion,
She who gazes from such lovely eyes.
Sweet are her likes when she speaks:
She never says a word too many.
She of the delicate long neck over breasts in full bloom.
Her hair is veritable lapis lazuli.
Her arms surpass any gold
And her fingers are like lotus buds.
She whose back is so lithesome, her waist is so narrow,
And whose beauty her hips still stress.
Her bearing turns the head of every man who sees her
Happy is the man who embraces her….

I mean, okay, maybe this was erotic at the time, to labor over the idea of a woman “who says not a word too many.” (Sigh.) Myself, I love the word veritable, but it’s not very sexy.

Now if you want to explore the misery of love, there’s plenty to offer here: “an illness has taken over me,” nothing can cure me, I can no longer “walk like everyone else,” “my reason is troubled,” “your love turns me upside down. I do not know how to let it go,”  “I am the servant…the captive of the beloved…she gives me no water,” and the very dejected “I no longer put on my shawl, I no longer make up my eyes. I no longer even perfume myself.”

There’s also joy, elation, exultation. salvation in some of the poems. But not an actual lot of body parts.

We get close with lines like this, “It is my desire to come down and bathe in your presence…” but there are likely many encoded provocations, like one verse about a man who braves crocodiles in a river to get to his lover on the far bank: “The river could flood my body/…a crocodile lies in wait on the banks/ [but] going down into the water, I wish to cross over through the waves/by showing great courage in the canal.”

Yes, one must take courage in the canal for sure.

And here we go:

my seeds are like her teeth
my fruits are like her breasts…
I remain constant in all seasons:
when the “sister” acts with the “brother”!…
While they are intoxicated upon wines and liquors,
And liberally sprinkled with oil and balm….
Though I still stand upright, shedding my flowers,
Those of next year are (already) in me.
I am the first of my companions,
[but] I have been treated like the second!
In future, if they again begin to act this way
I will not keep my silence on their behalf!

At least we get some booze and lubrication in there. And the last poem in the chapter is allegedly full of metaphors and innuendos whose meaning the author surmises we may culturally miss (err…not really though):

You must present yourself at the house of your “sister”
alone, with no one else.
Go up to her door…
It is up to you to master her lock…
Like one unlocks a reception room.
How splendid is her pergola!
She is provided with song and dance,
wines and beers of ceremony are beneath her shadow,
while the colonnade is open to the breeze.
It is through the wind that the sky displays itself,
it will bring her aroma [that of the “sister”];
her perfume spreads, intoxicating those who breathe it.
It is up to you to agitate your “sister’s” senses,
and bring them to a pinnacle during the night!
Then she will say to you: “Take me in your arms?
Dawn will find us in the same position.”
It is the Golden One who has presently appointed her for you,
so that you may put the finishing touches upon your life.

Well, we may have different ideas about what a reception room is, and I’ve never heard them called pergolas and colonades before. But architectural metaphors why not?

The whole chapter ends with this sentence, “With this delightful and poetic evocation of the first night of love for the young couple, we will close the shutter on the literature of pharonic Egypt.”

Those funny phallic pharonics.

Poetry Maps

Maps
Soo…I was doing something I definitely shouldn’t be doing…and I came across this very cool website called Poetry Atlas. You can look up poems connected to or referencing cities and towns around the world. You just type in the city and you're off to the races: http://www.poetryatlas.com/ 

This week, I used it to look up poems about the city of my birth.

(An aside, I was the one-hundredth baby born at a white skyscraper hospital in downtown Albuquerque called St. Josephs, which is now a brown medical building called Lovelace. My parents got a steak dinner. My brothers were born across the highway at Presbyterian and there were no steak dinners for them.)

Anyway, two really lovely poems about Albuquerque are on the site. And I think they resonated with me for a few reasons. One is that New Mexico in general and Albuquerque specifically can be a very harsh place to live. Even today. It’s a tough city and it can be a rough place.

A lot of people are drawn to New Mexico for the natural formations and the spirit of the place but it's not for the light of heart. The weather can be harsh. Half of us are allergic to the Chamisa and the juniper pollen. The spring winds can drive you mad (or if you're like my grandmother you can become addicted to them and forever need the sound of a draining wind to fall asleep). Medical care here is absurd. The public schools aren't very good. I guess there are some building codes. And mañana is the motto of the land which you will either learn to love or not.

And I am made of this place. These are my people. And the word love doesn’t quite express my connection to the rocks and trees and mesas and people here. It's really, really foundational for me. But sometimes I wonder if humans were meant to habitate this place.

My big family loves to say wherever they live is "God's country" and my little nuclear family loves to laugh about that. My grandparents and parents and brothers have always believed New Mexico is God's Country. Living far away in St. Louis, that is what we always said to each other. And when I found myself back here about 12 years ago, it dawned on me what that really meant was: 'good lord' and 'for the love of God' and 'for Christ’s sake!"

Sometimes you need poems to remind you what you love about the flawed city and country and world you are from.

And I must say, in reference to the first poem below, Albuquerque's airport is one of its lovliest things here, as airports go. 

"Gate A4"
by Naomi Shihab Nye

Wandering around the Albuquerque Airport Terminal, after learning
my flight had been delayed four hours, I heard an announcement:
"If anyone in the vicinity of Gate A-4 understands any Arabic, please
come to the gate immediately."

Well—one pauses these days. Gate A-4 was my own gate. I went there.

An older woman in full traditional Palestinian embroidered dress, just
like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing. "Help,"
said the flight agent. "Talk to her. What is her problem? We
told her the flight was going to be late and she did this."

I stooped to put my arm around the woman and spoke haltingly.
"Shu-dow-a, Shu-bid-uck Habibti? Stani schway, Min fadlick, Shu-bit-
se-wee?" The minute she heard any words she knew, however poorly
used, she stopped crying. She thought the flight had been cancelled
entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for major medical treatment the
next day. I said, "No, we're fine, you'll get there, just later, who is
picking you up? Let's call him."

We called her son, I spoke with him in English. I told him I would
stay with his mother till we got on the plane and ride next to
her. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just
for the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while
in Arabic and found out of course they had ten shared friends. Then I
thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian poets I know
and let them chat with her? This all took up two hours.

She was laughing a lot by then. Telling of her life, patting my knee,
answering questions. She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool
cookies—little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and
nuts—from her bag—and was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the mom from California, the
lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same powdered
sugar. And smiling. There is no better cookie.

And then the airline broke out free apple juice from huge coolers and two
little girls from our flight ran around serving it and they
were covered with powdered sugar, too. And I noticed my new best friend—
by now we were holding hands—had a potted plant poking out of her bag,
some medicinal thing, with green furry leaves. Such an old country tradi-
tion. Always carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and I thought, This
is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in that
gate—once the crying of confusion stopped—seemed apprehensive about
any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women, too.

This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.

"Passing Through Albuquerque"
by John Balaban

At dusk, by the irrigation ditch
gurgling past backyards near the highway,
locusts raise a maze of calls in cottonwoods.

A Spanish girl in a white party dress
strolls the levee by the muddy water
where her small sister plunks in stones.

Beyond a low adobe wall and a wrecked car
men are pitching horseshoes in a dusty lot.
Someone shouts as he clangs in a ringer.

Big winds buffet in ahead of a storm,
rocking the immense trees and whipping up
clouds of dust, wild leaves, and cottonwool.

In the moment when the locusts pause and the girl
presses her up-fluttering dress to her bony knees
you can hear a banjo, guitar, and fiddle

playing "The Mississippi Sawyer" inside a shack.
Moments like that, you can love this country.

NaPoWriMo 2021 is Coming

Sweep-and-shepIt's that time of year again. National Poetry Writing Month starts this Thursday. To be honest, I don't have it in me to write a poem a day all April this year. I'm working on a long HTML project for a class, plus I'm wiped out from the Covid-adventures with my parents and I have guests coming soon. And my brain is fried. But I don't want to miss a year of NaPoWriMo.

So, I figured out a compromise. I've had a set of fairy tales poems I've been sitting on for decades and have had no time to revise them, although I've added a few here and there. Plus, I really don't think they'll ever find a home in a book; it's been done (Anne Sexton).

I could easily revise a poem a day and have decided to use those poems to gather together a set of 30 for NaPoWriMo. Some of them are in pretty good shape but some are pretty rough. Hopefully this will be productive work.

See you on Thursday.

Letters to Big Bang Poetry

LetterseditorsFrom mid-2019 to fall of 2020 I received a slew of letters to Big Bang Poetry. But I'm terrible at responding in a timely manner. So don't come here looking for help on a class assignment that's due tomorrow morning is all I'm saying. But I love getting letters and I'll try to respond here eventually.

(1) In August 2019 a name named Pieter from the Netherlands wrote this:

“For one of our clients I am currently working on a magazine which will be distributed in an amount of 1000 copies among their business relations. I would like to publish your poem ‘Writing Poems 9 to 5’ as part of a spread with a background image of Windows 10. I like your poem as being kind of a meta description of poetry and it fits good with the image thanks to your reference to Microsoft: “Microsoft changed everything with their windows.”

This was the poem from NaPoWriMo 2019: 

Writing Poems 9 to 5

My first job was data entry, with all those awful numbers.
The next ones were flush with time and words were incalculable,
floating out of copiers and stenographers. I hand-wrote them then

in-between walking memos to real, plastic inboxes.
Microsoft changed everything with their windows
in which I could type out my poems. After all,
writing poems looks awfully similar to working.
And instead of office supplies, I began to steal time.

I snuck words in through open windows,
met them in small storage rooms, had conferences
with them at lunch. I sat in ergonomic chairs
while they reclined on the yellow, lined paper.

Sometimes I had to cajole them.
Sometimes they were team players.
Sometimes they were only wanting to gossip.
Sometimes they came out of the mouths of people
standing unawares in front of my desk. Sometimes
they didn’t show up to work, but I couldn’t fire them.

They liked to be fussed over, rearranged.
They wanted to be knit and spaced.
All they wanted was my attention.
And they must have known I would never give them up
for all the money. Because at the end of the day,
when they took their leave, it always sounded good.

We came to a nominal monetary agreement but then I never heard back so I'm guessing the client didn’t like the poem as much as Pieter did. Wah wah.

(2) In August 2020 a woman named Angelica wrote:

“Hello, I’m doing a research project for school on the influence of cognitive biases on business decision making and one of the sources I need is a poem. I read your poem Irrational escalation and I feel it incorporates my topic. I understood the first stanza; however, I wasn’t too clear about how to interpret the rest. I was wondering if you have the time to explain it to me. Thank you! From a highschool student in need to pass her AP Seminar class.”

This was the poem from NaPoWriMo 2015: 

30 Poems About Suffering: Irrational Escalation

The phenomenon where people justify increased investment in a decision, based on the cumulative prior investment, despite new evidence suggesting that the decision was probably wrong. Also known as the sunk cost fallacy.

The Donner Party refusing to stay put,
Mark Twain’s four million dollar investment
in the Paige Compositor, an early automatic
typesetting machine, Paige taking Twain’s money
for 14 years while other machines prevailed.

A project of biases like this.

It is the broken heart bias, the grit bias.
Tenacity like a tin ear. The fellow who completes
what he has, dammit, set out for.

Does it take decades anymore? Months across
the mountain pass? A lie you tell yourself
as fast as a tweet?

In times like these a robot could grab it—
your timely mistake and capitalize
your catastrophes . No leak. No hack.
No time to adjust to fortune’s funny ironies.

What happens too fast, what happens slow and long—
there’s always a spot of space to stop for,
time to consider time itself in your hand
with its diamond faces. What are you doing
and should you not pivot slightly to the side?

I love the idea that a business class might be requiring poetry research. My response: "I'll try to explain it with some questions…

The first stanza is just examples of historical people who have refused to give up no matter how dire the situation.

Stanza 2. "A project of biases like this." — like this project of me writing these 30 poems. 🙂
 
3. Why might you might not want to give up, what motivates you to not give up despite all the evidence?
 
4. How long would it take to abandon your bad idea? The poem was inspired by a tweet so does Twitter help us or not help us to realize when we're wrong?
 
5. Is it because we're human and not machines?
 
6. Would it help if we slowed down our thinking process?

Natgeo(3) In October 2020 Robert wrote:

“I found your short poem The Bosque online and really connected with it. I’m making a short film about the Bosque for my capstone documentary class at Santa Fe Community College and was wondering if I could use your poem in the film. I think it will be a really good fit for what I’m trying to capture. Of course I would credit you.”

Here's the poem from NaPoWriMo 2014:

30 Poems About Language : The Bosque

Not the fog of memory,
the fog of a fugitive concentration.
Letting go of the handrail
and wandering in the bosque.
There is no memory there.

How exciting! I said okay and asked to see the film when it was done. He showed me an early cut and my parents and I were able to watch it together in Cleveland. If the film ever becomes public, I'll post the link here. The photo above is from the National Geographic article on the Rio Grande Bosque.

( Paulcelan4) In October 2020 someone named Lacey wrote:

"I’m reading Paul Celan. I came across this poem and I need an expert’s take on what it could possibly mean. I have my own…impression but I want to flesh it out. The poem is:

'Each arrow you loose is accompanied by the sent-along target into the unerringly-secret tumult.'”

This was a fascinating question and typical enigmatic poem for Celan, made even more fascinating by the fact that I found multiple alternate translations online. This question even inspired me to read one of the collected translations.

To me the particular translation above seems to be about how the object of your desire(s) can get tangled up into the chaos of your affections. 

But some versions didn’t seem as negative in connotation. So I tracked down the original German poem and found a native German speaker to provide a literal translation. My friend Julie hooked me up with her friend Heike's husband Joe who said,

"I went a bit more literally:

'Every arrow that you send its way accompanies the shooting target into the undeviating, secret scrimmage.'

To me that describes a situation, like in ancient times, where archers sent the arrows in the air targeting someone, but it could hit anything in a certain unknown range where the arrow went."

Totally different than my interpretation. Interestingly Paul Celan was the subject of a recent New Yorker article in November 2020, “How Paul Celan Reconceived Language for the Post-Holocaust World.” Turns out this is the 50-year anniversary of his death.

In the article they quote Celan talking about the “thousand darknesses of murderous speech” (which is timely since which we are living through murderous speech again from neo-fascists and QAnon. Examples include the rally cry “death to democrats” and the threats of beheadings against public servants who disagree with their dear leader.

Both of Celan's parents were murdered during the Holocaust and Celan spent his career dealing with the atrocities committed by the Nazis in a language “sullied by Nazi propaganda, hate speech and euphemism.” Sound familiar?

Hans Egon Hothusen, a former S. S. officer who became a critic for a German literary magazine, called Celan's famous poem "[Deathfugue]" "a Surrealist fantasia” which was both a denial of Celan's own experience and humanity, spoken by a residual Nazi attempting to control the narrative. Even after the war ended, Celan was still trolled by anti-semites.

Stephen-Vincent-Benet(5) In November of 2020 Alex wrote:

"I was very drawn to one of the poems I read on your website because it seems eerily similar to how I view American leadership the last 4 years. It begins with “you mistake me.” The poem doesn’t seem to have an author, title or date. Is this something you wrote? Can you provide any info at all?

In this case, Alex found the poem on my Poems About Dictators page.

My response:  That verse you indicated is part of a long poem called "Listen to the People" by Stephen Vincent Benet (from 1941). He's a great lost poet from the 1930s and 40s. The poem was so long I couldn't quote all of it so the ellipses (…) between the verses indicates there is text in-between which was not quoted. Here is a link to the full piece: https://www.poetrynook.com/poem/listen-people

 
Here's are some more interesting links about the poet:
 
(turns out he coined the phrase 'Bury my heart at wounded knee.')
 
 
 
I discovered this poet in the book "Revolutionary Memory" by Cary Nelson about labor poets who were lost or suppressed during the red scare. Vincent Benet also wrote the famous long poem "John Brown's Body" for which he won a Pulitzer Prize. Like a lot of other labor/leftist poets of the 1930s-40s, he's now out of print; but you can find used copies of his work around online.
 

Productivity and Devotedness

RayI read a really sexist essay last week by Robert Duncan so I looked him up on Wikipedia to see if he was part of that sexist clique of Modernists. Wikipedia describes him as “a devotee of Hilda "H.D." Doolittle” and that got me wondering if I was going to be a “devotee” of some poet, who would it be? I mean someone who could I be a completest for (buying up every volume and critique)? Who could I haunt the alleys over in search of they key to what makes them magical beings? I was stumped by this question. I mean it didn’t take me long to narrow down a few suspects. I have never NOT enjoyed an Albert Goldbarth or Anne Carson book. I could see becoming a devotee of someone who I could imagine enjoying 100% of their output and consuming their biographies with relish.

But….Anne Carson is ruled out because her stuff is all, in actuality, over my head and I’m completely unwilling to learn Classic Lit to any degree, let alone what I would need to do to fully comprehend Anne Carson books. So…I'm crying uncle on that one. Albert Goldbarth on the other hand, yeah I guess I could become a devotee of his but the one time I saw him at the Los Angeles book festival, he was a bit crusty. So I don’t know if I could show up to all of his shows, if you know what I mean. Which you'd have to keep up with as a devotee.

Here’s the other issue, I'm already pretty busy being a devotee in the pop culture sphere. And honestly, that's too much fun to give up. I mean, until there are 33-lps, 45s, 8-tracks, dvds, blu-rays, Vogue magazines, tv show episodes, posters, perfumes, skin care products, goth furniture to track down, I might get Poem-todaybored with just collecting….books. I mean I just bought a Cher puzzle today. And I'm eagerly anticipating it's arrival. Can you picture an Anne Carson or Albert Goldbarth doll, complete with an array of Bob Mackie outfits? No. Maybe we should have that. But we don't. So, I'm out of luck to become a poet's scholar. I'll have to make do with my literary finger puppets, which do come with awesomely detailed outfits. 

Meanwhile, here's an interesting article on how our writing rituals may help us think: https://getpocket.com/explore/item/the-psychology-of-writing-and-the-cognitive-science-of-the-perfect-daily-routine. It includes a chart of famous writers and their waking-up habits vs. productivity levels. Here's a shortcut to the chart: https://www.brainpickings.org/2013/12/16/writers-wakeup-times-literary-productivity-visualization/. The chart is hard to summarize but the author with most books and genres combined with the most awards is Ray Bradbury, who woke up at 9 am everyday. 

The article references a book called The Psychology or Writing by Ronald T. Kellogg but the only affordable version is on Kindle or from your local library. While looking for that book I also came across this interesting workbook called The Psychology Workbook for Writers by Darian Smith, which steps you through how to create well-rounded fiction characters.

Finally, while I was visiting the brainpickings.org site today, a pop-up window came up saying, "Hey, I thought you could use a poem today." And boy, I sure could. What a nice websity thing to do!

It's like a free gift at checkout!

Pencils and Erasers

Pencil-eraser

 

Recently I came across a poem in The Atlantic called "Pencil" by A.E. Stallings. Go read the poem on The Atlantic site.

And it went so well with my Eraser Manifesto from NaPoWriMo 2019 called "Erasing Labor."

 

 

 

Erasing Labor

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 12, 2019)

“The daughter made herself
an expert in the illness, to erase it
on its own terms: still it stayed, it grew, and as you know
the eraser soon starts disappearing.”
— Albert Goldbarth from “Not Sumerian”

Years ago I began an eraser manifesto
for a collection of my erasers,
all with their soft curves and rolling debris,
all kinds of shapes and function,
those perched atop pencils
and novel, freestanding monuments.

The manifesto is short enough
to be erasable and reads as follows:

Erasers acknowledge, accept and accommodate the idea of failure.

Erasing destroys the eraser.
This has ramifications in social relations.

Corollary of above: to love an object too much
renders it un-usable.

It’s fun to erase but also fun to resist erasing.
And this too has ramifications in social relations.

 

The prompt for that day was to “write a poem about a dull thing that you own, and why (and how) you love it.” The quote is from this poem: https://www.vqronline.org/not-sumerian

New Nomination for Cowboy Meditation Primer & Cowboy Article

Waterbarrel

I feel somewhat of an anomaly: a fan of movie westerns who is ambivalent about John Wayne. I prefer Sergio Leone movies and their offspring for their complexity and visual sweep. Also, Wayne seems to me a bit of a water barrel with legs. 

Anyway, I came across this article about him in The Atlantic from a 2017 stack I'm working my way through: "How John Wayne Became a Hollow Masculine Icon, The actor’s persona was inextricable from the toxic culture of Cold War machismo" by Stephen Metcalf. 

The article is pre-me-too by a year so it's not about mansplaining or questionable sexism. It's more about John Ford and how their relationship led to a toxic kind of iconography.

"…from the bulk of the evidence here, masculinity (like the Western) is a by-product of nostalgia, a maudlin elegy for something that never existed—or worse, a masquerade that allows no man, not even John Wayne, to be comfortable in his own skin…There was an awful pathos to their relationship—Wayne patterning himself on Ford, at the same time that Ford was turning Wayne into a paragon no man could live up to."

This, I thought, was a brilliant assessment of where were now:

"Schoenberger herself alludes, perceptively, to “functional masculinity,” and if I read her right, this is the core of her provocative argument. Masculinity as puerile male bonding, as toxic overcompensation and status jockeying—this is what’s unleashed when masculinity no longer has an obvious function. Divorced from social purpose, “being a man” becomes merely symbolic. So, for example, robots in factories and drones on the battlefield will only make gun ownership and mixed martial arts more popular. To push the thesis further, as men become less socially relevant, they become recognition-starved; and it is here that “being a man” expresses itself most primitively, as violence."

Does that sound a little like the Incel violence we've been dealing with?

In other news, Cowboy Meditation Primer, has been named finalist in the New Mexico/Arizona Book Awards. Winners to be announced at a ceremony in early November. 

 

52 Haiku, Week 24

20190809_070931 20190809_070931 20190809_070931

 

 

 

 

 

 

These are my sunflowers. Ever since I saw our old neighbors' sunflowers peeking over the wall at our last house, I've wanted to try to grow them. How can you be unhappy looking at a sunflower? Is it even physically possible? The third picture is a typical roadside, New Mexico sunflower like you'd find up near Harding County.  They're hardy but only one of the six I planted has done well. Supposedly they came from Kansas when the wagons coming down the Santa Fe Trail came through.

The first two pics are jumbo sunflowers. They love it here and grew really tall. But then a big windstorm last week blew them all over. I was so sad about it (and other worldly news that their blowing over seemed symbolic…you know how you do?).

But this morning I propped them back up and I noticed they're still kickin' it. Some new blooms are coming in, bent over or not. And wouldn't you know, the prompt this week amazingly applies. I actually did the drawing and haiku days ago when the flowers were still sad and blown over.

The Prompt: The Perseverance of Sunflowers

Again this week's prompt comes from the Zen by the Brush book by Myoshi Nancy O'Hara. 

"Everything
Changes in this world
But flowers will open
Each spring
Just as usual.
"
        – Zen Poem

First task is to sit for a meditation on that for 5-10 minutes or however long you feel is good to you.

The Drawing

20190808_111500

 

My Haiku

…inspired by my drawing:

Bending sunflower
Bends to the year and season.
But next year resumes.

The Reflection

Drawing flowers! That's my jam! My sunflower leaf is about to do a high, showgirl kick. I feel better now.

 

How about you?

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