Saturday, September 07, 2002
I noticed your Blog entries this evening & wonder if you take requests. Roger Farr & I are in the middle of a long interview with Peter Inman about poetry& politics & we're about to ask about the exchange you had with him at his Philly Talks discussion a couple of years ago:
Silliman: The side of it that sometimes comes back to haunt me when I think of it in those terms is opening up a text of yours and thinking "oh, here's another work by P. Inman who I've been reading for over a quarter of a century." And it feels as totally natural as that waterfall because I'm so habituated to recognizing the codes and systems and problems and responses in it. So it's instantly pleasurable.
Inman: So, are you saying that I haven't escaped that danger of basically doing my own signature work?
Silliman: You're a lot of fun.
Inman: Well I don't want to be fun! Is style hovering in the background?
Silliman: I hesitate to use the word "voice".
We've been discussing problems around interpellation, collective agency, punctuation, neologisms. I don't think you have written on Inman (have you?) anywhere, and I'd be very pleased to hear an elaboration on this account of Inman's poetry in terms of voice, naturalized beauty, habituation. Please let me know.
few crags, the slopes
the granite stopwatch
The utterly straight-forward pastoral lyric sets up the radical disjunct created by the out-of-context term stopwatch. Further, there is an instance of identifiably Coolidgean humor in having not either line or poem end at stop but continue through watch. In a simple single word juxtaposition, one can see the germ of an oeuvre that will evolve over the next forty years.
Coolidge, Inman, Melnick, Mac Low – all of the most rigorous “anti-voice” poets in fact have totally identifiable voices in Yates’ sense of a recognizable aesthetic consistency. Perhaps tone might be a more accurate term than voice, but the differences between these terms are negligible. Just as each bell has its own characteristic resonance (as has the human vocal apparatus, that conjunction of skull, larynx, lungs, sinus cavity, etc. – I can always tell which of my sons has laughed, even when they are in distant parts of the house), each poet in his or her practice has characteristic moves as inescapable as the moon’s gravity on the tides.
In Peter’s case, the look of language is intimately tied into sound & meaning:
carlights in a book on some hide
the cherokee a banker’s grist
hours within trees of literature
the peer in my neck to a point
cow glance maned into birthr.
hutterite in some grape dust
seeing cut off from some jots
This stanza, taken from
“smaller,” a poem in criss cross (Roof, 1994), demonstrates
Inman’s strobe effect shifts between words and phrases well enough. At one
level, all is disjunctive, but at several others connections are pulling the
At the level of sound, we find the “i” from “hide” setting up its appearance in the last word of each of the next two lines, only to have the “st” from “grist” lead even more strongly into “waist,” an off-rhyme that is strengthened even further by the shift from the sound of a short “I” to that of a long “a” in “waist.” These terms foreshadow “dust” in the same position of the line five lines later, which then inverts the “t” and “s” in the last word “jots.” In a similar fashion, that curious “r” at the end of “birthr” (which the mind can only hear as a truncated birthright) leads directly to the “ri” in “hutterite” at the start of the very next line. One can follow the hard “k” sound through its five occurrences in the first four lines of the stanza, see the humor of “ch” in “cherokee” as it slips back into a “k” sound in “schedule” only to hear (subliminally?) its echo hidden in the “x” of “texture.”
But just as “texture”
I’m not suggesting that one need do a close reading of every Inman stanza or poem, but rather that such elements are to be found throughout his poetry and trigger associations within a reader that are far from random. Inman’s voice is as clear as a bell.
Friday, September 06, 2002
Two books that surprise me with their similarity are Frank Stanford’s The Battlefield Where the Moon Says I Love You and Lyn Hejinian’s A Border Comedy. On the surface, two more dissimilar poems could hardly exist. Hejinian’s exegesis on the comic is such a compendium of her reading that each section has its own bibliography. Stanford’s surreal memoir was written when he was a teenager and barely admits to its literacy, let alone the encyclopedic reading that one suspects lurks below the deep swamp facade.
What these two projects share, however, is their conception of the line. In each, the line is highly flexible: basically long, but with great variety in length; basically discursive, a monolog that readily admits other voices; close to speech and yet not tied to it in the strict sense of the projectivist uses of enjambment.
who is that Sylvester
why that’s my cousin McGillicutty
what’s he doing with them boards
he’s mending the fence son
why’s he doing that
cause I got him the job
what’s he doing with the bootlegger’s lumber
he’ll never miss it
what’s he making
that’s his trade he has to make them
McGillicutty you say why he’s the undertaker
like I say somebody got to
I don’t care what he is you tell him to quit hammering on that coffin
Jesus was a carpenter
he wasn’t no undertaker and he didn’t build no caskets though
I say McGillicutty he said you spooking this boy
how bout fixing me that swinging board so I can get my whiskey
will do brother
McGillicutty limped over to where we were he said I through anyway
who passed Sylvester said
boy child drowned in the barr pit
what your first name I said
Mulciber he said
what happened to your leg
mule fell on it
don’t you know no better than to be nailing coffins when it’s dark
I like to work at night
take your work someplace else then
you ain’t got to leave you can stay with us but the casket give me the heebie jeeies
Sylvester said cousin you got the dimensions right
well now I don’t know
I knew the two negroes was jiving me
look here at this boy reckon he’s about the right size
Sadday night if he ain’t
they got ahold of my arms and legs like I was a dead man
leave me lone I said
but they dropped me in the coffin
it was shored up on two saw horses like a boat
the shavings of wood inside were like a nest of dead wasps
it felt so good real tight like new clothes that fit
like a muscle man T-shirt
A comedian is a foreigner at border
Or comedienne – antinomian
Performing the comedy known as barbarism
(Encounters, after all, are the
With forge and link
Which doppelgangers (perfect matchers) match
With whistling in the left ear
And symptoms of melancholy – gloomy dreams, twitching, jerking, itching, and swift changes of mood
With the capacity to transform an inaccessible object into something we long voluptuously to embrace
And ourselves into an unquiet subject – at last! Baffled!
After all, it’s a rare miracle (called “omnipresence”) when one can appear in many places at once
Change, then, is the exemplary connection
Between romance and improvement
The press of the curling tree in the pink of the shadowy snow
Out of nowhere – uncanny
And falling under a squirrel’s frenzy
The color of the sky is cast in territory belonging to “the public”
Under spell part globe, part departure of a vessel
Passing speech through law
Where we’re the oddballs and peppercorns
Like other comic poets
I should point out here
That tragic writers have merely to let their characters announce who they are for the audience instantly to know everything
Whereas comic writers use original plots
And start from scratch
I’ve seen Battlefield characterized as a novel, as
has Hejinian’s My Life – it is
evident that the 19th century novel, as well as
the great personal narratives of that era, continue as influences on her
writing. A Border Comedy and Battlefield are both booklength poems
deeply involved with the telling of stories. The diversity of characters –
voices – that shows up in each is extraordinary (and accounts in part for the
richness one feels reading either work). Yet the differences between Stanford’s
The fundamental neutrality
of the device has seldom been more clear. The writer
who understands its potential can put any formal dimension to almost any
purpose imaginable. In each poem here, the line governs the reader’s
experience. Line breaks are almost always perceptible, but largely deadpan in
affect, not eroticized the way one finds in works of high enjambment (even as
the erotic enters into both poems). The variety in line length controls tempo
and can make the process of absorbing long passages far less difficult – though
Stanford at times stretches the line out for just the opposite effect. The
result is two irresolvable visions of
Thursday, September 05, 2002
There is a fallacious
presumption in my comments about Christian Bök: the implication that one might “improve”
a poem or that a “better version” might be unearthed lurking in the published
text. This fallacy of the well-wrought urn fails to acknowledge that
“well-made” poems are little more than the bland pastel background against
which important poetry, such as Bök’s, is written. In fact, if one were to look
at the texts of, say, Blake, Whitman, Dickinson, Pound, Williams, Stein, Olson,
Duncan, Ginsberg, et al, what one notices, over & over, is that it is the
rough spots as much as anything else that tells us we are in the presence of
significant work. This is true of fiction also, from Melville to Joyce &
Faulkner, and to Kerouac, Pynchon, Delaney &
Acker. And it is what I trust about the very best poetry of new writers as they
emerge on the scene. You can see it in Lee Ann Brown,
This is not to suggest that any of these writers, past or present, doesn’t create the best possible works they can, but rather that obsessiveness with smoothing out the dissonance of the creative process is ultimately a destructive impulse, born of a decorative conception of literature. Yet it is precisely this process that is inscribed as the core activity of so many creative writing classes wherever they are taught, people sitting around in small circles, suggesting how this or that line break might be tweaked, this word choice “strengthened.”
In 1977, Curtis Faville self-published a brilliant & troubling collection of poems entitled Stanzas for an Evening Out. Faville (who these days runs the Compass Rose rare book operation, one of the best for modern poetry: http://www.abebooks.com/home/COMPASSROSE/) is/was an extraordinary student & mimic of contemporary style, but also someone who seems always to have felt a most charged & ambivalent relationship toward writers in his own generation as well as those who came before. (No accident here that the first poem in the book is entitled “Second Generation.”) I’ve always read that book’s title with the pun (Evening as a verb) in the foreground. So while I don’t share his cynical view of the state of writing (which may have moderated over the past quarter century), I think that title captures the problem as it confronts not only creative writing students, but so many poets today.
Evened out describes quite fairly what is wrong with poetry in the New Yorker, Nation, Atlantic Monthly and like-minded venues.
Wednesday, September 04, 2002
It is not simply the Oulipo-derived games, impressive as they are, that makes Christian Bök’s Eunoia (Coach House, 2001) so notable, winner of the Griffin Poetry Prize and, most wondrous, an avant-garde title with 8,000 copies in print within its first year of publication. (See a flash presentation of “Chapter e” here: http://www.ubu.com/contemp/bok/eunoia_final.html.) Bök’s book’s driving pleasure lies in its author’s commitment to the oldest authorial element there is: a great passion for rigor, particularly at the level of craft.
Relentless, the rebel peddles these theses, even when vexed peers deem the new precepts ‘mere dreck’. The plebes resent newer verse; nevertheless, the rebel perseveres, never deterred, never dejected, heedless, even when hecklers heckle the vehement speeches. We feel perplexed whenever we see these excerpted sentences. We sneer when we detect the clever scheme – the emergent repetend: the letter E. We jeer; we jest. We express resentment. We detest these depthless pretenses – these present-tense verbs, expressed pell-mell. We prefer genteel speech, where sense redeems senselessness. (32)
In addition to the evident wit & active sense of jest throughout, all winking meta-commentary, there are just two small moments here (“hecklers heckle” and “sense redeems senselessness”) in which a reiteration of root terms raises the possibility that another line of attack might have been posed, e.g. “even when the hecklers’ specter severed speeches.” But this alternative (for example) adds one extra character, and just might render the typesetting – every line in the title text is justified so that no paragraph ends mid-line (this rule is adhered to also in the Ubu.com version, which presents each paragraph in 10 lines as against Bök’s book’s 13) – impossible. Add to this an awesome ear and, well, ease awes. And it is precisely because Bök makes it all feel as natural as rain that makes us swoon. Great stuff!
Tuesday, September 03, 2002
When I read Keats, I sense the potential for a new and different kind of relationship between the sentence and line, one that is more modular and sensuous. But whenever I have tried to reach this intuited new balance, it dissolves on me, a chimera. Someone who comes much closer to this balance than anything I have ever been able to achieve is Jennifer Moxley in The Sense Record and Other Poems (Edge Books, 2002), although whether she has Keats in mind or not would be strictly conjecture on my part – the book’s epigraph thanks Keith (presumably Waldrop) “for Yeats.” Of course the use of long sentences running over multiple lines has been associated with Ashbery (and behind him, Stevens), but The Sense Record in no way comes across as being Ashberyesque in the way that works (especially early ones) by Yau, Towle or others have. Rather it seems that Moxley is after a new mode of discourse – one might call it a rhetoric – both calm and thoughtful, more sensuous and serious than any we have had in poetry in some time. It doesn’t always work, but the intellectual ambition that drives this poetry is riveting.
Monday, September 02, 2002
The abstract lyric certainly existed before Barbara Guest – Stein, for example, and some of Williams’ work, especially prior to World War II; the French can go back to Mallarmé – but it was/is Guest who in English seems to have perfected the form in the 1950s, a period in which she was largely (and unfairly) unnoticed with the significant exception of the Allen anthology – it is Guest who lead off the New York School section in that epochal collection, even as she had the fewest pages of work represented. Reading her poetry of that period sends me back along a different coordinate – to the texts of David Schubert and through him to the short poems of Hart Crane. I don’t know if Guest read Schubert, who seems to have largely slipped through the cracks of literary history (albeit acknowledged as an influence by John Ashbery and visibly evident in the poetry of Frank O’Hara).
There is a tendency in
American poetry that one might characterize as academic in the old-fashioned
pejorative sense & certainly the letters and essays in the 1983 QRL issue on Schubert reflects that
tradition: Alan Tate, Ben Belitt, Horace Gregory,
Louise Bogan, Ted Weiss. In a sense, the New American
poetry and its descendents (which include virtually every progressive mode of
In some sense, trying to
sort out the role of such influences is not unlike those followers of Creeley
who do not understand his enthusiasm for Crane or Stevens.
An analogy from music might
be the relationship between Bing Crosby and Jimi Hendrix. Before
In a decade in which so many academic poets continue to sound as if they were the contemporaries of Bing Crosby, I find it intriguing that Barbara Guest should become the most influential of the New American poets. In part, it no doubt is because her work has not yet been fully incorporated, much as the Objectivists of the 1930s needed to wait until the 1970s to be brought completely into view. So perhaps it is because the current generation of academic poets seems as relevant to poetry as astrology does to astronomy, the abstract lyric carries forward within itself aspects of a tradition all but unheard elsewhere.