Young's new book-length essay on poetry is terrific. It reminds me of Speed Levitch's SPEEDOLOGY, his wild tour of NYC. If anything, Young's book is not reckless enough.
He uses all-caps sometimes, as when he says SOME THINGS MUST BE MADE OPAQUE TO BE SEEN. The book is full of great pronouncements from him and the pantheon of writers he quotes on the topic of Poetry as Assertive Force and Contradiction. He cites G.M. Hopkins calling for "More wreck and less discourse," which is great.
My main thought is that Young does not identify and contradict the orthodoxies of contemporary poetry as much as I had hoped. He uses John Ashbery as the signal quote of the book, of course. He presents Ashbery from an essay called The Invisible Avant-Garde saying that the reckless makes experimental art beautiful. I agree, but even the most formal art is reckless in conception, or idea, or on some level, or it fails.
Then he quotes Ashbery going on to say, with the soft-headedness that has characterized him and his followers all too often: "Religions are beautiful because of the strong possibility that they are founded on nothing." Well, if you mean by "nothing" our fear of death, our need for order, our desire to be known, loved, our lust for the absolute, and lots more, then sure, religions are founded on nothing. Those words betray so much naïvete and thin thinking that I'm grateful to Ashbery for having demonstrated his failure to grasp the world outside his nonsensical aesthetic.
I have no love for religion, and no love for poetry that cedes ground to it.
The strong possibility is that Ashbery's poetry is founded on nothing. What amazes me is that Young and others like him (Tim Liu, Elisa Gabbert, Rauan Klassnik, David Berman) have emerged from that wreck and done so much. More on this soon.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Reality Hunger by David Shields
Reading bits of Reality Hunger, and haven't finished it yet. 
A couple of things so for have surprised me. He says:
"The Bachelor tells us more about the state of unions than any romantic comedy could dream of telling us."
That's sort of like saying candy corn is unfathomably more nutritious than cotton candy. But I think it's quite a bit more wrong. Shields is saying no one can make another Annie Hall, I guess. That these days love has changed enough that our best pop cultural authority on it is a game show that is reality-based only in name? Sounds like he's torturing an argument to conform to his thesis.
Then he says the origin of storytelling is the Indian Vedas of 1400 B.C. I guess he is excluding oral storytelling. And cave painting. What about the Quipu of the Incas and Tartaria tablets?
Still I like the style and intent of the book. To jolt us awake in our consideration of reality as it's represented.
A couple of things so for have surprised me. He says:"The Bachelor tells us more about the state of unions than any romantic comedy could dream of telling us."
That's sort of like saying candy corn is unfathomably more nutritious than cotton candy. But I think it's quite a bit more wrong. Shields is saying no one can make another Annie Hall, I guess. That these days love has changed enough that our best pop cultural authority on it is a game show that is reality-based only in name? Sounds like he's torturing an argument to conform to his thesis.
Then he says the origin of storytelling is the Indian Vedas of 1400 B.C. I guess he is excluding oral storytelling. And cave painting. What about the Quipu of the Incas and Tartaria tablets?
Still I like the style and intent of the book. To jolt us awake in our consideration of reality as it's represented.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Are you checking out the new DeLillo?
I am reading so many things right now I'm not sure if I can squeeze in Point Omega.
I didn't like Cosmopolis, the last one of his that I read. When I like DeLillo, he's making the world seem more real than it normally does to me: White Noise, parts of Underworld. Cosmopolis suffered from, I think, its head-on confrontation with a city that has resisted the Joycean program ever since imitators started trying to Ulysses-ize New York.
I suppose I should give Omega a chance. I fear polemic on the Iraq War and the right wing, both targets deserving of as sharp a critique as we can muster.
I didn't like Cosmopolis, the last one of his that I read. When I like DeLillo, he's making the world seem more real than it normally does to me: White Noise, parts of Underworld. Cosmopolis suffered from, I think, its head-on confrontation with a city that has resisted the Joycean program ever since imitators started trying to Ulysses-ize New York.
I suppose I should give Omega a chance. I fear polemic on the Iraq War and the right wing, both targets deserving of as sharp a critique as we can muster.
Monday, October 19, 2009
BECALMED : A 10 Minute Play by Liz Duffy Adams, Part II
CALIBAN: You’re back.
MIRANDA: I’m back.
ARIEL: Slumming?
MIRANDA: Back for good, back forever, exiled. Again.
CALIBAN: What?
ARIEL: Exiled?
CALIBAN: What?
MIRANDA: I’m exiled, it was a disaster, those people are lunatics. I thought they were so beautiful, so lovely, so kind. But I couldn’t please them, they had the craziest ideas. All I did was go to bed with men. Why not? They’re such fabulous creatures, all stubble and sweat and smooth flesh. Just looking at them made me want to kiss them and touch them and roll around on them with my clothes off. But it made everyone lose their minds. Just go absolutely nuts. And the more I loved them the less they liked me till suddenly it was Go get out back in the boat you fishy whore. Brave new world my ass.
CALIBAN: You can roll around on me naked, heh heh.
MIRANDA: We’ll see.
CALIBAN: What?
MIRANDA: We’ll see, we’ll see, I may. You’re a monster but I think I’ll miss the touching, now I’ve gotten used to it.
[She sees the staff ends finally.]
What are you doing? Give me that.
[She takes the staff halves.]
What are you still doing here, anyway? Didn’t my father free you?
ARIEL: Why didn’t he come back with you?
MIRANDA: He’s dead.
[They stare at her.]
I know. But he is. They burned him on a pyre and fireworks shot out. Scared everyone witless. I still can hardly believe he’s gone. He would have protected me from the rabble, but it was after the funeral they all turned on me. I’ve lost everything. Except this island, and these bits of wood. So I guess the question is, am I my father’s daughter, or not?
CALIBAN: He’s dead?
ARIEL: He’s really gone?
CALIBAN: He’s dead?
ARIEL: He’s gone for good?
CALIBAN: He’s dead?
MIRANDA: The sorcerer is dead. Long live the sorcerer. As soon as I fix this. Don’t bow. It’s not going to be like before.
CALIBAN [confused]: It isn’t?
MIRANDA: No. I’m not going to be a tyrant like my father.
ARIEL [skeptical]: You aren’t?
MIRANDA: No! Well, I’ll hold absolute power at first, of course. That’s all you’re used to. And I can see you’ve let the place go to hell, so we’ve got that to deal with. Easier if there’s someone in charge. But eventually, when you’re ready, I’ll teach you guys how to think for yourselves and we’ll be a democracy. Or a parliamentary monarchy. Or something.
ARIEL: Right. You’ll give up power.
MIRANDA: I will.
ARIEL: I’ll believe that when I see it.
MIRANDA: Shut up.
ARIEL: You’re all the same, you idealists; velvet gloves aching for a fist.
MIRANDA: Fuck you.
CALIBAN: Hey, hey—
ARIEL: Nice, very parliamentary.
MIRANDA: Stop goading me!
ARIEL: You’ve got the staff, why don’t you use it? Afraid to rule over a fairy and one half-assed monster?
CALIBAN: Hey!
ARIEL [continuous]: You aren’t your father’s daughter, you’re just an everyday random little orphaned slut.
MIRANDA: I said shut up!
ARIEL: Make me.
MIRANDA [brandishing the staff]: Be still I command you!
[She has put the staff back together. Special effects! Thunder and lightening! Ariel and Caliban cower. Even Miranda is staggered.]
CALIBAN [aside to Ariel]: That’s more like it.
MIRANDA: Woah.
ARIEL: Welcome home.
END
MIRANDA: I’m back.
ARIEL: Slumming?
MIRANDA: Back for good, back forever, exiled. Again.
CALIBAN: What?
ARIEL: Exiled?
CALIBAN: What?
MIRANDA: I’m exiled, it was a disaster, those people are lunatics. I thought they were so beautiful, so lovely, so kind. But I couldn’t please them, they had the craziest ideas. All I did was go to bed with men. Why not? They’re such fabulous creatures, all stubble and sweat and smooth flesh. Just looking at them made me want to kiss them and touch them and roll around on them with my clothes off. But it made everyone lose their minds. Just go absolutely nuts. And the more I loved them the less they liked me till suddenly it was Go get out back in the boat you fishy whore. Brave new world my ass.
CALIBAN: You can roll around on me naked, heh heh.
MIRANDA: We’ll see.
CALIBAN: What?
MIRANDA: We’ll see, we’ll see, I may. You’re a monster but I think I’ll miss the touching, now I’ve gotten used to it.
[She sees the staff ends finally.]
What are you doing? Give me that.
[She takes the staff halves.]
What are you still doing here, anyway? Didn’t my father free you?
ARIEL: Why didn’t he come back with you?
MIRANDA: He’s dead.
[They stare at her.]
I know. But he is. They burned him on a pyre and fireworks shot out. Scared everyone witless. I still can hardly believe he’s gone. He would have protected me from the rabble, but it was after the funeral they all turned on me. I’ve lost everything. Except this island, and these bits of wood. So I guess the question is, am I my father’s daughter, or not?
CALIBAN: He’s dead?
ARIEL: He’s really gone?
CALIBAN: He’s dead?
ARIEL: He’s gone for good?
CALIBAN: He’s dead?
MIRANDA: The sorcerer is dead. Long live the sorcerer. As soon as I fix this. Don’t bow. It’s not going to be like before.
CALIBAN [confused]: It isn’t?
MIRANDA: No. I’m not going to be a tyrant like my father.
ARIEL [skeptical]: You aren’t?
MIRANDA: No! Well, I’ll hold absolute power at first, of course. That’s all you’re used to. And I can see you’ve let the place go to hell, so we’ve got that to deal with. Easier if there’s someone in charge. But eventually, when you’re ready, I’ll teach you guys how to think for yourselves and we’ll be a democracy. Or a parliamentary monarchy. Or something.
ARIEL: Right. You’ll give up power.
MIRANDA: I will.
ARIEL: I’ll believe that when I see it.
MIRANDA: Shut up.
ARIEL: You’re all the same, you idealists; velvet gloves aching for a fist.
MIRANDA: Fuck you.
CALIBAN: Hey, hey—
ARIEL: Nice, very parliamentary.
MIRANDA: Stop goading me!
ARIEL: You’ve got the staff, why don’t you use it? Afraid to rule over a fairy and one half-assed monster?
CALIBAN: Hey!
ARIEL [continuous]: You aren’t your father’s daughter, you’re just an everyday random little orphaned slut.
MIRANDA: I said shut up!
ARIEL: Make me.
MIRANDA [brandishing the staff]: Be still I command you!
[She has put the staff back together. Special effects! Thunder and lightening! Ariel and Caliban cower. Even Miranda is staggered.]
CALIBAN [aside to Ariel]: That’s more like it.
MIRANDA: Woah.
ARIEL: Welcome home.
END
Sunday, October 18, 2009
BECALMED: A 10 Minute Play by Liz Duffy Adams, Part I
[On a beach. A tall pile of sand where something has been dug out of a deep pit. Caliban, a young man/monster, is sitting on top of the pile. He’s holding two ends of a long staff, splintered and rough where it was broken. He’s twisting and turning it, trying to make it fit back together. He keeps at it, with dull and dogged concentration; he’s been at it for a long time. Ariel, a sardonic young fairy, appears, magically, dropping from the flies or popping out of the ground. Caliban ignores him, continuing to puzzle over the staff.]
ARIEL: That won’t work.
CALIBAN: Shut up.
ARIEL: You’ll never get it.
CALIBAN: Shut up .
ARIEL: It isn’t fixable.
CALIBAN: Shut up.
ARIEL: Not by you.
CALIBAN: Shut fucking up I command you.
[Ariel, who’d been about to speak again, promptly swallows it.]
Go fly a fucking girdle around the earth why don’t you.
ARIEL: That wasn’t me, that’s from—
CALIBAN: Get out!
[Ariel disappears. Caliban keeps working at the staff. He sings an artless song.]
Oh I’ll be the king of the island
Because I’ve got the staff
Oh I’ll be the king of the island
Although it’s broke in half
When I put it together
How happy we’ll be
The ruled and the ruler
The fairy and me
Oh I’ll be the king of the island
Because I’ve got the staff
[Ariel reappears, slightly winded.]
CALIBAN: That was fast.
ARIEL: Obviously.
[Pause.]
You’ll never get it.
CALIBAN: Shut—
ARIEL: I command you to stop.
[Instantly Caliban stops and looks at him.]
Give that to me.
[Caliban comes down off the pile of sand and hands the broken pieces to Ariel. Ariel climbs the pile of sand, and begins trying to fit them together. Caliban stands uncertainly for a moment in silence.]
CALIBAN: What do I do now?
ARIEL: Whatever you like.
CALIBAN: Come on.
ARIEL: What?
CALIBAN: You know. It’s your turn. Command me something.
ARIEL: Not in the mood.
CALIBAN: Not fair. I did you.
ARIEL [mocking]: You did me.
CALIBAN: I gave you one. Give me one.
ARIEL: Alright fine alright go fetch some wood.
[Caliban instantly looks resentful, goes off.]
CALIBAN: Fetch some wood, fetch some wood, I’ll fetch him some wood one of these days. I should be king of the fucking island, me me me me me me me…
[He’s off. Ariel works away at the staff. He lays the pieces down end-to-end and points at them.]
ARIEL: Mend.
Come together.
Be as one.
Even from beyond the seas you’re ruining my life. “Then to the elements be free and fare well.” [bitterly] Right. And leave show business?
[Caliban comes back in empty handed.]
ARIEL: What’s this?
CALIBAN: No wood.
ARIEL: What do you mean?
CALIBAN: There’s no more wood. It’s all cut down. Nothing bigger than a twig from end to end of the place.
ARIEL: Then fetch some water.
CALIBAN: No water.
ARIEL: Excuse me?
CALIBAN: Well’s dry, spring’s brackish, and the stream’s filled with dead fish.
ARIEL: That can’t be good.
CALIBAN: Birds are gone too.
ARIEL: Migrated?
CALIBAN: Eaten.
ARIEL: You ate all the birds?
CALIBAN: Have to eat something don’t I?
ARIEL: Well, that’s it for me. I’m off. I’m not staying on a brackish bare dead-fishy island with one greedy rapacious half-witted monster for company.
CALIBAN: It’ll be alright. Soon as we get that fixed, we can put everything back.
[They stare at the staff ends gloomily.]
Or I could bash you over the head with one of the ends and eat you.
ARIEL: I command you not to do that.
CALIBAN: Is it still your turn?
ARIEL: Yes it’s still my turn.
CALIBAN: You’re no good at this. When he commanded me I knew it.
ARIEL: Well he’s gone isn’t he. How do you think I feel, you command like a three-day-dead carp.
CALIBAN: Fuck you.
ARIEL: We talked better when he was here too. Verse and everything.
CALIBAN: I know. You suck.
ARIEL: That’s it. I’m gone. I’m out of here.
[Pause.]
CALIBAN: ARRR.
[Caliban dives for the staff, gets one end, Ariel has the other end, they circle around swiping at each other and missing. Maybe Ariel disappears and reappears to avoid getting hit. Altogether, an ineffectual sweaty grunting ridiculous battle. At the height of it, a small dingy enters suddenly as if thrown up onto the sand out of the sea, and a young woman is thrown out of it onto the sand. Miranda. Caliban and Ariel stop and stare. Pause.]
ARIEL: That won’t work.
CALIBAN: Shut up.
ARIEL: You’ll never get it.
CALIBAN: Shut up .
ARIEL: It isn’t fixable.
CALIBAN: Shut up.
ARIEL: Not by you.
CALIBAN: Shut fucking up I command you.
[Ariel, who’d been about to speak again, promptly swallows it.]
Go fly a fucking girdle around the earth why don’t you.
ARIEL: That wasn’t me, that’s from—
CALIBAN: Get out!
[Ariel disappears. Caliban keeps working at the staff. He sings an artless song.]
Oh I’ll be the king of the island
Because I’ve got the staff
Oh I’ll be the king of the island
Although it’s broke in half
When I put it together
How happy we’ll be
The ruled and the ruler
The fairy and me
Oh I’ll be the king of the island
Because I’ve got the staff
[Ariel reappears, slightly winded.]
CALIBAN: That was fast.
ARIEL: Obviously.
[Pause.]
You’ll never get it.
CALIBAN: Shut—
ARIEL: I command you to stop.
[Instantly Caliban stops and looks at him.]
Give that to me.
[Caliban comes down off the pile of sand and hands the broken pieces to Ariel. Ariel climbs the pile of sand, and begins trying to fit them together. Caliban stands uncertainly for a moment in silence.]
CALIBAN: What do I do now?
ARIEL: Whatever you like.
CALIBAN: Come on.
ARIEL: What?
CALIBAN: You know. It’s your turn. Command me something.
ARIEL: Not in the mood.
CALIBAN: Not fair. I did you.
ARIEL [mocking]: You did me.
CALIBAN: I gave you one. Give me one.
ARIEL: Alright fine alright go fetch some wood.
[Caliban instantly looks resentful, goes off.]
CALIBAN: Fetch some wood, fetch some wood, I’ll fetch him some wood one of these days. I should be king of the fucking island, me me me me me me me…
[He’s off. Ariel works away at the staff. He lays the pieces down end-to-end and points at them.]
ARIEL: Mend.
Come together.
Be as one.
Even from beyond the seas you’re ruining my life. “Then to the elements be free and fare well.” [bitterly] Right. And leave show business?
[Caliban comes back in empty handed.]
ARIEL: What’s this?
CALIBAN: No wood.
ARIEL: What do you mean?
CALIBAN: There’s no more wood. It’s all cut down. Nothing bigger than a twig from end to end of the place.
ARIEL: Then fetch some water.
CALIBAN: No water.
ARIEL: Excuse me?
CALIBAN: Well’s dry, spring’s brackish, and the stream’s filled with dead fish.
ARIEL: That can’t be good.
CALIBAN: Birds are gone too.
ARIEL: Migrated?
CALIBAN: Eaten.
ARIEL: You ate all the birds?
CALIBAN: Have to eat something don’t I?
ARIEL: Well, that’s it for me. I’m off. I’m not staying on a brackish bare dead-fishy island with one greedy rapacious half-witted monster for company.
CALIBAN: It’ll be alright. Soon as we get that fixed, we can put everything back.
[They stare at the staff ends gloomily.]
Or I could bash you over the head with one of the ends and eat you.
ARIEL: I command you not to do that.
CALIBAN: Is it still your turn?
ARIEL: Yes it’s still my turn.
CALIBAN: You’re no good at this. When he commanded me I knew it.
ARIEL: Well he’s gone isn’t he. How do you think I feel, you command like a three-day-dead carp.
CALIBAN: Fuck you.
ARIEL: We talked better when he was here too. Verse and everything.
CALIBAN: I know. You suck.
ARIEL: That’s it. I’m gone. I’m out of here.
[Pause.]
CALIBAN: ARRR.
[Caliban dives for the staff, gets one end, Ariel has the other end, they circle around swiping at each other and missing. Maybe Ariel disappears and reappears to avoid getting hit. Altogether, an ineffectual sweaty grunting ridiculous battle. At the height of it, a small dingy enters suddenly as if thrown up onto the sand out of the sea, and a young woman is thrown out of it onto the sand. Miranda. Caliban and Ariel stop and stare. Pause.]
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
New Poem by Gabbert and Rooney: Vision Looks Outward
VISION LOOKS OUTWARD
“Making is thinking”—can it be true?
Function perfectly married to form? (It had to be shiny, it had to be this gleaming blue.)
Many wrong attempts. Men in black suits. Black soot.
Volunteers are encouraged for the hands-on demo, but must wear safety gloves.
The hand is the window to the mind, Kant said. Or so somebody said.
Edison slept only minutes per day. I don’t mind giving up my literal dreams.
The best inventors are bright, but uneducated & disorganized.
Tesla dreamt of flying machines.
We see our inventions against the sky-colored backdrop of our inner eye.
How else to satisfy our sense of proportion?
We have yet to master the direct perpendicular climb. The body breaks down before the technology.
There are reports of restlessness among the investors.
That’s where we are, riding just to the point of maximal change.
“Making is thinking”—can it be true?
Function perfectly married to form? (It had to be shiny, it had to be this gleaming blue.)
Many wrong attempts. Men in black suits. Black soot.
Volunteers are encouraged for the hands-on demo, but must wear safety gloves.
The hand is the window to the mind, Kant said. Or so somebody said.
Edison slept only minutes per day. I don’t mind giving up my literal dreams.
The best inventors are bright, but uneducated & disorganized.
Tesla dreamt of flying machines.
We see our inventions against the sky-colored backdrop of our inner eye.
How else to satisfy our sense of proportion?
We have yet to master the direct perpendicular climb. The body breaks down before the technology.
There are reports of restlessness among the investors.
That’s where we are, riding just to the point of maximal change.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
New Book Forthcoming from Elisa Gabbert and Kathleen Rooney
The new book by Kathleen Rooney and Elisa Gabbert was a collaboration between them, one of a rare breed in the poetry world.
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