Monday, January 23, 2012
In today's Telegraph, an article by Sameer Rahim investigates the tradition of the poet-editor. In addition to addressing the professional dynamics & literary-historical ramifications of the practice, Rahim questions the tensions between poet-editor collaborations and myths of the lyric: "Often seen as the most personal and mysterious of literary forms--and therefore least likely to be guided by an outside hand--poetry is, in fact, strikingly indebted to invisible creators."
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Coming to That
You don’t necessarily have to look at Dorothea Tanning’s paintings (though I can think of no reason why you wouldn’t!) to understand that her aesthetic is, in essence, painterly. Coming to That, Tanning’s second collection of poems, uses language to compose as a visual artist might, often in a way that recalls her own long career as a painter. That is to say, the poems in this collection are, by turns, springy, surreal, artfully posed, sneakily narrative, and deeply interested in perspective: “It was then I saw the kook./Tall, he stood over me/wearing a droop-winged hat” (25).
Other readers have noticed Tanning’s debt to James Merrill, with whom she was friends (Tanning’s wide acquaintance has also included Marcel Duchamp, Man Ray, & Max Ernst, to whom she was married until his death in 1976)--& her tone of warm, witty knowingness bears the comparison out. But Tanning strikes me as far more whimsical about her whimsy than Merrill. Perhaps that seems tautological. But what I mean is that, for Merrill, whimsy was dead serious business. Epic. For Tanning, it is mostly a diversionary tactic, the sleight of hand that keeps you from noticing the rabbit until it’s been plucked out of the bottomless black hat. Many poems in this collection—in one way or another—deal with the sensation of vertigo, the giddy exhilaration that comes from standing at the edge of a very deep place: “reeling in a surreal sky./My hat turned up in China” (5). But exhilaration is not uncomplicated in this context. It often masks disorientation, dizziness, and (perhaps) a fear of heights. In “Debonair,” a poem that remembers the first balloon flight in 1783, Tanning at once celebrates and deflates the possibilities of the vertiginous:
Wigged and beribboned as
usual, they rose together
in a basket under a balloon and
crossed the sky over Paris.
Remarked one to the other,
back on the ground, a little
out of breath but debonair,
“Why it’s the earth that drops.” (28)
Vignettes like these often form some of the major substance—if not the full substance—of the poems here. From a talking dog in “At the Seaside” (“‘our final/rejection of that fiction known as best friend is imminent’” ) to the veiled quarrel in “Room, Pool, Piano” (“Cruelly he said, ‘Go ahead and cry.’” ), Coming to That often trades in these conversational tableaux in a way that makes them seem like short pieces of sequential art. In some ways, the chatty quality that most of the poems espouse is a part of those diversionary tactics I mentioned earlier—a seeming laxity that gradually resolves into something hard and sharp. “Sand/Dollars,” for instance, essentially a short poem about oil and relationships between the West and the Middle East, draws you in with a few terse, enigmatical descriptors before narrowing in to more sustained rhetoric: “them/sable-eyed/battened down/tunneling/part sinew” and, finally, “trusting/the target’s brag of/oil to spare” (23). The same sort of contrast between the breezy & the brittle is evident in “Zero,” where the economy is the subject: “Now that legal tender has/lost its tenderness” (51).
Tanning’s poems are often wonderfully faceted, carved to reflect a wide array of concerns through the prism of the urbane, observant narration that gives the collection its tonal cohesion. And yet these adjectives—witty, urbane—suggest much more detachment, much more distance than is really present in the poems. For all their carefulness, Tanning’s poems rarely seem reserved. Sentiment is coded but pervasive—immediate but mostly tactful (I must admit the title of one poem, “Wisdom Tinged With Joy,” gave me more than a little pause but perhaps it’s ironic? Perhaps not.). Tanning trades in “stunning facts.” She does this well & often. That is one thing you can ask of your poetry. What are you asking
late & soon?
I am asking whether one must be ironic when dogs are involved. I refer to your question re: “Wisdom Tinged With Joy,” a phrase that refers, it seems, to what comes “[o]ut of the mouths of city dogs” confined to perpetually smaller apartments. (I tend to honor my obsessions and today will be no exception.) Indeed, my dear, it seems that only Dorothea Tanning could sell you on that device that I enjoy and you dislike—
trite domestic epiphany. While Tanning’s poetics activates a
sort of accidental ekphrasis that almost makes us believe in the surrealist
paintings described imagined, I second your emphasis on “sentiment coded
and pervasive.” Take “To The
Rescue,” which I will reproduce here in its entirety:
TO THE RESCUE
Think of a lizard as a spot of day-glo green,
insect-sized, though in all ways perfect.
Lost in this kitchen of chrome-souled
recipes for oblivion, he looks hard at me.
His skin, my skin, our heartbeats tight with
trauma, I carry him out where, tack-sharp,
two green push-ups, and a cool survey
of the universe, my endangered species
walks, not runs, away, leaving his savior
staring at two brown leaves pasted by rain (41).
Even if this poem didn’t conclude with a romantic/domestic re-writing of Pound’s “In a Station of the Metro,” dear (r), it reads more D. H. Lawrence than James Merrill. I am not complaining! I find Tanning’s neo-Modernist gestures to be fascinating and effective. (Is the Kook you mentioned not the Man-Moth, newly beloved?) I only wonder whether they are quite as experimental as you suggest. There is a sonnet in here, (r) (albeit a sonnet about Halloween (32))! There is “The Writer” characterized as privileged observer:
“Then, ‘O missed train,
take me with you wherever
you’re going,’ she murmured
in the crowd, and nobody
heard it but me” (13).
Dear (r), I do not mean to contradict you. (A blessing on Tanning’s diversionary whimsy!) I only mean to ask whether you would like these poems as much if, say, I wrote them. Which is to say—does experimental street credential win us, after all that vertigo, the right to be sweet? Must the poet, like Dante/Orpheus refigured in Spicer’s “The Heads of the Town Up to the Aether,” descend into the inferno of meaning unmade before he permits himself to stand in the beatific face of sentiment? Whether the trials are necessary, well, we may need to
agree to disagree,
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
The days are getting longer (we believe it) but--even in this mild winter--it's still too cold to spend all day outside. Confined, thus, you get to thinking about things, specifically object-oriented ontology.Here, for example, is Eileen Joy in her Twitter Universitet lecture (an economical 32 tweets!) and Jena Osman (who might reasonably be called an object-oriented poet) reading from her 2010 collection The Network:
Monday, January 2, 2012
Long live ephemera!
I’ve been carrying Angela Hume’s Second Story of Your Body (Portable Press at Yo-Yo Labs, 2011) around with me for weeks, wondering just how to review a limited-edition chapbook (another first for us here in the oonaverse)—and now I’m stuck wondering how to review a chapbook that’s sold out!
How wonderful, dear (r), to live in a world in which chapbooks sell out. It’s wonderful, as well, to encounter an extended collection of poetic fragments capable of incorporating the heavy languages of medicine and philosophy with such tremendous delicacy. For example:
horde of bees.
(the solemn lays
a first rendering thrush
While I admit that typographical experimentation often (though not always) strikes me as heavy-handed, in Hume’s work the space of the page is itself a question:
While the chapbook’s final page—a list of sources, allusions, and invocations—situates Second Story Of Your Body within critical theory and experimental poetics, the experience of the piece is something at once lighter and more haunting, a series of
acts of magic
that demand of the reader:
What kind of limit are you.
((Decide what kind of limit you are.
For those who are interested in the intersections among scientific, medical, philosophical, and poetic language (you & me & everyone we know), Angela Hume’s poetry may seem incisive in, or perhaps because of, its subtlety. Hume’s inheritance and remaking of the fragment form activates a poetics in which words can speak to each other, across the page, no matter the discourse of their origin. Such a project is particularly well suited to the chapbook form—the poetics of ephemera in an ephemeral form.
Yours in the margins,