Happy sweater weather, oona-naut! What are you reading as the colors turn? We're leafing through the following:
• Every aesthetic movement needs its bard, & life in the suburbs is no exception. Check out our (r)'s interview with Stephen Burt about his new book, Belmont (Graywolf, 2013), over at Bookslut.
• We're pretending David Shook's Our Obsidian Tongues (Eyewear Publishing, 2013) is a notebook Jerome Rothenberg lost on his way back from the field. ("The sun rises each morning without human sacrifice./The misery of the city is enough" (13)).
• We read Vijay Seshadri's 3 Sections (Graywolf, 2013) in the heat of summer, & we still can't shake this poem:
On our first date, I told my wife
I was a lesbian trapped in the body of a man.
Everybody says that now, of course,
on TV and radio, alternative media outlets,
tattoos and bumper stickers, but this was long ago, when
none but the brave (who deserve the fair)
would come up with something like that.
She smiled the pleased and goofy smile that flowers in her big eyes,
and I thought I had her.
Looking back now, though,
I can see her appraisal of me rounding to completeness.
I can hear her cognition firing.
She knew it. She knew even then
the truth it has cost me the aeons to acquire,
climbing and climbing the broken stairs:
I'm a man trapped in the body of a man.
I clutch the smooth walls and see through his eyes
the oil fires and containment units,
the huge clawed gantries strung out on the twilit polar horizon.
Through his alloyed ears, I hear
the objects of his scorn, his compassion, his hatred, his love
crying out and crying out.
Half my arms are his arms.
Half my face is welded to his face.
The other half mouths his clumsy ironies.
"Life is war," he says.
"Tragic," he says. "Tragic."
The simulacra are marching everywhere,
and deep in the caves the chimeras are breathing.
Hey, Vijay. (May we call you Vijay?) Elizabeth Bishop & Philip Larkin called. They want their collaborative poem back.
• It's fitting that we came to Kristina Marie Darling's Melancholia (An Essay) (Ravenna Press, 2012) a little late, invested as it is in Romantic refractions, in ephemera, in the postscript and the footnote, in definitions & redefinitions. ((("you were like bits of broken glass/when the jewelry box shattered//night & the ocean's coldest shore" (2).)))
• Speaking of cross-genre experiment, we're fascinated by Martha Ronk's Transfer of Qualities (Omnidawn, 2013), a book of prose poems that crosses over into experimental criticism. ("Hamlet refers to 'the book and volume of my brain,' and with the one word, 'volume,' points simultaneously to books as volumes of written words and to the volumes of space inside the globe of his skull. The oscillation of the two meanings, between the 'book' as mentally conceived and the book as an object to be picked up and held, a thing to be read, the volume Ophelia, as directed by her father--'Read on this book, that show of such an exercise may colour your loneliness'--lures him with, makes a reader of the play helplessly intimate with this character who is as mere words as unreal as the clouds he sees as camels or at least says he sees, an insubstantial pageant" (35). Exegesis as the only thing that's truly lyrical? You're preaching to the choir.
• & while we're heading back to school (see! we told you, you can trust us), let's not forget Ciaran Carson's IN THE LIGHT OF (after illuminations by arthur rimbaud) (Wake Forest University Press, 2013), the kind of literary/critical homage we wish we could (let ourselves) write. It's a translation of a translation in the tradition of Spicer's After Lorca--"I've brewed my blood. Paid all my dues. I really do come/from beyond the tomb. Commissions? That I've done" (34).
Our trend forecast? Poetry is/as criticism, translation, & afterthought. A new identity politics. The best of the bad modernisms making a comeback. Plaid & lace. However you pull it all together, school's definitely in session.
R & (r)
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Jane Austen lived here slash didn't like it.
But, as I hope we've established by now, I'm not Jane Austen.
I picked up Carrie Etter's The Tethers (Seren Books, 2009) & a self-published chapbook by James Anderson called Zebra Skin (ephemera & Rimbaudelairianism being among my many weaknesses).
Perfectly curated Mr. B's Emporium of Reading Delights, my new favorite bookshop
(the cozy chairs tell you everything you need to know)
Can somebody tell me what "glocal" means?
I liked Anderson's pamphlet/chapbook most for its postcard-like qualities ("I tied a lock to the bridge and writ J & Bath" & "Bath is a dream from which I never wake") & for its cross-genre staging of textual encounters ("The stranger had a single espresso and rested a selection of books on the table [...] she understood herself at a wholly new angle, which would not have happened had she been with someone familiar").
Speaking of, I was so glad to encounter Carrie Etter's book, which articulates its own timid, reluctant, almost logistical faith:
[...] Poseidon, the presumably
not arbitrary god who saved them.
[...] so I listened
with dismissive boredom
and watched the girl who spoke
of souls in all creatures
breaking pencils in her lap one by one
through a once inexhaustible supply.
bank to bank: there is no universal
for what keeps us aloft, but O
I cherish it.
All day, each day, the world was at dusk,
the change of light incidental.
When at last I walked to the postbox, afternoon
was everywhere. I had decades to live.
Dear (r), skepticism can be pretty gorgeous, no?
I read Anderson & Etter (& also Austen (The Watsons)) on the lawn in front of the Royal Crescent. There was a guy with an aggressively loud boom box, so I also listened to some classic reggae hits.
Did the Romans read in the bath?
& then I left on a train. That's pretty much it. Tell me where you're headed next.