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Reading Report for John Ashbery
[This event took place on Thursday, May 14, 2009.]
On a warm wet evening, John Ashbery once again embraced his poetic roots and generously read in the sanctuary of St. Marks as part of a triathlon of events held to raise some very much-needed cash for the Poetry Project. (Reader, are you a member? If not, stop reading and immediately click “Become a Member Now.”)
After thanking Charles North for “the super introduction every word of which is true,” Mr. Ashbery read first from A Worldly Country, before sharing yet more of the apparently ceaseless flow of new work, which is about to be bottled again, this time into a volume called Planosphere.
Of Planosphere more later, but of The Worldly Country as presented on Thursday we heard primarily from that side of Ashbery that produces works that read most like “poems.” The title piece, which Ashbery said “rhymes sort of, except for one line that I was very surprised to find doesn’t” seemed to be a re-working of Auden’s “As I Walked Out One Evening,” filled as it is with clocks and squares and china closets. In this version, however, “Time” has become “time,” and the “drift of appalling snow” has been transliterated to a “great ungluing.” As a real live “poem,” it searches, of course, for its “ending,” and as an Ashbery poem, it does so with a sort of anti-ponderous ponderousness: “And just as waves are anchored to the bottom of the sea/we must reach the shallows before God cuts us free.”
He then read “Hungry Again,” in which God makes an appearance once more, something that kept happening during the evening. This was followed by the funny, tender “Phantoum,” one line of which — “The purple emu laid another egg” — was inspired by a book of mistranslations from the French (“le peuple ému répondi” having been hilariously waylaid from its original meaning of “the aroused people responded”). In this seemingly autobiographical poem containing squawking auks and dissolving albatrosses, grape children try to “cope in a mushroom world,” until one “excused himself. Europe was calling.”
“It’s really very American in spite of the whole time spent in Paris thing,” Eileen Myles said to me after the reading. “Very Americana even,” I said, thinking not only of the poem “Antiques Roadshow,” which began with the line “There is a tremendous interest in dog-related items” (or was this just a comment?), but also of the overall “delightfully-demented-America” quality of the Ashberean language universe. “Very iPhone,” Eileen added.
This comment still has me pondering as I try to resurrect the rest of the evening in my mind. As Ashbery read extensively from Planosphere in that characteristic manner that I’ve always thought of as an equalizing “evenness,” one poem began to merge with the next and the titles took on the quality of charming, but unnecessary pauses. After a while the sensation was of floating in a vast ocean of language flotsam and cultural debris jetsam, with, on this particular occasion, a splash of God, or maybe it’s the God-esque, added now and then. In the end, the experience (mistranslated through my own erratic and fragmenting listening capabilities) might be rendered something as follows:
Almighty droop
like unto
not having access to air conditioning
ahoy
so peaceful on my palate
journey, trains, 1861
analgesics & potagers
rabbits in their plankton dispensary
Poetry dissolves in moisture and reads us to ourselves
love me anyway, he said
Spring being a mindless business where strangers come home to breathe
I dreamt of married couples having sex
a rut made by the first wheel
wandering through centuries
“always it was available to itself”
They were living in America ___________
[select one: deliriously, fictitiously, pandemically,
as tissue paper to a comb]
woe betide us
obnoxious smell
rubber cement growing tacky
slurping
nogoodnik
eggbeater
One was encouraged into intimacy
the day we took our gum out
deft music
mustard Coke
A man comes to the end of a drive
What about the cheese?
Standing ovation.
Thank you John Ashbery, pomposity-smasher, lyric lie detector, great impish dignitary. Live long and prosper!
-Evelyn Reilly
Reading Report: My Vocabulary Did This To Me: Panel & Reading for The Collected Poetry of Jack Spicer
[This event took place on Friday, May 15th, 2009.]
Last Friday night, the Poetry Project celebrated the release of Jack Spicer’s collected poems, My Vocabulary Did This to Me. The room was packed (well both rooms, but I’ll get back to that) and, though Mercury was in retrograde, disrupting communication all over New York City, the Martian signal at St. Mark’s was coming in crystal clear. In addition to celebrating the release of the new collected poems, participants and audience members alike paid tribute to the memory of the recently passed Robin Blaser, who, besides being a terrific poet in his own right, edited the first widely distributed selection of Spicer’s work, The Collected Books of Jack Spicer, which introduced thousands of readers to Spicer’s poetry and revolutionary poetics.
The night got off to a crowded start. To say it was standing room only for the panel in the Parish hall would be a gross understatement, as a steady stream of over 125 people poured into the room, while the staff and interns scurried to make space for all of the warm bodies. Kari (my spouse) and I sold books at the card table in the back. The “breathing room only” crowd was treated to short statements about Spicer’s poems by a panel that included George Stanley, Samuel Delany, Dodie Bellamy, and Jennifer Moxley, and was moderated by Kevin Killian. There was also some good gossip about the publication history of the book, but I’ll leave that nugget for those who were there.
Stanley mused on Spicer’s investigation of the difference between “good” and “power,” saying that Spicer often saw power masking itself as good, manifest in poets such as Ginsberg and Ferlinghetti. Bellamy read a piece on Spicer’s preoccupation with pulp fiction, particularly detective novels. Delany recalled his first encounter with Spicer, which was as a young teen, when he read the famous “San Francisco Scene” issue of the Evergreen Review. He compared the poem “The Dancing Ape” to the “Heavy Bear Who Goes with Me” by Delmore Schwartz, a comparison I’m not sure people quite bought. Surprisingly, Delany was also the first (and only) participant to raise the specter of East Coast v. West Coast poetry, saying West Coast poetry is more interested in objects, while East Coast poetry focuses on the poet’s experience. I always thought it had to do with the difference between the poem and the serial—the little and the big P. I also thought those distinctions were meaningless in the age of total mobility and internet connectivity. Whatever, the guy wrote Dahlgren—I’m not going to argue (although Douglas Rothschild looked ready to—he even left his sleeves at home).
Moxley presented a three-part micro essay, tracing her ambivalent (correct me if I’m wrong) appreciation of Spicer’s poetry. She began by discussing how she felt Robert Duncan has been underappreciated, while Spicer’s stock has continued to climb. She told a story about how a younger “established” poet had told her that Spicer was more important because people want “shit” not “alas,” then explained how that interpretation was based on a misreading of the letters in After Lorca. In her second and third parts she examined, what she reads as, Spicer’s foregrounding of the poet over the poem—that the act of correctly being a poet (read: following the rules) was more important than the poems themselves—and how she developed a renewed appreciation of his work while she prepared for the panel.
After a short break, we reconvened in the sanctuary for the reading. Jim Behrle stopped by the transported book table, sculpting the tomes into a proper display and “accidentally” leaving an anthology of lesbian vampire erotica (Daughters of Darkness) in Kari’s bag. Then the reading began before a sizable audience, proving, as if there are any doubters, that New York poets don’t only remember Spicer for his cameo in Frank O’Hara’s poem “At the Place.” Harris Schiff led off the reading with a multi-voiced rendition of the “Imaginary Elegies” parts I-IV. Dodie Bellamy and Douglas A. Martin read excerpts from The Book of the Death of Arthur and “A Fake Novel about the Life of Arthur Rimbaud” respectively. During Lewis Warsh’s reading of “Psychoanalysis: An Elegy,” I was reminded what a pleasure it is to hear him read. He always sounds like he’s telling you the most exciting news in the world, but just because it’s exciting doesn’t mean that he has to rush the delivery.
Rod Smith read a grab bag of poems, including a selection from “Homage to Creeley.” Rod’s choice of poems, two of which took digs at Ginsberg and Ferlingetti, echoed George Stanley’s earlier comments on masks of goodness. Rod is a poet, who in his own work, takes some of Spicer’s poetics and puts them to good use, if only to brutalize and twist (lovingly!) into his own shapes. After Rod, Peter Gizzi gave some thanks and read some poems (including “Poem without a Single Bird in It”).
Just before the mid-way break, Kevin Killian conducted a wonderful interview with Deborah Remington, a former student of Spicer’s and one of the founders of the 6 Gallery(!). She talked about how, as her communications teacher (how fitting, right?), Spicer made the class perform exercises, during which they examined the relationship between the constitutive parts of language and their impact on communication. For instance, she told the audience that Spicer had a policy that his students would not receive their final grade unless they were able to get a “letter to the editor” published in a newspaper. Before Deborah went on, I saw Stacy Szymaszek writing a note, saying that Deborah had to go on soon because she had a surprise party to return to. I think everyone was glad she stuck around to talk.
Kevin Killian began the second half by giving his respects to Robin Blaser. Like I wrote earlier, Blaser was in the thoughts of all, but reverence doesn’t always mean somber, and in this case, it allowed everyone to simultaneously celebrate both the book and Blaser’s life.
Basil King went “off program” and read the poem “Narcissus,” dedicated to him, from Spicer’s first dictated book, After Lorca. Planned move?
Julian T. Brolaski gave one of my favorite readings, presenting work from a number of places, including Admonitions and Billy the Kid. One of the questions I pondered throughout the reading was how individual voices interact with Spicer’s poems. Spicer’s use of deadpan, irony, and rhetorical shiftiness, can make it difficult to read his poems out loud (especially aided by mechanical amplification), without flattening them somewhat. Julian did a great job of clearly articulating the poems as they exist on the page—that is, taking the individual out a bit and letting the poems into the air on their own terms.
Everyone was really fantastic, and with every reader, the audience got the privilege of experiencing Spicer’s work in different tunings. Karen Weiser gave an excellent reading from A Red Wheelbarrow, making me believe that “love ate the red wheelbarrow,” then passed the poetry bat to George Stanley, who like an experienced baseball player, adjusted to the room’s pitch, before knocking sections from Language out of St. Mark’s, clear across the East River. His pacing and tone was just incredible, allowing each word to ring out of the feedback just long enough that it didn’t get muddied by the rest of the line. Stanley’s new book, Vancouver is excellent, by the way.
The last three readers provided a great cap to the night. After Anselm Berrigan read from A Book of Music, CA Conrad gave an expressive reading of “The Unvert Manifesto,” which, whether a reflection of Spicer’s personal philosophy or not, is a complicated, and devastatingly witty psychosexual treatise (Mertz!). Samuel Delany ended with two of Spicer’s letters from After Lorca. It felt fitting to turn the transmission off at the point where it really began in Spicer’s work, with the letters from one dead poet to another, concerned with the life of language, which outlined the course Spicer would follow throughout the rest of his work.
After the reading, participants lingered and chatted, taking pictures and planning the night’s next move, while the staff, interns, and volunteers, “rearranged the furniture” in the sanctuary (no joke), though according to the church’s floor plan, instead of Martian communications.
-Dustin Williamson
Reading Report: Peter Lamborn Wilson
Note - Wilson read with Rob Halpern on Wednesday, March 11, 2009. Go here to read Stacy Szymaszek’s introductions for Peter and Rob.
Many years ago—before the Internet, when I gleaned almost everything I knew about contemporary ideas (outside Montreal) either in conversation or theory I read piecemeal in bookshops—a friend of mine described Hakim Bey as a Persian dissident, a total unknown, who composed anarcho-sufi communiqués from obscurity in NYC. I immediately pictured a slightly more peaceable Travis Bickle, driving taxi and chalking tracts on bridges and tunnels across the city. And well, the image stuck. So much so that when I went to see him read for the first time in person this past Wednesday at the Poetry Project and spied a jovial, Anglo-Saxon looking old man in a lumberjack shirt-coat and a Rasputin beard, it proved very difficult for me to believe that this was the infamous author of TAZ (Temporary Autonomous Zone). Then it was announced that there would be no reading of Hakim Bey’s recent volume, Black Fez Manifesto (2008). Instead, Peter Lamborn Wilson would present his freshly penciled eclogues from the Hudson Valley. The effect was the rather ticklish evening full of suspense. Continually caught off guard—despite myself—by Wilson’s innuendo-ridden erudition, his relentless, ever probing easy touch with occult references and ten syllable words, I tittered and tee-heed: who is this guy?
What was my impression of these new poems? Well, I would call them—entertaining. And not in any pejorative sense. Peter Lamborn Wilson proved again how effective it can be to just get a few basic things right—like scoring the music of the poem on the page (often counter to one’s habitual lilt), or trusting precise thought to enlivened language rather than the other way around. Certainly, this (and much more) was on display in Wilson’s first poem, Opium Dens I Have Known; as close to an “instant hit” as I’ve heard in a long time. I also liked how this all-too-familiar tour of the last “big smoke” dens of Asia and the Middle East, worked as the confessions of a 19th century Orientalism junkie, perhaps even something of a self drug test. Touching down in real places as much as well-worn clichés—labyrinthine ‘old towns’, the open-sewer alleys under wash-hanging skies in port slums and whoring districts—Wilson spared no effort in surveying every familiar item, every broken down antique accoutrement, personality or fashion you might find in these sordid retreats, or in the available literature. This is the drug, he seemed to say: clotted sap, sure, but also, just as importantly, the second flowering of a once grand fantasy’s phrases and facts. Likewise, with every description, as Wilson’s exacting ethnographic details fishtailed into immobilizing ambiance, stopped, then started up again, you felt the high/low of it: words are soma, soma—words.
Quite different from Opium Dens I Have Known, every other poem that Wilson read Wednesday night was part of his recent bucolic study of the Hudson Valley, including various months from The Shepheardes Calendar, several eclogues, an interlude of spring “mud sonnets” and finally a sprawling “The Anglo-Irish Big House Eclogue”, which drew a lot from the spirit of Celtic lore. But again, without these poems available for me to re-read closely, I must reiterate my first impression. They seemed very lively, cipher-packed and funny. One image that I noticed recurring again and again was that of a midden or compost, which I thought suited perfectly Wilson’s scholastic-like tendency of always mining, always sifting through classical and arcane references without much care for order. And I thought it interesting too as a central, simultaneously political and sexual conceit, something that Virgil always insisted on for his eclogues. For instance, what better image of Class War in the Hudson Valley, than a refuse pile of quarried stones, or raked leaves? What better metaphor of the Culture Wars than organic food in a plastic composter, or the all-mixed-up brain fallout of the “information bomb”? Then, there’s the combustible heat of fresh compost, a hot bed for worms and insects. Along these lines, I remember Wilson specifically making an example of England’s white cliffs of Dover, a side-exposed midden of glacially ancient mollusk shells, whose vast legacy of slimy, salty sex ostensibly prompted Darwin to coin the less famous but more accurate adage—“survival of the happiest”.
Look out for these poems in the future, under any moniker.
Joshua Lovelace
Reviews
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Reading Report: Alison Knowles & Jerome Rothenberg
Two old friends came together to give very different presentations on February 20th, 2008 at the church.
Alison Knowles gave us “North Water Song,” a mesmerizing duet for voice and dancer, to the accompaniment of bell-like chords on electric guitar and occasional recorded tones played on the shakuhachi, more landscape elements than music. Landscape was to be very much an element of the performance, though at the beginning the only object in the performance space was a low platform composed of a wide plank resting on three cinder blocks.
The piece flowed unbroken through three parts. In the first, Alison named a series of object and I ching castings, the dancer, a younger woman, intoning various terms suggestive of ecological phenomena. It was rather like a composer establishing the tonal elements at the beginning of a composition, while exposing the chance operations involved in its making.
The second and longest part began with the two women unrolling a wall-length narrow scroll of white paper, attaching it loosely to the wall. The dancer then stripped down to flesh-colored leotard and tights, simulating nakedness. Alison wrapped her, as if with swaddling, in another long scroll of white paper, and as the dancer moved it was as if she were emerging from a chrysalis, or a veil, parts of her body emerging provocatively into view, then retreating again, the paper a cloud-form, or more, a play on the variations of clouds or whiteness. Alison wrapped her again, more tightly, as if packaging a statue. Then, as Alison intoned images of flowing water, the dancer, unwrapped again, progressed across the room, squeezing between wall and paper, the lower half of her body protruding, and shone a green light through the paper, creating something like the eddies of water and moonlight on a classic scroll. She seemed to become water itself. The text opened out into a Ponge-like environmental catalogue, Alison wrapping her arm in heavily-textured paper, then moving across the space with a bag of the same paper filled with beans, producing a sound like a rain stick. She sprayed water on the long scroll, as if drawing a horizon line, then tore the paper along it.
The third part began with Alison leading the dancer to the platform. She stood motionless as Alison put loose paper sleeves on her, then raised her arms—the dancer totally passive, like an infinitely compliant, infinitely flexible manikin. Alison put paper leggings on her, adjusting their fit around the groin, then paper slippers on her feet, then pulled a paper hood over her head. And the perversity that had been a disturbing substrate from the start emerged full-blown, but ambiguous, so that there was no safe place for the viewer. The revealing of the flesh-colored leotard and tights at the beginning had been more shocking than actual nudity—the sense of innocence and freedom missing, the simulacrum of nudity insisting on the simplest physicality, and demanding our awareness of our voyeuristic impulse. And the dancer, at the end, had become something like Hans Bellmer’s erotic doll, on which to act out sadistic rituals. It became, as well, impossible not to think about the dancer’s identity outside the performance—Alison’s daughter. The hood at once reminded one of the Spanish Inquisition and Abu Ghraib. Alison led, or escorted, her through the crowd and out, blind, helpless, and scraping her feet along the ground as if manacled.
Alison Knowles is a pioneer of Fluxus, and it continues to be a major influence on her work, as here. Jerome Rothenberg was involved with Fluxus in its early days. He began his reading with a set of instructions for an event in the Fluxus manner from that time, and there were Fluxus-like instructions embedded in the rest of his reading, from his recent Triptych (ND, 2007), which brings together three books, Poland / 1931 (1974), Khurbn ( 1989) and The Burning Babe (2006), but the work couldn’t have been more different. Knowles’ work comes out of oriental meditative traditions, tends to abstractions, and stresses silence at least as much as words. While her environmental and political concerns are clear, they seem divorced from the grit of human life, and radically aestheticized, though no less moving for being so. The connection to the largely absent human world is elusive, expressed as symbol. Rothenberg’s work, often boisterously comic but always at base deadly serious, is an eruption of words profoundly embedded in an occidental, rabbinic tradition of moral inquiry, grounded in the social and individual life as lived. One is overwhelmed by the presence of the street and the multitude of bodies and stories. Symbolism is largely eschewed, except in the magisterial “The Burning Babe,” in which one of the West’s master symbols is deconstructed.
Rothenberg tells us in the introduction to Khurbn that it was written partially “in answer to the proposition …that poetry cannot or should not be written after Auschwitz,” but I think that applies equally to all three books. Poland / 1931, he told us was an attempt, in the manner of ethnopoetics, “to create an ancestral poetry of my own in a world of Jewish mystics, thieves and madmen.” He had previously attempted the same for Plains Indians and other groups equally threatened with physical and cultural annihilation. The impulse was somewhat the same—in each case it was a mission to rescue dead and dying cultures from the grip of sentimentalization and appropriation into the forms of the hegemonic culture. So, an exuberant, sometimes bawdy communal life is resurrected as it lived within one Jew born in 1931, reconstructed out of voluminous scraps of hearsay as if it continued unbroken.
A decade later, having visited what was left of his family’s Polish life, in their village and in the camp where almost all of those who stayed behind perished, it’s another version of that world being resurrected. He can no longer turn away from the horror and despair epitomized, for instance, by his family’s one “survivor,” an uncle who had gone to the woods with a group of Jewish partisans and who, when he heard that his wife and children were murdered at Treblinka, “drank himself blind in a deserted cellar & blew his brains out.” The poem “Nokh Aushvitz (After Auschwitz)” is a catalogue of “pure ugliness,” culminating with
the scarlet remnants of the children’s flesh
their eyes like frozen baby scallops
so succulent that the blond Ukrainian guard
sulking beneath his parasol leaps up
and sucks them inward past his iron teeth
and down his gullet, shitting
globules of fat & shit
that trickle down the pit in which the victim—
the girl without a tongue—stares up
& reads her final heartbreak
Khurbn attempts to give that dead girl her voice again, as Poland / 1931 had tried to give a voice to the pre-Auschwitz past.
The Burning Babe takes its name, and draws much of its imagery, from the title of a poem by the English Catholic Martyr Robert Southwell, but reads it through the lens of Blake’s “The Mental Traveller,” which supplies its epigraph:
But when they find the frowning babe
Terror strikes thro the region wide
They cry the Babe the Babe is born
And flee away on Every side.
In Rothenberg’s reading, the Babe as symbol of Christ is repeatedly contrasted to “the real babe,” which suffers at the hand of its symbolic savior. The idea never is allowed to excuse the actual. If anything, the endless cruelties performed in its name are seen as consequences of that symbolic distancing.
babes watch
their killers
little eyes gone white
with fingers squeezed around
a doll whose eyes
are also white
& filled with
killers’ faces
like a babe’s
So, two very different, profoundly moral artists. It strikes me as a shame that so many of The Poetry Project’s regular audience weren’t there. It was a full house, but the median age must have been about 50. This is hardly surprising: I’ve noticed a tendency for audiences to approximate an age or group cohort, which would seem to elevate the social above whatever might be learned. These were two masters at the top of their form. One would think that younger poets especially would have flocked to see and hear them.
Mark Weiss
Poems
Fe
Intro: lacerations
is this the dark
bloodless coup
My photogenic river
develops w/ clarity
beyond all reach
the end of all things.
infinite distortion.
that is this heaven.
My sister, la moyen-
est
COULEURS Düsseldorf
f/ Lara w/ Lara
ten bells
this city
mountains
Chez Alex
beard
das earth
like feeling
primitive
No, proportion
The clangorous region
, das sky
chassis
the street into me
le la
So strong as his
honey
eaves
une violet kafia
-Will Edmiston