Hey, I don't think we can comment on peoples' entries, but I just wanted to say that there is an essay called "Life Story" by David Shields that also uses bumper stickers. I think it's great and here it is:
Life Story
by David Shields
First things first.
You're only young once, but you can be immature forever. I may grow old, but I'll never grow up. Too fast to live, too young to die. Life's a beach.
Not all men are fools; some are single. 100% Single. I'm not playing hard to get; I am hard to get. I love being exactly who I am.
Heaven doesn't want me and Hell's afraid I'll take over. I'm the person your mother warned you about. Ex-girlfriend in trunk. Don't laugh; your girlfriend might be in here.
Girls wanted, all positions, will train. Playgirl on board. Party girl on board. Sexy blonde on board. Not all dumbs are blonde. Never underestimate the power of redheads. Yes, I am a movie star. 2QT4U. A4NQT. No ugly chicks. No fat chicks. I may be fat, but you're ugly and I can diet. Nobody is ugly after 2 a.m.
Party on board. Mass confusion on board. I brake for bong water. Jerk off and smoke up. Elvis died for your sins. Screw guilt. I'm Elvis; kiss me.
Ten-and-a-half inches on board. Built to last. You can't take it with you, but I'll let you hold it for awhile.
Be kind to animals--kiss a rugby player. Ballroom dancers do it with rhythm. Railroaders love to couple up. Roofers are always on top. Pilots slip it in.
Love sucks and then you die. Gravity's a lie; life sucks. Life's a bitch; you marry one, then you die. Life's a bitch and so am I. Beyond bitch.
Down on your knees, bitch. Sex is only dirty when you do it right. Liquor up front--poker in the rear. Smile; it's the second best thing you can do with your lips. I haven't had sex for so long I forget who gets tied up. I'm looking for love but will settle for sex. Bad boys have bad toys. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but whips and chains excite me. Live fast; love hard; die with your mask on.
So many men, so little time. Expensive but worth it. If you're rich, I'm single. Richer is better. Shopaholic on board. Born to shop. I'd rather be shopping at Nordstrom. Born to be pampered. A woman's place is the mall. When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping. Consume and die. He who dies with the most toys wins. She who dies with the most jewels wins. Die, yuppie scum.
This vehicle not purchased with drug money. Hugs are better than drugs.
You are loved.
Expectant mother on board. Baby on board. Family on board. I love my kids. Precious cargo on board. Are we having fun yet? Baby on fire. No child in car. Grandchild in back.
I fight poverty; I work. I owe, I owe, it's off to work I go. It sure makes the day long when you get to work on time. Money talks; mine only knows how to say goodbye. What do you mean I can't pay off my Visa with my Mastercard?
How's my driving? Call 1-800-545-8601. If this vehicle is being driven recklessly, please call 1-800-EAT-SHIT. Don't drink and drive—you might hit a bump and spill your drink.
My other car is a horse. Thoroughbreds always get there first. Horse lovers are stable people. My other car is a boat. My other car is a Rolls-Royce. My Mercedes is in the shop today. Unemployed? Hungry? Eat your foreign car. My other car is a 747. My ex-wife's car is a broom. My other car is a piece of shit, too. Do not wash--this car is undergoing a scientific dirt test. Don't laugh; it's paid for. If this car were a horse, I'd have to shoot it. If I go any faster, I'll burn out my hamsters. I may be slow, but I'm ahead of you. I also drive a Titleist. Pedal downhill.
Shit happens. I love your wife. Megashit happens. I'm single again. Wife and dog missing—reward for dog. The more people I meet, the more I like my cat. Nobody on board. Sober 'n' crazy. Do it sober. Drive smart; drive sober.
No more Mr. Nice Guy. Lost your cat? Try looking under my tires. I love my German shepherd. Never mind the dog—beware of owner. Don't fence me in. Don't tell me what kind of day to have. Don't tailgate or I'll flush. Eat shit and die. My kid beat up your honor student. Abort your inner child. I don't care who you are, what you're driving, who's on board, who you love, where you'd rather be, or what you'd rather be doing.
Not so close—I hardly know you. Watch my rear end, not hers. You hit it—you buy it. Hands off. No radio. No Condo/No MBA/No BMW. Don't steal; the government loves competition. You toucha my car—I breaka your face. Protected by Smith and Wesson. Warning: This car is protected by a large sheet of cardboard.
Luv2Hnt. Gun control is being able to hit your target. Hunters make better lovers—they go deeper into the bush—they shoot more often—and they eat what they shoot.
Yes, as a matter of fact, I do own the whole damn road. Get in, sit down, shut up, and hold on. I don't drive fast; I just fly low. If you don't like the way I drive, stay off the sidewalk. I'm polluting the atmosphere. Can't do 55.
I may be growing old, but I refuse to grow up. Get even: live long enough to become a problem to your kids. We're out spending our children's inheritance.
Life is pretty dry without a boat. I'd rather be sailing. A man's place is on his boat. Everyone must believe in something; I believe I'll go canoeing. Who cares!
Eat dessert first; life is uncertain. Why be normal?
Don't follow me; I'm lost, too. Wherever you are, be there. No matter where you go, there you are. Bloom where you are planted.
Easy does it. Keep it simple, stupid. I'm 4/Clean Air. Go fly a kite. No matter—never mind. UFOs are real. Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most. I brake for unicorns.
Choose death.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Southern American Portrait #1 (Lament for Ignorance)
I'd rather be killin' comuniss.
I'll apologize for slavery, if you apologize for rap music.
Born to hunt, forced to work.
Nuke their ass, and take the gas.
Anyone found her in the evening, will be found here in the morning.
My wife, yes. My dog, maybe. My GUN, Never!
I want YOU, to speak english.
Kiss my rebel ass.
If you can't feed'em – Don't breed'em!
I'll keep my money, freedom, and my gun if you will keep the "change."
I'm busy. You're ugly. Have a nice day.
Guns don't kill people.... I do.
Gun control means using both hands.
Drugs lead nowhere, but its the scenic route.
The shortest sentence is "I Am." The longest is, "I Do."
Keep honking. I'm reloading.
Jesus, take the wheel, I've been drinkin'.
Jesus is the man!
God, Guns and Guts.
Keep America Free.
Ignore your rights, and they'll go away.
I love grits!
Judgement Day. May21, 2011.
Those who beat their guns into plows, will plow for those who don't.
American by birth. Southern by the grace of God.
Real men don't shoot blanks.
I'd rather be killin' Yankees.
Liberty and Justice for Y'all.
The South will rise again.
Cat. The other white meat.
________________________________________________________________________
Ryan Blum-Kryzstal Found Poem Assemblage from Southern Bumper Stickers
5/9/2010
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
a’merica
(This work is in dialogue with Allen Ginsburg’s poem “America” written 54 years ago in Berkeley, California. Aspects of the form are borrowed from him as a means of dialogue, as a means of launching. The apostrophe in the title signifies fragmentation.)
a’merica, you are not the only America.
a’merica this poem is longer than Allen’s because it has been adjusted for inflation, so grab a knee.
a’merica I’ll warn you now that I’m not as funny as Allen.
a’merica three dollars and ninety-nine cents February 15th, 2010.
a’merica all has been given and all is still not yet to be.
My mind cannot stand me.
The human war has shape-shifted.
It is live, in hi-definition.
You have relished the taste of gunmetal and nuclear war.
Fuck you and your Patriot Act.
You reek of racist filth in every corridor of your language.
What the fuck does that do to someone’s consciousness?
a’merica the crusades still burn in the projects where the children are lynched by your education.
What’s it take to get a decent grocery store ‘round here?
The children read from rotten books, books eaten by mice, digital books that glow in the dark, books on tape that read to them while they stare…
a’merica ketchup is still not a vegetable.
a’merica your farms, your rivers, your coasts - are dying.
a’merica you didn’t steal the votes this time? But it’s never too late.
a’merica congrats on the new President, lets sell an aircraft carrier and build some schools.
You continue the Crusade in the East –
the ancient semen of fascist papacies and Constantine’s sword.
Here’s Tom with the weather.
I feel actual hopefulness so please don't bother me anymore.
I am writing this poem to get into the mind of you at this precipice.
a’merica will you always be the demon-angel wannabe savior of the world?
When will you stop hating your sex-flesh?
When will you stop laughing at your penis and your vagina?
When will you swallow?
When will you eat your mirror?
When will you find worth in the multitudes?
a’merica why are your libraries vacant?
a’merica when will you stop being America?
I'm nauseated with your verboseness.
I am trying to forgive you, but I have not forgiven myself.
a’merica when will I be able to afford the good-looking food at the supermarket?
a’merica the next world approaches and you are ending.
The Maya tattooed it on the stones.
Your machines are ventriloquists.
You made me shed the notions of saint and sinning.
You can not even bare to smell your own shit rotting in the mountains of Afghanistan!
a’merica is one American life worth more than one Pashtun farmer?
Spell p-a-s-h-t-u-n with your google.
The only way to settle this argument is not to settle.
Ginsberg is in Jersey with the worms only to return as Uncle Liberty.
Are you the harbinger or is this the charade?
There is no point that I am coming to.
There is just this attempt to report to Allen the state of things.
This is an obsession of becoming.
a’merica the seasons come later and later every year.
The newspapers malfunction into blogispheric oblivion.
Somewhere, there is a symphony of mass shootings.
a’merica do you know how to make a mixed tape. The plastic kind?
Do you even know how to listen without pushing the button?
a’merica every bomb you drop is a nail in your coffin.
a’merica have you ever heard about Rome?
You can only play it close to the chest for so long.
The closet is bursting with skeletons for everyone to see.
And you do nothing.
And I do nothing.
All I do is type and judge.
a’merica the Mountaintop has come home to roost.
The Promised Land is a human heart.
It has grown up to take the reigns without apology.
The old guard is falling and I can hear you whimper.
I breathe the air every time I can remember to take a breath.
I leave the house to wrestle with the forces of ineptitude.
When I go to Texas I get high having gentle orgies in a feast of love.
My brain is not made up of mind.
You should have seen me reading Zinn.
My shrink feels like my life is a creative process.
I will say the Kaddish and then take a bath.
I will not pledge my allegiance.
I have second sight and astral projection.
a’merica you shot my brother in the face!
You shot Fred Hampton is his sleep.
You shot Amadou Diallo through his wallet.
Sean’s Bells ring in your stale ears.
I am addressing you!
Is it even your fucking job?
I am obsessed with Democracy Now, Wax Poetics and The Economist.
I read porn every week.
I lick the faces of every People, US, Oprah, Living, plasma screen.
Their jovial covers shout to me every time I pass by the homeless guy.
I try to read at the Library of Congress, but they never let me in.
So I read standing up, or on the shitter, or on the computer, or naked in bed.
I read my student loan bills and the numbers are serious.
My undergraduate degree is the cost of a Senator’s monthly mortgage on a second home.
I'm getting serious.
I am you a’merica.
Myself is talking to you – myself is.
Asia has risen, and is it OK. I'm fucking sick of you paranoia.
They torture and sell just like a’merica.
Economic nationalism is the new Kool-aid.
I got about enough of a chance as China does.
My natural resources are comprised of musical instruments, balls of cat hair, kisses, multiple
orgasms, both given and received transmissions. A love supreme, leagues of un-publishable
poems and un-singable melodies that stretch the imagination traveling at the speed of light!
Is it time to reevaluate your two point two million prisoners?
Department of correction is a contradiction in paradox.
My Uncle Scott just got out and can’t find a job.
He yells at the checkout girl at the grocery store.
He was a Talmudic genius – but he fried his brain in your prison cells.
Your ten million homeless?
Your forty-eight million uninsured?
Your 'hypocratic' oath?
a’merica do you know the definition of insanity?
I have not abolished anything but your cynicism.
a’merica your label is sticking out of your ass.
a’merica how to wax poetic of your holy hollow hallows and your jovial hosannas?
Does my body make me a bad boy?
I will continue like Rupert Murdoch my stanzas are as thieving as his intellect
more so they are multi-dimensional and sexless.
a’merica I will ebay you stanzas fer $2,666,666.00 apiece.
a’merica the dollar is worth less that it was in 1971.
a’merica free Leonard Peltier.
a’merica free Mumia Abu Jamal.
a’merica you reek of the same hypocrisy you seek to oppose.
I am not my sister tending to her husband’s post traumatic stress disorder.
He was a true believer.
He killed for you a’merica. He shot Cambodian’s in the head from a thousand yards.
He undercovered copped his way through the drug war.
He brought home the bacon.
You took away his pension. He held his partner while he lay dying in your streets.
He still flies his flag, but not for you.
It is for the concept.
a’merica I am not Lawrence King. Ramona Moore. Abdo Ali Ahmed. Pamela Waechter.
a’merica do you even know who they are?
a’merica slavery has not ended.
Women and children are being trafficked like kilos, like waste, like oil.
a’merica the shell-shocked soldiers are lining up our streets.
a’merica your wars are not video games.
Your wars are not businesses.
a’merica it's them Talibansz and them Muzzlims.
Them Jewzz and them Erabs. Them Obamaz. Them Sheiks.
Your television is like a fifties rerun with new pronouns.
You just want all that oil.
That ‘erl’ as we say back is TayHass
That black gold got you hooked.
Uncle Sam is a junkie strung out on oil and money.
I hear Lady Liberty’s turnin’ tricks to pay off her mortgage.
And them poppy fields of black tar keep the C.I.A.’s umbilical chord from choking.
a’merica do you know what “blowback” is?!
Our filling stations are taking in other forces of nature.
a’merica you are melting away.
a’merica
We gotta keep their feet to the fire.
Resistance breeds suffering.
The sum of all parts does not equal the equation.
A’merica I'm putting my bony shoulder to the axis mundi.
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Ryan Blum-Kryzstal, February 15, 2010 – “Brooklyn, New York City, where they paint murals of Biggie.”
next week!
next wednesday!
5/19 8pm $8
st marks poetry proj
AMIRI BARAKA & MARK NOWAK
mark nowak wrote "coal mountain elementary," for those of you who took documentary poetry with jill last semester.
this sounds like it should be a really great reading, it's after finals have ended so hopefully some of you will be able to make it.
more info here: http://poetryproject.org/program-calendar/amiri-baraka-mark-nowak.html
cheers,
katy
5/19 8pm $8
st marks poetry proj
AMIRI BARAKA & MARK NOWAK
mark nowak wrote "coal mountain elementary," for those of you who took documentary poetry with jill last semester.
this sounds like it should be a really great reading, it's after finals have ended so hopefully some of you will be able to make it.
more info here: http://poetryproject.org/program-calendar/amiri-baraka-mark-nowak.html
cheers,
katy
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Boog City
Boog Literature
351 West 24th Street, Suite 19E
New York, NY 10011-1510
www.boognyc.com • info@boognyc.com
T: (212) 206-8899 F: (212) 206-9982
This is Boog City, a community newspaper from a group
of artists and writers based in and around New York City’s
East Village, either physically or spiritually, and sometimes
both.
This is Boog City, a group of people who question
authority, and create amazing art while doing so.
This is Boog City, a community of New Yorkers,
Americans, citizens of the world, who flourish everyday amid
every reason not to.
This is Boog City, hop in the front seat, and put your
shoulder to the wheel.
David Kirschenbaum,
editor and publisher
Boog City is a small press now its 16th year, and East Village community newspaper of the same name. The press has published more than three dozen volumes of poetry and various zines, featuring work by Allen Ginsberg, Anne Waldman, Ed Sanders, Eileen Myles, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, and Bernadette Mayer among many others, and theme issues on topics ranging from baseball to women's writing, to The Ramones and Talking Heads making the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame.
rockstar
And all of the wind that filled my sails
just blows right through me...
I think I’m in love with myself.
I’m not who I thought I was.
I’m stoned and I’m watching T.V.
and I’m thinking
I don’t wanna be a rockstar anymore.
I don’t wanna be a rockstar.
I don’t wanna be a rockstar anymore.
I don’t wanna be a rockstar.
I don’t wanna be a rockstar.
I don’t wanna be a rockstar.
I don’t wanna be a rockstar.
And everybody looks like some body
but nobody I know.
Everywhere I think of going
is somewhere I don’t go.
Every time I say I’m thinking
I’m thinking that you knew
that there was nothing else to do.
So, I think I’m leaving you.
I’m learning to lie to myself.
I’m thinking about my health.
I’m wondering where you are and I’m thinking
I don’t wanna be a rockstar anymore.
I don’t wanna be a rockstar.
Major Matt Mason
Evening with the Financial Report
A chicken cooked under happy circumstances
Is a chicken that lasts forever.
And these various monstrosities that balloon
Under the quelling moonlight reveal the bleakness
Of the two-sided day, drive me to the fringes
Of this cylindrical existence, as we sit
On our tattered couch, futuristically naked,
While bunches of flowers hang
Upside down above us to dry throughout
The length of this long, intelligent season.
Ever ything here seems reducible to the sawed-
Off light of the candelabrum.
What does it matter if everybody is buying
Out everybody else, who reels in the general
Recession, who pillages, who divests,
Which holders savor the dismal pleasure of 1970s
Supermarket music as opposed to the prurient
Thud of disco pumping itself out of corporation phones?
Tonight I do not see beyond the shiny images
Undulating through your straw-colored hair
Like ants in an anthill, while your chiaroscuro
Eyepatch wanes and finally drops.
At this moment I do not know
How your or my hair will vanish,
How our vows will scatter like November,
How false empathy will be wielded
Like a blowtorch through a box of cake mix
Toward the one of us who survives the other.
What difference does it make, who leaves
The earth first, or second,
If we can continue to catch some of the coin-
Colored reflections of stars turning in the dark-lit sky?
Because that’s all we ever wanted
In the first place, and these withered rooms
We rest in, replete with all the small
Comforts of home, will themselves seal
Their warm shadows in envelopes of sunlight
With no return address, scorching over the streets
Of circuitous amplitudes like a firewalk.
“During WW II Bausch and Lomb produced
Over 3 million pounds of optical glass
For the war effort,” you sigh.
You, who have always known that the stars
Are the first television, as you fall asleep
With dinner on your knees.
Noelle Kocot
Monday, May 10, 2010
blowing up the spot, sorry
i've been working on my poetic statement lately, and i find that the form it started in is slowly eroding. i don't know if it's a poem or prose, or really anything at all, but i think that conflict and ambiguity are important so i figured i'd post it here. i'm using underscores and dashes a lot because the internet world doesn't like caesurae or large amounts of white space. sometimes i mean to use dashes though. hm. i think this is just my brain regurgitating. bear with me!
no longer shouting into a vacuum - - - - - i am
engaging or at least __ ____ ___ exploring different
perepheries- - - - - poetry is a conversation it is a polyvocal amorphous electric organism it is -- alive-- phosphorescent--
the fiber in all beings.
my bricks are poetry, -- - - - my bones are poetry - - - -
in the Great-Big-Wide-World sense of things____ poetry is the marrow
it is the filaments that fill us ------ connected and flickering-alive-
poetry is----alive. poetry is----everything---everything is----alive, an
interconnectedness---extending. seeds have become saplings- - i am growing
an oak tree in my chest ___ and one day__ we may all bask in the great shade. .
i am using my hands- - my hands - - to build- breed- birth my brain i am located
in a network-- a web-- a series of constellations a system- - i am connected. i am
no longer shouting into a vacuum- -- i can hear the reply___it is in breaths-
the breadth - - of everything-- sings back to me,
__ "we are, we are, we are."
no longer shouting into a vacuum - - - - - i am
engaging or at least __ ____ ___ exploring different
perepheries- - - - - poetry is a conversation it is a polyvocal amorphous electric organism it is -- alive-- phosphorescent--
the fiber in all beings.
my bricks are poetry, -- - - - my bones are poetry - - - -
in the Great-Big-Wide-World sense of things____ poetry is the marrow
it is the filaments that fill us ------ connected and flickering-alive-
poetry is----alive. poetry is----everything---everything is----alive, an
interconnectedness---extending. seeds have become saplings- - i am growing
an oak tree in my chest ___ and one day__ we may all bask in the great shade. .
i am using my hands- - my hands - - to build- breed- birth my brain i am located
in a network-- a web-- a series of constellations a system- - i am connected. i am
no longer shouting into a vacuum- -- i can hear the reply___it is in breaths-
the breadth - - of everything-- sings back to me,
__ "we are, we are, we are."
Marina Abramovic @ da MoMA
About two weeks ago, my friend Laura and I were standing in the Lang courtyard, sharing a cigarette and catching up on what we’ve been up to since arriving here. Laura and I went to high school together and have long followed each other’s interests and achievements. When she began regaling me with a story about a recent museum trip, urging me to go, my interest piqued—Laura told me about a woman whose performance art pieces focused on everything from public spaces and contact zones to mortality to personal history to the art world. Laura said she was one of the frontrunners in this unique world. Last week I decided to head uptown after class and see for myself.
I have never liked the MoMA. It is entirely too expensive (yes, I get in for free, but I think it’s somewhat tragic that a person off the street has to pay $20 to view these works of art) and it is filled with Upper East Siders who float around absently and condescend when interacted with. I love seeing the works of art—and there is something to be said for that—but often I feel like I am at the zoo, looking at these beautiful, wild creatures that have been trapped in a quiet room with white walls and “Do Not Touch,” defended by menacing guards. I braved these somewhat annoying conditions and located Marina’s exhibit.
On the second floor of the MoMA, THE ARTIST IS PRESENT greeted me in huge block letters. The room (if you could call it that, it was so large) at the top of the stairs was sparse, barren, but for bright white lights that shone down into the center—a table and chairs. On one side, sat a woman in robes (perhaps it was Marina? A lot of her works were being re-performed, so I am not certain if it was Marina or another artist—but it did look like her) and on the other side of the table, immediately facing her, sat anyone. The point of the performance was to invite anyone who wished to join her at the table for the duration of their choosing, in silence. Two women sat with their arms folded, looking into each other’s eyes. The woman in robes was still, completely solemn—not stern, but somber. She seemed relaxed, but disciplined. The other woman seemed thrilled, but slightly nervous—she blinked often and I caught her fidgeting a bit. It was so refreshing though. This did not feel at all like the ogling at artworks I had come to dislike. This was participatory, open—an invitation.
I made my way to the sixth floor, where things were slightly more abnormal than on the second floor. The first room I walked into was dark, but for a bright spotlight shining on the wall. A naked woman was on display within the circle of white light, arms and legs extended outwards. She was high up, about ten feet, and she looked directly ahead, completely stoic. I was at once struck by the power of the image and the experience, and I was amazed at this woman’s courage and discipline. I imagine it takes a lot of courage to strip down naked and hang herself up at the museum like a work of art, and a great deal of discipline to remain there all day. As I progressed through the exhibit, there were more pieces like this, and some that were very different. In one narrow doorway, a nude man and a nude woman stood facing each other, looking into each other’s eyes, completely expressionless. There was a narrow window of space between their bodies and the artist encouraged viewers to try to walk through the doorway, to pass through the naked bodies. It was such an interesting approach to contact zones and comfort. Another naked man lay stretched out on a table, a skeleton draped over his body to match it precisely. As he took each breath, the skeleton breathed also; their chests rose and fell together in perfect alignment. It was an approach to mortality that was based in the practicing of Tibetan monks. Often, these monks meditate on the beauty and power of life while in the company of death. In breathing with this skeleton, I think Abramovic accomplished something similar.
Other parts of her exhibit were more autobiographical. On the walls in one room were many stories written in very vernacular prose. They were about Marina’s upbringing, mostly, and also of her family history and experiences. Stories such as “The Story of My Big Nose,” and “The Story of My Father and His Sister” portrayed a tumultuous upbringing for Marina; at once they were darkly funny and also heart wrenching. I really liked that these pieces were there. They were very different from her performance art, but I feel like they helped me to get to know the artist better, and I think that rarely happens in the museum forum.
I was most impressed by her performances “The House with an Ocean View” and “Rhythm 4D.” “The House with an Ocean View” was a twelve-day detox that Marina did in a gallery. She lived in three compartments, existing only on purified water. She showered three times a day and spent most of her time in meditations. Her objective in the performance was to attempt to achieve purity through self-discipline. The ladders she used to climb into her compartments were made out of knives to ensure she could not get down and leave until the performance was through. That kind of piece takes such an incredible amount of commitment and conviction. It was inspiring. “Rhythm 4D” was a piece Marina did where she lay 72 objects out on a table, everything from a gun to a piece of cake and stood herself in the room, declaring “My body is the object. I take full responsibility.” She also said that she did not wish to die, but she wished to take this as far to the edge as she could. Looking at photographs, and seeing those same objects on the table, was very powerful. I am awestruck by the fact that she stood herself in front of a room of strangers and as both an artist and as a human, completely relinquished control. So often, art is a spectator sport, but this was so participatory it felt revolutionary. Oddly, this surrendering of control seemed empowering.
Sometimes with poetry (and a lot of art) I become frustrated because there is a power imbalance in the relationship between the creator and the audience. I feel like Marina’s pieces completely abolish whatever power relations are occurring and bring everyone together to make a kind of collective artwork happen. Certainly some of her pieces have a more rigid audience/artist division, but I feel like wholly her pieces encourage people to think and take it to heart. Needless to say, this was the kind of experience I needed to feel better about the MoMA. I was inspired by the Abramovic exhibit; it was refreshing and almost rejuvenating.
I have never liked the MoMA. It is entirely too expensive (yes, I get in for free, but I think it’s somewhat tragic that a person off the street has to pay $20 to view these works of art) and it is filled with Upper East Siders who float around absently and condescend when interacted with. I love seeing the works of art—and there is something to be said for that—but often I feel like I am at the zoo, looking at these beautiful, wild creatures that have been trapped in a quiet room with white walls and “Do Not Touch,” defended by menacing guards. I braved these somewhat annoying conditions and located Marina’s exhibit.
On the second floor of the MoMA, THE ARTIST IS PRESENT greeted me in huge block letters. The room (if you could call it that, it was so large) at the top of the stairs was sparse, barren, but for bright white lights that shone down into the center—a table and chairs. On one side, sat a woman in robes (perhaps it was Marina? A lot of her works were being re-performed, so I am not certain if it was Marina or another artist—but it did look like her) and on the other side of the table, immediately facing her, sat anyone. The point of the performance was to invite anyone who wished to join her at the table for the duration of their choosing, in silence. Two women sat with their arms folded, looking into each other’s eyes. The woman in robes was still, completely solemn—not stern, but somber. She seemed relaxed, but disciplined. The other woman seemed thrilled, but slightly nervous—she blinked often and I caught her fidgeting a bit. It was so refreshing though. This did not feel at all like the ogling at artworks I had come to dislike. This was participatory, open—an invitation.
I made my way to the sixth floor, where things were slightly more abnormal than on the second floor. The first room I walked into was dark, but for a bright spotlight shining on the wall. A naked woman was on display within the circle of white light, arms and legs extended outwards. She was high up, about ten feet, and she looked directly ahead, completely stoic. I was at once struck by the power of the image and the experience, and I was amazed at this woman’s courage and discipline. I imagine it takes a lot of courage to strip down naked and hang herself up at the museum like a work of art, and a great deal of discipline to remain there all day. As I progressed through the exhibit, there were more pieces like this, and some that were very different. In one narrow doorway, a nude man and a nude woman stood facing each other, looking into each other’s eyes, completely expressionless. There was a narrow window of space between their bodies and the artist encouraged viewers to try to walk through the doorway, to pass through the naked bodies. It was such an interesting approach to contact zones and comfort. Another naked man lay stretched out on a table, a skeleton draped over his body to match it precisely. As he took each breath, the skeleton breathed also; their chests rose and fell together in perfect alignment. It was an approach to mortality that was based in the practicing of Tibetan monks. Often, these monks meditate on the beauty and power of life while in the company of death. In breathing with this skeleton, I think Abramovic accomplished something similar.
Other parts of her exhibit were more autobiographical. On the walls in one room were many stories written in very vernacular prose. They were about Marina’s upbringing, mostly, and also of her family history and experiences. Stories such as “The Story of My Big Nose,” and “The Story of My Father and His Sister” portrayed a tumultuous upbringing for Marina; at once they were darkly funny and also heart wrenching. I really liked that these pieces were there. They were very different from her performance art, but I feel like they helped me to get to know the artist better, and I think that rarely happens in the museum forum.
I was most impressed by her performances “The House with an Ocean View” and “Rhythm 4D.” “The House with an Ocean View” was a twelve-day detox that Marina did in a gallery. She lived in three compartments, existing only on purified water. She showered three times a day and spent most of her time in meditations. Her objective in the performance was to attempt to achieve purity through self-discipline. The ladders she used to climb into her compartments were made out of knives to ensure she could not get down and leave until the performance was through. That kind of piece takes such an incredible amount of commitment and conviction. It was inspiring. “Rhythm 4D” was a piece Marina did where she lay 72 objects out on a table, everything from a gun to a piece of cake and stood herself in the room, declaring “My body is the object. I take full responsibility.” She also said that she did not wish to die, but she wished to take this as far to the edge as she could. Looking at photographs, and seeing those same objects on the table, was very powerful. I am awestruck by the fact that she stood herself in front of a room of strangers and as both an artist and as a human, completely relinquished control. So often, art is a spectator sport, but this was so participatory it felt revolutionary. Oddly, this surrendering of control seemed empowering.
Sometimes with poetry (and a lot of art) I become frustrated because there is a power imbalance in the relationship between the creator and the audience. I feel like Marina’s pieces completely abolish whatever power relations are occurring and bring everyone together to make a kind of collective artwork happen. Certainly some of her pieces have a more rigid audience/artist division, but I feel like wholly her pieces encourage people to think and take it to heart. Needless to say, this was the kind of experience I needed to feel better about the MoMA. I was inspired by the Abramovic exhibit; it was refreshing and almost rejuvenating.
found text poem
how to: lose ten pounds in a week
eat less than you burn
then you burn
water: drink sixteen ounces prior to eating
then you burn
one pound of fat then you burn
3500 calories so,
cut out bad food (sugar: dropped)
increase good food (fiber: increase weight loss)
carbohydrates turn into sugar.
body holds onto weight fat
whole grains, raw vegetables.
you may experience: bloating cramps gas
watch portion size (many people have no concept)
an ounce of cheese - the size of your thumb
exercise take the stairs park a little further
instead of going to the movies (where you just sit)
do something physical
every bit helps.
then you burn
hopeful ones want to believe there is a miracle cure. a fantasy.
something i'm finding really frustrating is the inability to use large amounts of white space on blogger. maybe it's because i'm technologically inept, but this poem is NOT supposed to be formatted the way it is showing up in this post. i've been playing with white space a lot lately, and am continually frustrated by websites that take that away when you post/share. any suggestions? am i just doing this wrong, or is this something you have experienced also?
eat less than you burn
then you burn
water: drink sixteen ounces prior to eating
then you burn
one pound of fat then you burn
3500 calories so,
cut out bad food (sugar: dropped)
increase good food (fiber: increase weight loss)
carbohydrates turn into sugar.
body holds onto weight fat
whole grains, raw vegetables.
you may experience: bloating cramps gas
watch portion size (many people have no concept)
an ounce of cheese - the size of your thumb
exercise take the stairs park a little further
instead of going to the movies (where you just sit)
do something physical
every bit helps.
then you burn
hopeful ones want to believe there is a miracle cure. a fantasy.
something i'm finding really frustrating is the inability to use large amounts of white space on blogger. maybe it's because i'm technologically inept, but this poem is NOT supposed to be formatted the way it is showing up in this post. i've been playing with white space a lot lately, and am continually frustrated by websites that take that away when you post/share. any suggestions? am i just doing this wrong, or is this something you have experienced also?
The Center for Book Arts
Since I've started working on my chapbook, I have found that it has been an entirely new experience for me to visit my poetry on the page as a part of a larger entity as opposed to by itself on a single page. For the first time I have to consider how the pages work together, how the text flows, margin size, font type, etc. The people that work at The Center For Book Arts are veterans when it comes to these matters.
I really enjoyed the Harvey Tulcensky Notebook Project. I’m really interested in using regular pen ink as a medium. I especially think that blue pen ink is pretty and underrated as an object used everyday. Tulcensky’s work reminded me of Andre Masson’s Automatic Drawing. I like the thoughtless arrangement of the lines. The pen strokes create so many different textures than I thought were possible! I completely agree with Tulcensky’s idea to put the different accordion pages together and display them all at once on the wall. It really gives the audience a much broader perspective when viewing the different textures. Sometimes, they appear like waves of ink. My favorite pages are those that include some white space. I see it as a much desired breath amongst the narrative.
I can really appreciate the poetics of such a project. The ink of the page isn’t in word-form, but it seems to be transcribing an unspoken narrative. I bet if you could touch the work, you could feel the indentation of the ink. Perhaps on a stressful day, it would be deeper than others. I also find it fascinating that this project could fold up into a relatively conventional book. I think I would really like to sit with each page, one at a time. Each page can be experienced as it’s own entity but also as a part of the greater whole displayed on the wall.
Overall, The Center For Book Arts was a really cool place. It seems like a really calming sanctuary for both writers and artists. It’s a great fusing of arts and I hope to indulge in a book making class there in the future!
I really enjoyed the Harvey Tulcensky Notebook Project. I’m really interested in using regular pen ink as a medium. I especially think that blue pen ink is pretty and underrated as an object used everyday. Tulcensky’s work reminded me of Andre Masson’s Automatic Drawing. I like the thoughtless arrangement of the lines. The pen strokes create so many different textures than I thought were possible! I completely agree with Tulcensky’s idea to put the different accordion pages together and display them all at once on the wall. It really gives the audience a much broader perspective when viewing the different textures. Sometimes, they appear like waves of ink. My favorite pages are those that include some white space. I see it as a much desired breath amongst the narrative.
I can really appreciate the poetics of such a project. The ink of the page isn’t in word-form, but it seems to be transcribing an unspoken narrative. I bet if you could touch the work, you could feel the indentation of the ink. Perhaps on a stressful day, it would be deeper than others. I also find it fascinating that this project could fold up into a relatively conventional book. I think I would really like to sit with each page, one at a time. Each page can be experienced as it’s own entity but also as a part of the greater whole displayed on the wall.
Overall, The Center For Book Arts was a really cool place. It seems like a really calming sanctuary for both writers and artists. It’s a great fusing of arts and I hope to indulge in a book making class there in the future!
Friday, May 7, 2010
Letters to Poets and Jennifer Firestone
About Letters To Poets
“Making private conversations public, this highly anticipated anthology offers surprising revelations from America's leading poets.”
http://saturnaliabooks.com/?q=node/28
http://www.shearsman.com/pages/books/authors/firestoneA.html
http://www.asu.edu/pipercwcenter/how2journal/vol_3_no_2/mentoring/interview_firestone_myles.html
Thursday, May 6, 2010
CUNY Chapbook Festival
I really enjoyed the Chapbook Festival! I didn’t really know what to expect, and it surprised me to see such a large room filled with tables of chapbooks! It was like a Mecca for poets! I attended the event with my boyfriend’s Step-mom who after hearing I was making a chapbook, confided in me that she too, had a chapbook of her own. It has kind of been a bonding experience for us? Anyway, she bought something close to 20 chapbooks and I am looking forward to “borrowing” them for some summer reading!
I found it really interesting how dynamic a chapbook can be. I was only really accustomed to the stereotypical chapbook (printer paper folded in half and stapled). It was very enlightening to see all of the possibilities out there. Chapbooks can be an art all on their own! The one’s with color, texture, and interesting shape/size stood out to me the most.
I attended the first part of the marathon reading. I stayed for 3 poets (Jill included) and really loved two of them! Jill was amazing, as I’m sure everyone could have predicted! My boyfriend’s step-mom bought Jill’s Poetry Barn Barn and is raving about it! Whoo go Jill! The first poet was what I’d like to refer to as “blah-central”. Meaning, she stunk. I just didn’t like her poetry style, and she no reading/performance capabilities. The second poet was awesome! She wrote a very powerful poem about the relationship between Haitians who live in the Bahamas and the Bahamians (is that right?). Anyway, she participated in what sounded like a really cool project pairing a visual artist with a poet. All participants had to create work about a specific theme, which had something to do with the destruction of Haiti/pain? I can’t quite put the right words to it but the theme was determined eerily 2 weeks prior to the earthquake.
Overall, this was a great experience. Very helpful for me in terms of ideas for my own chapbook!
I found it really interesting how dynamic a chapbook can be. I was only really accustomed to the stereotypical chapbook (printer paper folded in half and stapled). It was very enlightening to see all of the possibilities out there. Chapbooks can be an art all on their own! The one’s with color, texture, and interesting shape/size stood out to me the most.
I attended the first part of the marathon reading. I stayed for 3 poets (Jill included) and really loved two of them! Jill was amazing, as I’m sure everyone could have predicted! My boyfriend’s step-mom bought Jill’s Poetry Barn Barn and is raving about it! Whoo go Jill! The first poet was what I’d like to refer to as “blah-central”. Meaning, she stunk. I just didn’t like her poetry style, and she no reading/performance capabilities. The second poet was awesome! She wrote a very powerful poem about the relationship between Haitians who live in the Bahamas and the Bahamians (is that right?). Anyway, she participated in what sounded like a really cool project pairing a visual artist with a poet. All participants had to create work about a specific theme, which had something to do with the destruction of Haiti/pain? I can’t quite put the right words to it but the theme was determined eerily 2 weeks prior to the earthquake.
Overall, this was a great experience. Very helpful for me in terms of ideas for my own chapbook!
Found Text Instructional Poem
I had a terrible time really cutting and paring down the found text for the assignment due tomorrow. I thought it was funny though, so I"m posting it here:
(and hopefully I'll edit it one last time before tomorrow...)
Common kissing tips, issues and warnings
1. Start
Get your lips in proper kissing order.
kissable lips are smooth and sweet
not dry and chapped and tense.
Exfoliate lips with sugar.
You never want your lips hard.
Moisturize to keep them soft.
Relax your lips parting them ever so slightly.
Look inviting and approachable.
Uncross your arms,
keep your hands away from your face,
make eye contact, and smile!
Touch the person lightly on the arm.
Just make it a quick, innocent touch
and don't make a big deal out of it
If everything is going well, try
kissing the person on the cheek.
Please note
the touch barrier
is culture dependent.
Be very careful.
Look at their lips.
eye contact and move your gaze down to the lips.
move your eyes back up to meet theirs
smile demurely. don't be obvious about it.
Many people will take the hint
as a sign that a person wants to kiss or be kissed.
Approach for the kiss.
2.The Platonic Kiss
That someone is at risk of misinterpreting
your intentions so turn your head
before you lean in to kiss
that someone on the cheek.
Make it clear that you're not going
for the mouth. Pucker your lips tightly
Practice:
kiss in the air.
How loud is the kissing noise?
An audible pop
(A romantic kiss will not make this noise)
Keep it brief. The amount of time
your lips spend on the other person's
cheek should be limited. If your lips
linger, it won't be platonic.
3. The Gentle Lip Lock (Romantic Kiss)
Lips make contact
pucker slightly close your eyes.
If you overpucker
lips become tense,
better for the platonic
peck not for romance.
Kiss upper or lower lip gently,
then pull away slightly. (an inch or 3 cm)
Open your eyes. Once your gaze meets
theirs, smile a little
go for another kiss.
Kiss your partner's upper or lower lip
again, but this time part your
lips so his go between yours.
closing your lips, apply pressure as you pull away.
practice on your finger
gently pinch one of your lips
index finger and thumb
see how it feels
to have someone kiss you.
Switch to the other lip.
Ideally, as you kiss the upper lip,
they kiss your lower lip.
you can go on like this for quite some time.
4. The French Kiss
locking and re-locking lips
brush tongue against your partner's lips
This should make it clear
you want to French kiss.
Note: If your partner's tongue does not respond in like fashion or if they pull away, you will have to save the French kiss for another time when you are both ready.
push your tongue a little
farther into their mouth
the tip of your tongue meets
the tip of theirs.
Let your tongues brush against each other
then pull it back into your own mouth.
Close your mouth a little (not all the way)
open it again to start another kiss.
This time push your tongue further
into your partner's mouth
For a passionate kiss: Put your hands
on your partner's face, neck, hair
hold them close as your tongues meet.
suck or nibble on their lips
here and there. Breathe deeply.
Kiss the person like you just
can't get enough of them,
like you might never get to kiss them again.
Finish off a French kiss with a little lip
locking or continue kissing,
you'll want to read the tips on
How to Make Out.
5. Qualms
The bad kisser.
Luckily, most bad kissers
can become good kissers if
you have a little patience,
tact, and courage.
Check out How
to Deal With a Bad Kisser.
Kissing someone who's much taller
or shorter than you.
Got a sore neck from
looking up at your partner?
Or are you always hunching
so you can see eye to eye?
Read How to Kiss Somebody
Who Is a Different Height.
Got braces?
Here are a few precautions:
How to Kiss With Braces
6. Wisdom
Live in the moment.
You will not kiss well
if your mind is somewhere else.
avoid "What is he thinking about?
"Do I look good tonight
too self-conscious,
concentrate on the way the other person's
lips feel against yours.
Be aware that kissing
(especially deep kissing)
may transmit infectious diseases,
such as herpes and
(and hopefully I'll edit it one last time before tomorrow...)
Common kissing tips, issues and warnings
1. Start
Get your lips in proper kissing order.
kissable lips are smooth and sweet
not dry and chapped and tense.
Exfoliate lips with sugar.
You never want your lips hard.
Moisturize to keep them soft.
Relax your lips parting them ever so slightly.
Look inviting and approachable.
Uncross your arms,
keep your hands away from your face,
make eye contact, and smile!
Touch the person lightly on the arm.
Just make it a quick, innocent touch
and don't make a big deal out of it
If everything is going well, try
kissing the person on the cheek.
Please note
the touch barrier
is culture dependent.
Be very careful.
Look at their lips.
eye contact and move your gaze down to the lips.
move your eyes back up to meet theirs
smile demurely. don't be obvious about it.
Many people will take the hint
as a sign that a person wants to kiss or be kissed.
Approach for the kiss.
2.The Platonic Kiss
That someone is at risk of misinterpreting
your intentions so turn your head
before you lean in to kiss
that someone on the cheek.
Make it clear that you're not going
for the mouth. Pucker your lips tightly
Practice:
kiss in the air.
How loud is the kissing noise?
An audible pop
(A romantic kiss will not make this noise)
Keep it brief. The amount of time
your lips spend on the other person's
cheek should be limited. If your lips
linger, it won't be platonic.
3. The Gentle Lip Lock (Romantic Kiss)
Lips make contact
pucker slightly close your eyes.
If you overpucker
lips become tense,
better for the platonic
peck not for romance.
Kiss upper or lower lip gently,
then pull away slightly. (an inch or 3 cm)
Open your eyes. Once your gaze meets
theirs, smile a little
go for another kiss.
Kiss your partner's upper or lower lip
again, but this time part your
lips so his go between yours.
closing your lips, apply pressure as you pull away.
practice on your finger
gently pinch one of your lips
index finger and thumb
see how it feels
to have someone kiss you.
Switch to the other lip.
Ideally, as you kiss the upper lip,
they kiss your lower lip.
you can go on like this for quite some time.
4. The French Kiss
locking and re-locking lips
brush tongue against your partner's lips
This should make it clear
you want to French kiss.
Note: If your partner's tongue does not respond in like fashion or if they pull away, you will have to save the French kiss for another time when you are both ready.
push your tongue a little
farther into their mouth
the tip of your tongue meets
the tip of theirs.
Let your tongues brush against each other
then pull it back into your own mouth.
Close your mouth a little (not all the way)
open it again to start another kiss.
This time push your tongue further
into your partner's mouth
For a passionate kiss: Put your hands
on your partner's face, neck, hair
hold them close as your tongues meet.
suck or nibble on their lips
here and there. Breathe deeply.
Kiss the person like you just
can't get enough of them,
like you might never get to kiss them again.
Finish off a French kiss with a little lip
locking or continue kissing,
you'll want to read the tips on
How to Make Out.
5. Qualms
The bad kisser.
Luckily, most bad kissers
can become good kissers if
you have a little patience,
tact, and courage.
Check out How
to Deal With a Bad Kisser.
Kissing someone who's much taller
or shorter than you.
Got a sore neck from
looking up at your partner?
Or are you always hunching
so you can see eye to eye?
Read How to Kiss Somebody
Who Is a Different Height.
Got braces?
Here are a few precautions:
How to Kiss With Braces
6. Wisdom
Live in the moment.
You will not kiss well
if your mind is somewhere else.
avoid "What is he thinking about?
"Do I look good tonight
too self-conscious,
concentrate on the way the other person's
lips feel against yours.
Be aware that kissing
(especially deep kissing)
may transmit infectious diseases,
such as herpes and
HOW2
HOW2 is an online journal focusing on innovative contemporary writing by women. HOW2 is the extension of HOW(ever), a print journal of experimental women's poetry that subscriber's received in the mail. HOW(ever) was founded in May of 1983 by Kathleen Fraser and continued until January 1992. In 1999 the project was taken up again in online form, under the banner HOW2. Archives of all of HOW(ever) and HOW2's work are available online.
HOW2's project is based in poetical and political inquiry and interrogation. It is also based on the insistence that the political and the poetical have something vital to do with one another. In HOW(ever)'s first 1983 issue, Kathleen Fraser writes a cogent articulation of the journal's purpose:
WHY HOW(ever)?
And what about the women poets who were writing experimentally? Oh, were there women poets writing experimentally? Yes there were, they were. They were there and they were writing differently and a few of them were chosen and did appear in the magazines for people writing in new forms. And then several women began to make their own experimentalist magazines. What about that? Well, they read each other. But we hardly ever heard about their poems where I was sitting listening. You mean in school? I mean where poems were being preserved and thought about seriously and carried forward as news.
And the women poets, the ones you call experimentalist, were they reading Simone de Beauvoir? Firestone? Chodorow? Irigaray? Some were. They were reading and they were thinking backwards and forwards. They were writing to re-imagine how the language might describe the life of a woman thinking and changing. And the poetry they were writing wasn't fitting into anyone's anything because there wasn't a clear place made for it.
They must have felt displaced. Yes, they must have. They must have felt unreal. Unrealized. Effaced. Did they know it? Yes, they knew it. Did they talk about it? Yes, they talked about it. We were sitting in a writing group two years ago and we talked about it. One year ago, we were sitting there talking about it. Last summer, I was walking around talking to myself about it and feeling displaced and I wrote to one of my scholar friends and asked her about it and she said you are right. There is this gap. But perhaps we don't know how to acknowledge something, how to think about something, unless it resembles what was already there. I thought of Dickinson. I thought of Stein. Woolf and Richardson. Slashes, anarchies, sentences, disruptions. I was listening and I said to her, but if we could somehow talk to you and tell you about us, would you be interested? Yes, she said, I would be interested.
HOW(ever) proposes to make a bridge between scholars thinking about women's language issues, vis-a-vis the making of poetry, and the women making those poems. HOW(ever) hopes to create a place in which poets can talk to scholars through poems and working notes on those poems, as well as through commentary on neglected women poets who were/are making textures and structures of poetry in the tentative region of the untried.
--Kathleen Fraser
I love Fraser's insistence on "listening" and "talking" as the essential tools necessary in a dialogue re: language's possibilities. HOW2, as an online journal, seems to be talking to a broader audience than that originally intended (scholars).
The current issue features not only new writing and reviews, but sections on new media and performance. There is also a piece on the "Poetic Ecologies Conference" in Brussels:
The participants are post- modern, eco-conscious poets and scholars from all over the world. First-timers, old- timers, everyone is here because it matters. It being poetry and ecology.
I think poetry opens hearts and minds to dialogue, be it the emotional and metered text of yesteryear or the cutting edge sound and sense of today. The commitment to repetition and return plagues me. Braids of thought, words, phrases and circumstances where edges of writing meet, none overtaking itself or the other. Nature has no duality, I hear. Like water it flows and ebbs without competing, is continuous, non-restrictive, inclusive. Poetry (and politics) are most effective when they utilize these principles.
Also, included are two sections on female multidisciplinary language artists/poets, Caroline Bergvall and Carla Harryman. Each section includes about 5 critical papers on their work, as well as an interview with the artist. I had heard of neither Bergvall or Harryman, and am now excited to read/encounter both of them. In 2007, Bergvall founded the Performance Writing department at Dartington College of the Arts, and spoke of the program this way:
...A way of looking at writing within broader textual environments than solely literature, wanting to see literature as a particular point in the history of writing, rather than considering everything to do with writing to be a part of the literary. I think it’s really about considering writing as part of a broader issue to do with memory and inscription, primarily but not exclusively verbal inscription. A lot of poets are working audiovisually and yet they really get validated only once they start publishing books. We’re still at that breaking point, a transit culture, when it comes to really accepting the validity of forms of the production and dissemination of writing that are not only inscribed by the literary, the book. We are moving slowly towards a broader, and perhaps less book-based, understanding of what writing is, what poetry is. I Must add that Performance Writing was initially taught in a performing arts college, so it was immediately clear that we wouldn’t just deal with the books and the literary, but also with manifestations of writing and language arts which are connected to other methods and to performance (mark making, live readings, installed texts, book objects as well as textual and literary influences).
Laura Hinton introduces Harryman by writing:
One of the founders of the West Coast Language School of Poetry in the 1970's, Carla Harryman remains one of this movement’s more enigmatic writers from a critical perspective. The author of 15 books of poetry, prose, and essays, as well as 10 works of poet’s theater —all of which have seen 24 staged productions to date — Harryman is nonetheless one of postmodern American literature’s most original multi-media “Language” artists. She also has worked as a collaborator in art exhibitions, as a theater (and poet’s play actor), and as a screen-writer for experimental cinema...Harryman’s “poetics” in all their incantations and multiple genres exist at the edge of literature. They make us ask: What is literature. They are conceptual works of art.
Both of these “artist statements”, of a sort, could double as statements of purpose for HOW2 as an online journal.
HOW2 is a dense read - both deeply rich and diffuse, convincing and porous - the experience of which, as Hinton writes on Barryman, "is worth the exceptional intellectual effort it demands"
HOW2's project is based in poetical and political inquiry and interrogation. It is also based on the insistence that the political and the poetical have something vital to do with one another. In HOW(ever)'s first 1983 issue, Kathleen Fraser writes a cogent articulation of the journal's purpose:
WHY HOW(ever)?
And what about the women poets who were writing experimentally? Oh, were there women poets writing experimentally? Yes there were, they were. They were there and they were writing differently and a few of them were chosen and did appear in the magazines for people writing in new forms. And then several women began to make their own experimentalist magazines. What about that? Well, they read each other. But we hardly ever heard about their poems where I was sitting listening. You mean in school? I mean where poems were being preserved and thought about seriously and carried forward as news.
And the women poets, the ones you call experimentalist, were they reading Simone de Beauvoir? Firestone? Chodorow? Irigaray? Some were. They were reading and they were thinking backwards and forwards. They were writing to re-imagine how the language might describe the life of a woman thinking and changing. And the poetry they were writing wasn't fitting into anyone's anything because there wasn't a clear place made for it.
They must have felt displaced. Yes, they must have. They must have felt unreal. Unrealized. Effaced. Did they know it? Yes, they knew it. Did they talk about it? Yes, they talked about it. We were sitting in a writing group two years ago and we talked about it. One year ago, we were sitting there talking about it. Last summer, I was walking around talking to myself about it and feeling displaced and I wrote to one of my scholar friends and asked her about it and she said you are right. There is this gap. But perhaps we don't know how to acknowledge something, how to think about something, unless it resembles what was already there. I thought of Dickinson. I thought of Stein. Woolf and Richardson. Slashes, anarchies, sentences, disruptions. I was listening and I said to her, but if we could somehow talk to you and tell you about us, would you be interested? Yes, she said, I would be interested.
HOW(ever) proposes to make a bridge between scholars thinking about women's language issues, vis-a-vis the making of poetry, and the women making those poems. HOW(ever) hopes to create a place in which poets can talk to scholars through poems and working notes on those poems, as well as through commentary on neglected women poets who were/are making textures and structures of poetry in the tentative region of the untried.
--Kathleen Fraser
I love Fraser's insistence on "listening" and "talking" as the essential tools necessary in a dialogue re: language's possibilities. HOW2, as an online journal, seems to be talking to a broader audience than that originally intended (scholars).
The current issue features not only new writing and reviews, but sections on new media and performance. There is also a piece on the "Poetic Ecologies Conference" in Brussels:
The participants are post- modern, eco-conscious poets and scholars from all over the world. First-timers, old- timers, everyone is here because it matters. It being poetry and ecology.
I think poetry opens hearts and minds to dialogue, be it the emotional and metered text of yesteryear or the cutting edge sound and sense of today. The commitment to repetition and return plagues me. Braids of thought, words, phrases and circumstances where edges of writing meet, none overtaking itself or the other. Nature has no duality, I hear. Like water it flows and ebbs without competing, is continuous, non-restrictive, inclusive. Poetry (and politics) are most effective when they utilize these principles.
Also, included are two sections on female multidisciplinary language artists/poets, Caroline Bergvall and Carla Harryman. Each section includes about 5 critical papers on their work, as well as an interview with the artist. I had heard of neither Bergvall or Harryman, and am now excited to read/encounter both of them. In 2007, Bergvall founded the Performance Writing department at Dartington College of the Arts, and spoke of the program this way:
...A way of looking at writing within broader textual environments than solely literature, wanting to see literature as a particular point in the history of writing, rather than considering everything to do with writing to be a part of the literary. I think it’s really about considering writing as part of a broader issue to do with memory and inscription, primarily but not exclusively verbal inscription. A lot of poets are working audiovisually and yet they really get validated only once they start publishing books. We’re still at that breaking point, a transit culture, when it comes to really accepting the validity of forms of the production and dissemination of writing that are not only inscribed by the literary, the book. We are moving slowly towards a broader, and perhaps less book-based, understanding of what writing is, what poetry is. I Must add that Performance Writing was initially taught in a performing arts college, so it was immediately clear that we wouldn’t just deal with the books and the literary, but also with manifestations of writing and language arts which are connected to other methods and to performance (mark making, live readings, installed texts, book objects as well as textual and literary influences).
Laura Hinton introduces Harryman by writing:
One of the founders of the West Coast Language School of Poetry in the 1970's, Carla Harryman remains one of this movement’s more enigmatic writers from a critical perspective. The author of 15 books of poetry, prose, and essays, as well as 10 works of poet’s theater —all of which have seen 24 staged productions to date — Harryman is nonetheless one of postmodern American literature’s most original multi-media “Language” artists. She also has worked as a collaborator in art exhibitions, as a theater (and poet’s play actor), and as a screen-writer for experimental cinema...Harryman’s “poetics” in all their incantations and multiple genres exist at the edge of literature. They make us ask: What is literature. They are conceptual works of art.
Both of these “artist statements”, of a sort, could double as statements of purpose for HOW2 as an online journal.
HOW2 is a dense read - both deeply rich and diffuse, convincing and porous - the experience of which, as Hinton writes on Barryman, "is worth the exceptional intellectual effort it demands"
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Conversations Re: Poetry
I really loved Jill's letter to us earlier this semester and the invitation that it opened up. With a little trepidation, I'm posting pieces of my response here. Re-reading this, I already feel that I have so many arguments with myself - places I would like to cross out/write over my words, interject, interrupt or move along another path! It seems our answers to these questions are being revised/reinterpreted day to day.
Dear Jill,
What a lovely and thoughtful letter from you. I am overwhelmed by responding. I'm in a very strange place with writing and with education right now, not understanding my place within or in relationship to either (oh boy - when do I?). The questions you raise are ones that I am always struggling with on some level.
I am trying to keep this letter conversational, not belabored. I'm not gonna think too much before responding. I just want to engage with these questions very, very directly; very honestly!
I like these unanswerable questions you bring up in relationship to Lingis, and that we discussed (or attempted to) in class: what is poetry? How does living a life in poetry differ from living a life where poetry is suppressed or not present? How are we all poets even if we have never written a poem? I find myself facing so many unexpected anxieties in response to these questions. "Living a life in poetry" seems to have the capability of effacing the importance, the necessity, of writing as an act; and instead valuing something else entirely (the life inside poetry, perhaps something that can be conceptualized as being participated in rather than being made). I suppose the question causes me anxiety because I am constantly struggling with this dialectic between "being" and "making". How important is it to "make"? Is it possible that "making" only distracts us from the important labor of "being", and of loving (perhaps this is "the life inside poetry")? If we're all poets without writing poems, why write a poem?! In other words, is writing, with all of the isolation and sacrifices that it often requires, "worth it"? Is it of value? What do we have to give up of ourselves to undertake it? On the other hand, I am frightened of falling for the creature comforts of contentment over a deeper, more difficult (and perhaps more rewarding) work. (Aka the common tension between mediocrity/contentment vs "greatness", as skeptical as I am of that term). I am still convinced that great work is difficult, that it requires something of us, that we can't engage in it for "free". There are always sacrifices and costs. In what way, then, can we make the work of writing contiguous with the larger work of being and loving (as opposed to somehow in opposition to each other, as I sometimes see them)? I don't know how to resolve this question for myself, except for that I need to find a better way of answering for myself not what poetry is, but what it does. I think of Baldwin in Amen Corner - "love, and never count the cost". His work was obviously continuous with his lifelovework. For you these types of labor seem to be very linked, as well - poetry helps you "live a more satisfying or at least aware life".
A lot of these questions, for me, center around labor: what is an act? What is writing as an act? Realizing that writing is only one act in a world of endless acts- this is dizzying and beautiful. I think the tension of writing is somewhere between this infinite possibility and the (disappointingly, for me) finite self.
Also, to answer this question of how is living a life of poetry as opposed to a life where poetry is suppressed or not present? There's a politics underneath this question, and some of my wondering on whether writing is “worth it” at all belie a massive kind of privilege. I think of Pietri's line about awakening to the “latino poetry of their souls”. As intangible as all of this is, it's obvious that some kind of poetry is very much a requirement for life, for survival. And that this incredible source of power is often repressed by the powers that be, who are aware that this specific kind of deprivation renders communities weak and defenseless. I am also reminded of a public art project I did awhile ago. People would tell me what they were struggling with, briefly. I was writing spontaneous poems for them while we sat in bed together. Then they had to read their own poem aloud to me. The interactions I had with self identified artists were of such a different quality – so much more yielding and intense (for the most part). And I realized how lucky I've been to be surrounded by these brave souls my whole life and never realized how different that commitment can make one. I don't want to glorify the artist class, but I do want to be grateful. And with that I'll have to move on to your next questions, or else I'll never get through this letter!
. . .
What am I anxious about? My relationship to writing is fraught right now. Writing has always been a pretty big part of my identity, but I don't feel a compulsion to write anymore (or at least not right now). While I don't buy into (or at least try not to!) the romantic idea that artists make work because they "have to" and are "overcome" with some abstract thing called "inspiration" - this lack of drive to write does have me feeling confused. I think I used to write to survive, and I no longer use writing in this way most of the time. Honestly - I'm not sure why I write anymore. I want to love it and to find in it some kind of joy that I can't find anywhere else: some kind of life force or life-giving. I want it to feel deeply important and moving - as in, the process is alive. But it just doesn't, or does only fleetingly. I think it's really important not to be too self-satisfied as an artist, but I miss the assurance I had when I was younger. I really felt that my work was important, that writing was a kind of calling or vocation, etc. That I even had something called a “work”, for that matter! I don't have any idea how to reclaim that, or if I even need to. I have been thinking lately about the "right path" so many religious folks feel that they are attempting to travel. I don't believe in "a god" but I am fascinated by this sense of justice and righteousness; and what is striking me recently is the revelation that so many of these folks have deep crises of faith and feel that god has left them. (Mother Theresa's recently revealed struggles with her faith are so fascinating). I actually find this really related and relevant to the process of writing. Sometimes we're left in the dark. Maybe even most of the time. Rumi: "imagination is like feeling around in a dark line or washing your eye with blood". There's so much faith required for the work. I suppose my anxiety is about faith, of a kind; where one finds the strength for it. And that's also my excitement: where these dark hours might lead us, what trying to find more discipline in writing might bring. I am trying not to be too focused on what I write but how I write. Obviously writing well is important, but I'm in this very transitional place.
Paulo Freire - love it. Have been meaning to read Pedagogy of the Oppressed forever. I've been really critical of institutional learning all my life, having dropped out of school at 12. It's hard for me to be in college, and this last year in particular has been rough. I feel very acutely all that I have had to give up and compromise in order to get my degree. I will be graduating with not a little bit of sadness. A lot of my time here I've been encouraged to do work that was less challenging and less imaginative. I think that getting a degree can be important and I'm glad that I'll have one, as a weirdo-artist and woman. But I hope that I can de-school thoroughly, and continue to work as an autodidactic at heart. I absolutely agree with Freire in this definition of knowledge as a restless seeking and re-invention. Schools so often cauterize this process, in their demand that learning must never be wandering. What I do find lovely about schools such as Lang is their clustering of wonderful minds and people. Of course this "community" is also part of what I hate about schools - community outside of the institution is becoming harder and harder to find. These resources are really hoarded, they don't belong to everyone. And the more harried and money-strapped people are, the more dependent they become on the institution, and the less time there is to create alternative spaces for idea sharing and knowledge seeking. I heard Penny Arcade speak awhile back and she mentioned that "even the underclass...even the criminal class...has intellectuals". Growing up poor in the highly articulate culture of Boston; I found this to be true, and was so glad to hear someone affirm it. But I think it's becoming less and less true, that spaces for intellectual and creative exchange are contracting.
. . .
"Human beings are not built in silence, but in word, in work, in action-reflection" – yes, yes, yes! What does this have to do with writing/poetry? Everything, everything. This IS writing. Wendy Walters was recently talking about the physical act of writing, how it actually changes your thoughts, the quality of your thoughts. It's not the same as thinking in your head – you have to put your hand in motion. I think about this a lot – the “kinetics of intellection” as another one of my teachers put it. All knowledge-seeking is in motion, I think. And I can't think of any better reason to write than in opposition to this stasis of “silence” that Freire speaks of. I don't actually see the Lingis quote in opposition to this. In effect, he's saying the same thing: laughter is older than “competency”. We laugh when we fumble along, emerging, learning; engaging in the world as deeply as toddlers do (tasting, touching, falling, discovering). Laughter is (or can be) a kind of speech: perhaps poetry is a laugher-speech. I don't know enough of Lingis to figure how he intended it, perhaps not politically as Freire obviously does in his work, but I find it useful or meaningful in a similar way.
So, I suppose the question for me is how to develop a process and a relationship to the work that is imbued with faith, and fumbling, and emerging: this oppositional speaking or even oppositional silence, this sacred kind of wandering? To engage in a work that reaches out into the world and does or makes or is something useful and important there? And, also, how to engage with this question of “is art making 'action?' ” I would love to unequivocally say yes! But I think that that “yes” has to be earned, it is absolutely not a given. I am plagued by the opposing feeling(s) that I don't write enough and that to write enough would be an unforgivable self-indulgence (even if a difficult and sometimes self-punishing self indulgence). What would it mean to write generously? Or to write for (but not on top of/over/or instead of) someone else? To write in the service of being/loving/acting/re-inventing/justice-seeking? without submitting the work to dogma or lowering it to the level of propaganda? (I find a lot of directly political poetry falling prey to sentimentalism/cliche/or even a kind of fetishization of “the poor” or “the working class” that I think is really dangerous, trite, or just not useful...).
Whew, that's it. No more looking at screens. Thank you for the invitation and I hope to continue asking with you and everyone this semester.
Best,
-Aria
Chapbook Festival & Fairy Tales
I went to the Chapbook Fest at the CUNY grad center on Monday night. It was nice to see Aria there, I think I got to know her a little better. It wasn't really busy, but I got there towards the end, so I'm guessing that's why. Aria and I met a creepy guy that was obsessed with the New School (and Aria's hair line).
But anyway, I wanted to share a great serendipitous moment I had while I was there. I went to the 'breakroom' to hear some of the continuous poetry reading by published small press poets. The lady who was reading when I first walked in was Lana Hechtman Ayers. She was reading from her book, What Big Teeth: Red Riding Hood's Real Life. I'm calling this serendipitous because I am infatuated with authors who 'pervert' fairy tales. Ayers poems were somewhat like diary entries from Little Red while she is growing up. Some of the ones she read were, "Red Riding Hood as Wild Child," "Red Riding Hood at 16," and "Red Riding Hood loses her Virginity." I am currently working on a project about Hansel and Gretel, focusing on puberty under the circumstances of parental abandonment. I'm considering incorporating incest too, but I'm feeling a little too timid to add it in yet. So, I'm writing this because I think everyone should be aware of all the great things people are doing/have done with fairy tales. For example, Anne Sexton "Transformations," Robert Coover "Pricksongs & Descants" (and many, many more) and Angela Carter "The Bloody Chamber" (like Coover, she has many more too.) There's something that fascinates me about changing such common stories, or uses peoples preconceived notions of fairy tales to deceive them. Is this a possible prompt? Yeah, maybe. If anyone is interested in this, I've got a whole bibliography of sources from philosophy, linguistics, to creative writing. It's also good to just start with Grimms' fairy tales- the annotated ones are on Google Books. I like to reread them and see what I've managed to remember, or what I've managed to make up since I was a kid.
But anyway, I wanted to share a great serendipitous moment I had while I was there. I went to the 'breakroom' to hear some of the continuous poetry reading by published small press poets. The lady who was reading when I first walked in was Lana Hechtman Ayers. She was reading from her book, What Big Teeth: Red Riding Hood's Real Life. I'm calling this serendipitous because I am infatuated with authors who 'pervert' fairy tales. Ayers poems were somewhat like diary entries from Little Red while she is growing up. Some of the ones she read were, "Red Riding Hood as Wild Child," "Red Riding Hood at 16," and "Red Riding Hood loses her Virginity." I am currently working on a project about Hansel and Gretel, focusing on puberty under the circumstances of parental abandonment. I'm considering incorporating incest too, but I'm feeling a little too timid to add it in yet. So, I'm writing this because I think everyone should be aware of all the great things people are doing/have done with fairy tales. For example, Anne Sexton "Transformations," Robert Coover "Pricksongs & Descants" (and many, many more) and Angela Carter "The Bloody Chamber" (like Coover, she has many more too.) There's something that fascinates me about changing such common stories, or uses peoples preconceived notions of fairy tales to deceive them. Is this a possible prompt? Yeah, maybe. If anyone is interested in this, I've got a whole bibliography of sources from philosophy, linguistics, to creative writing. It's also good to just start with Grimms' fairy tales- the annotated ones are on Google Books. I like to reread them and see what I've managed to remember, or what I've managed to make up since I was a kid.
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