Aleppo

The New Year arrived. . . babbling in the drink.
No one but no one was ready for the flood,
the jovial frenzy was times squared -
even a moving Titanic had no time to sink!

 
Henry was homebound again in Providence,
supine with a backache on his favorite couch;
tabled at foot level - a little clay conch,
a toy fisherman's coracle - his mother's hands

 
fecit.  Lucky, christened on the bow.
A contemplative, maybe pickled pescatore,
casting his rod in the unmoulded mare.
Lucky - lucky to come up with. . . zero.

from Stubborn Grew [written in 2000, after millennial Jan 1.]

[nota: Lucky, a little clay fishing boat docked on Fisher St. in Providence, as opposed to Sophie, the little wooden bathtub boat my mother also made, which sits (to this day, I hope) on a windowsill in Elena Shvarts's apartment in Petersburg.]

Poe, mirror-master, doppelganger-haunted ("William Wilson", Poe+Poe), is the poet of the number 2;
Whitman ("doubleyou-doubleyou"), singer of cosmic Unity, is the poet of the number 1;
Dickinson, of course, at the vanishing-point (Eternity/Zero Hour), is the poet of. . .

Finishing up John Irwin's splendid Mystery to a Solution. It occurred to me over the weekend that there's perhaps a certain blind spot in this study of blind spots.

Irwin investigates Borges' labyrinthine project of doubling/alternating Poe's trio of detective stories. Both writers reveal an intense fascination with the "reflexive" capacity of reflection - its tendency toward infinite regression/progression (the way a "complete" map located in a certain landscape would have to include an image of itself in that landscape). Irwin thematizes this aspect of reflection as inherent in the nature of self-consciousness : how we cannot "think" of ourselves without in some way splitting/doubling ourselves; how this binariness is incorporated in our physical structure (the 2 mirrored "halves" of the body); how the reflexiveness of art is epitomized by the mystery story, and can be traced back to, among other sources, Greek tragedy : ie., the double story of Oedipus - as the hero who proceeds from divining the Sphinx's riddle (the solution to which is "human being"), to becoming, due to the inherent blind spot of reflexivity, both the detective and the criminal he seeks.

Irwin shows how masterfully Poe incorporates reflexivity - the double-fold of "stories about themselves" - in "Purloined Letter" & "Murders in the Rue Morgue" - by (among a multitude of other means) reference to mathematics & the game of "even & odd". Just as the detective plays a guessing game with the criminal, the author plays a guessing game with the reader (a race between the reader & the detective to solve the mystery). Irwin traces how Poe elaborates "odd and even", "simple and odd", into an oscillation between the numbers 3 and 4, geometrized in a square "letter" folded once in half on the diagonal (thus a 4-cornered square becomes a 3-pointed triangle) : a diagonal which is an irrational number, a number which thematizes the incommensurability - the vertigo of infinity - in reflexivity itself. (David Foster Wallace has just published an enormous tome on Cantor's systematization of the infinite math involved here).

The sense one gathers from Irwin's presentation is of an art of infinite regression, ambiguity & recurrence, based on an irresolvable oscillation between self and other, even & odd, 1 and 2, 3 and 4 : an infinite which adds endless complexity and echo to every representation.

What occurred to me over the weekend, however, is that there is something missing from the math here. Something so simple, so obvious, so "hidden in plain sight" (like the purloined letter) - yet something which can't be left out of the cosmic literary design : ie. zero, nothingness.

The difference between zero and one, between nothingness and something, trumps the difference between 1 & 2. The difference between nothing and something is greater than the difference between a thing and its image.

Strangely, it's on this most basic difference that identity - self-identity - finds its ground. & one might say that the deepest verbal "reflection" - the Bible, the Book of Genesis - is grounded on this difference : both in terms of the question of creation from nothing, and in terms of the prohibitions against graven images.

One might also extrapolate a theory of Incarnation on this same basis. The doubleness of human being in a sense contains both "fallenness/salvation" since being made "an image of God" is inherently contradictory. How can you have an image of the imageless? You can, if human being is inherently both fallen (a "mere image") and redeemed (an integral, unknowable, unimaginable self-like-god, a "one"-where-there-was-nothing).

Thus the self can be understood as integral rather than "simply" split & doubled : but only on the ground of unknowable creation-from-nothing, and only in relation to an "imageless", unknowable numero uno.

[p.s. addendum : I guess I'm being somewhat contradictory myself in closing sentences here, re the doubleness/integral(?) character of the self. What I'm trying to say is that the mind/body problem, or the doubleness of fallenness/salvation, or the mirror-like bilateral symmetry of the body - all this "doubleness" is resolved or trumped by the notion of creation-from-nothing. In other words, again, the difference between zero and one is greater than the difference between 1 and 2 or self and other. I see I have doubled a previous statement here (I see I have doubled a previous statement here).]

When I have time, in another life, when I am the Auguste Dupin of literature, I want to write an essay on the curious affinities between EP & EP, Poe & Pound, 2 po's. Time has somewhat obscur'd what a voracious, clamorous, devious, ambitious, many-minded chap-of-letters Poe was. Irwin's book (Mystery to a Solution) brings this out to some extent, emphasizing Poe's acquaintance with the intricacies of Parisian science/math/politics of his time.

(Whitman, one of the few to show up at his funeral.)

(Bluejay, in Stubborn Grew, has his own wacky theories about EP & EP.)

As I've always said, out loud, and I think Prof. Hinkel will agree with me, there's something essentially utopian/Platonic/gnostic about the general notion of Language Poetry. I am referefering to the "general notion", not individual language poets (individuals don't exist in language poetry theory, anyhow).

It's a product of an intellectual function, a procedure. Excise that pesky "speech" of "idealized Subjects" (people) and you will liberate "writing" to reflect a liberated consciousness in an un-liberated society.

The trouble is, that repressed self, that ego, that person, always returns (often in the form of individual Poets, those conceited Jabs of Gab). Je est un Auteur, ("I is an Author", quoting Rimbaudelaise) : inescapable.

I is in favor of Bruegelian Personism. ("I" said that. Hinkel too.)

This just in from AP wire services: Moon Does Not Have Expanses of Ice

The most exacting analysis yet of the moon's

 mysterious polar craters found no sign of the vast 

expanses of ice that scientists had hoped future 

lunar colonists could someday mine for precious, 

life-sustaining water.



 

The findings do not mean there is no ice in the

 permanently shaded craters. But if there is ice, 

it is probably mixed into the lunar soil in widely 

scattered flecks or in thin layers.



  

``It certainly would have been nice to find some 

sort of lunar skating rink, or thick layers of ice, but 

it looks like it's just not there,'' said Bruce Campbell 

of the Smithsonian Institution's Center for Earth 

and Planetary Studies.

Well, what do they expect? The moon is a refrigerator, not a freezer. They need to look on the Lower Southeast Quadrant Shelf near the Lunar Kitchen Window, and they need to be looking for cheese, not ice.

Jonathan takes issue with this article on Language Poetry (by Oren Izenberg) in Critical Inquiry. Maybe I'll get back to it.

Note to myself : subtract "I" & "voice." Add "text." Try to do before Fri.

I think I got to the main issue in my comment to Ron's WC Williams post of yesterday, which was that Williams' true antagonist there was Eliot, and Eliot's notion of tradition. Perhaps my word for that notion, "love-clasp", was a bit baroque.

The notion is that poetic tradition is profoundly anachronistic, working against time & succession. The reason for this is that the poet is as much a listener & reader, as speaker & writer, responding to the music as well as making it.

The idea of the Classic is loaded, controversial in our era. But the best way I can imagine understanding it is to think of poetry - to try to remember how I responded to it as an adolescent, when ordinary life on the one hand had a certain wholeness to it (books & intellectual things only part of a general effervescence), while on the other hand "books", "poems", were things: distant, solid, heavenly objects, rather than blips or word-streams in an all-consuming Library of information & commentary.

I'm not describing this as well as I'd like.

In this adolescent context - when literature is a healthy Otherness and paperback books are strange cherished objects - think of the Classic as a kind of representative formulation of a distant time & culture. Ie. whether it's Homer or Dickinson or Sappho or Rimbaud, what the adolescent reader sniffs & senses is an affinity for the wholly human within a wholly-different time & place. & that affinity - that blend of identification, curiosity, exploration, & desire to imitate - is the substance of the communication, the correspondence, and the source of the pleasure & excitement of reading.

Again I'm really expressing this poorly, but the presence of the Classic-as-affinity is the very - the essential - thing which draws out or draws toward the representative "abstract" (Stevens' sense) in our own efforts.

More thinking on C. Wright's comments quoted at Hotel Point.

What is good poetry?

It's possible that the fundamental aspects of poetic structure & form have been summarized permanently, say in Jan Mukarovsky's On Poetic Language, where he says, agreeing with Wright, that the line (in counterpoint to the phrase) establishes the basic music/rhythm underlying (heightened, intensified) poetic speech. Perhaps making debates & polemics out of these basic elements is no longer relevant (as it was in last mid-century).

What the poet does with them (in terms of diction, style, subject-matter) is maybe where analysis (poetics) begins, now.

Have to run, more later, maybe. Looking for Mukarovsky's name in my own hgpoetics archives (I was trying to remember it). Sheesh, what a gabber I've been.

some comments on Silliman's WCW etc. over at Hotel Point. "Form is finite, structure is infinite." (Charles Wright) I like that.

34. Imagine two similar oblogs (I have a cold) or ellipses, intersecting at points A & B. Let us call them oblogs O and 0 (zero). Let us let oblog O represent "poetry", and oblog 0, "poetics". Color in the intersecting area (a muted colorado or vermilion will do well; your choice), and call this area Q. Now apply your Ziescchen microscope so that the focal area corresponds to the center portion of area Q. Look closely. You will see, standing there at approximate lat/long 35'/18', with one hand in a gray raincoat & the other clutching his pipe, none other than - Friedrich Hinkel, Prof. Emeritus.

Feels a little like Japan, or maybe Paris, here, today. Shibui.

Parasol, parapluie. Wet, black bough.

Dark moist November morning, not too cold. Lovecraft doing his Poe imitations over in Swan Point Cemetery. Must leave off chess & get back to Dove St. Peace & muttering, not war & gameboards.

here's another section from My Byzantium (actually this was swiped from a brochure about a state park in southern MN). (poem appeared in Way Stations)

9

 
The quartzite ridge you are now standing on
is about 23 miles long, 800 feet wide, and rises
some 100 to 300 feet above the nearby
agricultural fields.
              
                          The hard, red-to-pink Sioux
quartzite exposed here is one of the oldest
bedrock formations in Minnesota and was deposited
originally as red sand
    
                         all the glyphs at the Jeffers
site were produced by pecking with a pointed rock
held in the fist and used as a punch
struck with a hammerstone
     
                            carvings that resemble
bird tracks can be found
      
                         turtles, geometric designs,
bison figures, stylized thunderbirds,
and birds in flight
              
                        a long-legged animal glyph
which could represent a horse
    
                        Dragonfly and linked circles.
The dragonfly is a common Dakota motif,
and the linked circles were often
used. . . to depict the passage of time.

from My Byzantium, a poem written around 1997.

4

 
Byzantium falls like a sour apple,
and light falls softly on the eyes
of the young girl in Vermeer's
most august gaze – in the blue
turban, turning to look, or
turning away.  One pearl
gleams in her ear.
   
                            On Veteran's Day
the yellow leaves fall from black trunks,
a hollow sound empties the capital,
the train moves slowly, Citizen Cain
is jealous of his rival's powers
of enunciation, he wants to sit up front
on Airforce One and talk to the
Stones, he vows to cast his seed
every which way, the way rich men everywhere
anchor their arks on air, namecalling,
mudslinging – bagmen, bag ladies,
their lot cast on the periphery
of the supermarket, are invisible
until they begin spitting crosshairs,
and the whole city turns,
slowly, pinned
on a gargantuan
oval
screen;
the intentions
of the rabid millenarians
remain unknown –
    
                      Headshot. Cut to flashback.
– targeting, on television,
the brain of a rabbi – Jack
Oswald Ruby, the look
of a trapped rabbit fading
in the hallways of the Hermitage –



 
5

 
Beneath the layers of detached leaves
there is always something older, deeper, more hidden:
under the piles of grounded macintosh turned
brown, a trace of Blackstone's yellow sweeting –
the first American apple, planted
by a shy Anglican hermit
on the slopes of Study Hill (in Cumberland,
near the graveyard of the first American
shopping center).
   
                        The day dies, the year
dies, a conjunction of evening star
with star; a dim light
through the lilac dusk fibrillates
on the sickbay window into
countless tiny paths, meandering
threads – how many
stranded together
to form the small island
of a painted smile?  The waiting
eyes, beckoning, withdrawing, innocent
beneath the blue turban?
    
                           On Veteran's Day
I recognized your insignia,
but underneath lies another
trinity, another constellation
gathers in the looming dark.
Apples mouldered in the shadows
of the traces of the Byes'
abandoned farm; that bird I
looked for, hidden in the shiny
fur of the Hermitage, warbled
a death-song, kind,
perfect; I wanted to curl up
and sleep under the falling snow,
sleep with all the peaceful shapes
in the stillness of Vermeer's studio, under
the frosted glint of a single pearl;
sleep with the whole world falling asleep
in the snowbanks, on the shortest day,
sleep in the grave where John Donne sleeps,
in the oldest graveyard, in the drift of wheat,
numb, senile, a drowsy despot, nestling,
eyes closed with snow-white lime,
with the scent of snow-topped
apples. . .
           
                       
                 Never again
to face those insignia
of the real, the unbooked
war – in the weariness
of imperial dusk, where veterans
share their dying with speechlessness,
between Crusader and Saracen,
crescent and cross mingling one
ruby drop of blood from the chest
of a hermit thrush.

 
But there is always something deeper, a little deeper,
in the waste places, along the roadsides
of abandoned barns and factories,
persisting, faintly; trying
to come back –
  among the bent
roadsigns left behind,
waiting, subsisting, imagining
eyes that penetrate
through the petrified
screens –

Maze/garden/chessboard. Thos. Browne, Borges, Lewis Carroll, Poe. (Not to mention Nabokov, & "The Tempest".)

Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted! - E. Poe, "To Helen" (Helen Whitman, who lived on Benefit St., down the hill from here.)

"Poe. . . a minor poet. . . who engendered Baudelaire, who engendered Mallarme, who engendered Valery, who engendered Monsieur Teste." (Borges)

The same cunning Daedalus who planned the labyrinth. . . was said to have made a dance for Ariadne, daughter of Minos. . . When Theseus landed with Ariadne in Delos on his return from Crete, he and the young companions whom he had rescued from the Minotaur are said to have danced a mazy dance in imitation of the intricate windings of the labyrinth; on account of its sinous turns the dance was called "the Crane". - Frazer, The Golden Bough

(Beatrice a sort of Ariadne for Dante, threading through the intricate classical-medieval maze.)

Vagueness, talking-around, indirection, irony, dissimulation. A slide rule has a variety of applications.

If you want a model for engaged poetics, why keep looking at Olson & the grandfathers? Why not look at Sophocles? If you look at Sophocles long enough, you might see some interesting poets working NOW that you missed before.

Jordan & Ron on "vagueness". I commented to Ron, but I don't think I got it right either. Poetry is not "more primitive than politics". One can intepret or intuit the political aspect of any experience or situation.

I guess what always bothers me is the equation "moral high ground = poetic innovation". Morality always seems easy for the moralists; therefore it can become a function of style, the sword & shield of whole literary movements.

Undoubtedly the state of a culture - its educational & moral values & standards - will be reflected in its literary styles. But these are HARD TO READ in contemporary circumstances. How much harder to invest & bind them into literary-progressive movements.

Art & poetry are always being marshalled into somebody's scheme for world improvement. But to create an original work of art is a different & more difficult undertaking, because the work is a kind of end in itself : and AS AN END IN ITSELF it makes a statement about the nature of experience which jars with programmatic or politically-correct (in anybody's system) this-leads-to-that projects for world improvement.

None of these formulas (mine included) get it right, because we want to hear it straight from the work of art itself; we want the voice saying YES or NO to come from the poet & the poem, not the commentator. Criticism & comment are dogged by this inherent irrelevance, always talking AROUND something not yet achieved. I suppose someone has noted this constitutive flaw (in fact the deconstructionists did : but their mistake was to think that such flawed theoretical discourse was all there is).

late late Fri night (harvest moon) reading J. Irwin's great & marvelous book, Mystery to a Solution. . . about the function of the mirror labyrinth double axe design of nature (the two halves of the body & their disequilibria) & Jorge Luis Borges. . . has anyone noticed the Minotaurean-monstrous (a)symmetry of Borges' own name? I'm sure.

"The idea of a house built so that people could become lost in it is perhaps more unusual than that of a man with a bull's head, but both ideas go well together and the image of the labyrinth fits with the image of the Minotaur. It is equally fitting that in the center of a monstrous house there be a monstrous inhabitant." (Borges)

Irwin describes how Borges' ambition for a South American literary origin shaped his design, his ambivalence/attraction to Poe, a fellow "Southerner"/military/alien from the "North" - yet a Northern (American) rival. . .

the amazing thing is the finesse & subtlety with which Borges played these games. . . & Irwin's ability to discern them. . .

my own affinities (as a North-Easterner from old New England North Star State military family) despite these glories tend toward Walt Whitman and Abe Lincoln. . .

but No-body in Maliceville will notice.

- some star - like the articulate
ghost of my fathers and of yours, who
could not speak in life, but in the owlish
afterlife - Ba, Ka, Crow, Lamb. . . tracked

 
upstream to Ethiopia, the truth of it -
manuscripted messenger, papyrus
Pappy or Osiris sire, Moses ripened
in the wilderness).  Mountain oak-tree.

 
Cedar.  Pitch-black tar (for
mordant).  Bebi, General of the Asiatics.
Quick-runner, wasp.  Pharaoh's taxi-
driver.  He Who Controls The Rat-

 
God's Offspring.  Latecomer,
fast-talker.  Journalist for Delta
Crescent.  Walker of the tiled
ink-paths, typesetter.  Market-

 
rent-collector, solitaire, free-
speaker.  Literal, exact, exacting
horsetrading slavestealing tax-
gathering figure of a reefer-

 
man, fearful, a-feared.
Goes down ghost-trails
under live-oak lairs
of rattlesnakes. . . adrift

 
in jagged eddies of nude alphabets.
Murmuring to himself, saliva-
white, spume-frothing blanched
avalanche easily frozen, baffled, back-

 
stabbed - easily beloved, won-over.
And adhesive through the crane bone
into the gravity waves (nacreous
mob of carnelian nouveaux

 
baubles all around the funereal
sunken canopy of maudit covenants,
rumors, glittering knives - 
ressentiment scripted into feral runes).

 
                        - from July

Shooter & Chutes & Sons is coming out with a gigantic anthology titled Generic Poems. This ambitious project aims to include 99% of poems published previously in the United States. The book is expected to cover an area the size of Texas (though most of the New England States - Rhode Island excepted - are bidding to have it "dumped" somewhere along their shared coastline, maintained afloat on the ocean surface by a string of wind turbines). Poems will be grouped randomly, as the editors have concluded that, according to Beckham Biggs, Generalissimo Editorissimo, "actually, most of these poems sound a lot like other poems. The echo effect is excruciatingly painful." (New England's strong suit is their argument that shoreline white noise will dramatically reduce the expected damage to acoustical membranes by close proximity to this echo. However, the fact that the book will be larger, perhaps much larger than the state of Texas, has forced Texas to file a plea for restraining order with the Soup Court of Texas.)

Despite these and other issues, the project is moving forward, according to unnameable sources. 7 million "pre-read" blurbs have been collected on CD-Rom from all the known poets of Boston, New York and Cleveland, Michigan. President Bush has weighed in, suggesting that "collecting all the. . . poems, or whatever. . . in one place will allow our forces to keep them penned up & out of harm's way." Howard Dean, in a rare moment of geometric congruence, agreed. "We're looking for votes from confederate flags and poets!" he said (to me, really, I'm not kidding).

Generic Poems is expected to change history. Whales will be used to imitate each poem, and whale-song cd's based on these recitals will be published in their tens of thousands. No one will want to listen to these, so it is widely expected they will be thrown to the sharks, in order to make them sharks violently ill.

kindergarten class in Fox Point playground sounds like a flock of starlings.

(who started it?)

Across my desk : Lorine Niedecker : Paean To Place (Woodland Pattern/Light & Dust, 2003). Autograph edition published in celebration of poet's 100th birthday. Nice, very nice pictures on cover. The poems printed in (her) handwriting : restful to screen-toss'd eyes. Edited by Cid Corman, afterword by Karl Young.

(& I happen to know the place she's talking about, that's nice too.)

Coffeeshop, on break, reading John Irwin Mystery to a Solution, on differential mirroring of opposites in chess (Borges strategy of mirroring Poe detective stories). The room cleared out, only two customers left, facing each other, reading, making notes, not looking at each other: Henry & CD Wright. (As I type this my department supervisor says with a chuckle to her supervisor, "I know I'm just a pawn in the chess game.")

I found a postcard of an old photo (the last taken) of E.A. Poe, stuck inside the special edition Raven from Berlin. Now it presides over my cubicle (which I may be leaving soon).

As if on the wrong side of the mirror,
He yielded, solitary, to his rich
Fate of fabricating nightmares.  Perhaps,

 
On the wrong side of death, solitary
And unyielding, he devises more
Magnificent and atrocious marvels still.

                           
                         - Borges, "Edgar Allan Poe"

Prof. Hinkel, in his latter days at Mt. Holyoke, when he was oft o'erthrown by the sherry bottle, was wont to say:

"Literature, my dears, is an eternal dreary chess game between Talent and Prestige. Both go down to defeat : the only winner (or perhaps loser, I should say) is the Chaste & Virgin Reader."

Thank-a you Chris Murray, for kindly & helpfrying comments on my a-blog.

Did you know that Fogman is a character in "Bluejay" stories from NW Coast tribes? You can look it up, I kid you not.

& in response to your pertinent & timely query, yes, I have indeed seriously considered changing my name. I've been thinking of changing it to Robert Frost, actually, but my lawyer tells me there is already a poet by that name. These lawyers! you pay through the nozh for their nit-picky trifles. I am seriously weighing my options on a scale of 1 to 10 and I do indeed include in those aforesaid options firing H. Cheliberate Phelps III of Hahvahd Law (finally!) & making my own decisions (for once!). Dude, where's my nickname?

As I was putting on my jacket, weak & weary, to leave the building for the night, Sam from Special Collections brought over one more book to process:

The Raven, by E.A. Poe. limited edition published in Berlin.

Saw kingfisher at India Point today. Very unusual (along with the usual doves, pigeons, gulls, starlings, coromorants, & swans). Halcyon.

. . . So, this Edgar Poe, while playing White Knight against the "school of Quietude", was at the same time playing Author of a British conchology textbook.

In chess, "where the pieces have different and bizarre motions, with various and variable values, what is only complex is mistaken. . . for what is profound." - "Auguste Dupin", in The Murders in the Rue Morgue.

. . . An here come his whiteface
double, po ol Poe!  1848 slidin like a dyin worm
down Benefit, shoes achin, head achin widda storm
a Whitman onna brain - yeah, the coal lady in lace!

 
Burnin coal, waitin by the window, lookin down
from the broken wall - one helluva Helen firin him!
Afloat in his mind he wander up to th'Atheneum,
gets his blacknwhite ticklelily icon taken

 
with a crown to his brow an his eyes awry, forever
an ever.  He was damned an good at them posterior
analytics - helluva chilly mathematical germcarrier,
Poe.  Black n' white everthing goes t'him - steer

 
for the po-po-Pole, amen!  I mean, Dorr's dyin
bloated an blighted down in jail fo the franchise,
an Poe's upstairs brushin his teeth, realize -
dig Helen in the whitey semperequal sepulcryin

 
shame, man!  She comin back like a ghost,
lil muddy, but o'clay!  Cistern in the grounsoon!
Yeah, he play one limpin' aristocat, that one -
that only lonely Poe, po man - evbody get lost.

                                          
                          - Stubborn Grew

weird how Bluejay was predicting here the orpheosic return of Julie in the latter vols. of Forth of July. "The death of a young woman is poetry's supreme subject." (or something like that. . .) - EP

Gabriel!!!! (you're not reading my BLOG!!!!) The Conchologist's Text-Book, 1833, by Cap'n Thomas Brown, which I ordered for the Library a few weeks ago, has arrived!!! This is the Volume that someone calling himself "Edgar Allan Poe" (re)published in Philadelphia, giving Himself as Author!!!!

I quote from page 48:

Helix arbustorum - The Grove Helix.  Plate IX. 
fig.22.  Sub-glubose, sub-pellucid, with five volutions; mottled 
with ash-colour, and streaked with deep chestnut zigzag lines; 
a single deep brown band commences at the edge of the outer 
lip, and continues round the middle of the body and the 
volutions to the apex; 3/4ths of an inch in diameter.  
Inhabits groves in Britain.

EAP clearly ripped off the sexiest book in the English language.

Prof. Hinkel's middle name is, oddly enough, Vladimirovich.

The philosophical "paint-myself-into-a-corner" problem shows up in chess games all the time. The critic-polemicist enters the game as White Knight. Of course the ultimate checkmate is to tip over the board itself : but this is another form of one-upmanship. . . Ultimate Pacheesi. Prof. Hinkel, by by the way way, has written extensively (extenenenenensively. . .) about the cheese/chess oscillation conundrum. See his article in Amazing A-Mazes, "Cheddar Man in Petersburg : Prehistoric White Night?"

The player, too, is captive of caprice
(the sentence is Omar's) on another ground
crisscrossed with black nights and white days.

 
God moves the player, he, in turn, the piece.
But what god beyond God begins the round
of dust and time and dream and agonies?

                                      
                                        - JL Borges, "Chess"

Once again malice gets the last word. The tongue is a wheel of fire, who can control it?

Dynamic symmetry, images of infinity based on self-reflexive designs : the whole which includes a part which contains the whole which includes a part which contains. . .

one recognizes this is the "paint myself into a corner" problem writ large (& small).

Over the years of my steady-erratic badmouth attack on the binary design of oppositionalism (starting with the Buffalo Poetics List around 1997) I have experienced in my flesh the scapegoat patter-pattern of ritualized literary malice. I have painted myself into the shady corner of infinite giggle-bytes.

Jonathan's cute comment is a mild & funny version of something I descibed yesterday as "malice constitutes the game of oppositions":

This got me thinking again about an idea I had several weeks ago: avant-garde eye for the mainstream poet: A team of four or five post-avant bloggers descend on the hapless straight man and start telling him to lose the blurb from Robert Pinsky, straighten out his similes. I think this could work. Any volunteers?

I've been talking about this phenomenon since the beginning of HGpoetics & long before; actually it's been my way of participating in the literary malice game.

"Oppositional poetics", built on a structural us/them division, is, in essence, a way of short-circuiting thought, a way of not talking about poetry, a way of avoiding substantial literary opportunities or challenges, a way of deleting reference to outsider audiences (outside the coterie) or general/anonymous audiences, a way of dumbing-down/negating literary history, a way of. . .

It's been the modus operandi of language-&-related school ("post-avant") polemics for years now. (It goes back before that to the hoopla around the New Americans, the debates about Paleface/Redskin, raw/cooked poetry; it goes back before that to the polemics of Moderns vs. Victorians, traditionalists vs. experimentalists, WC Williams vs. Eliot, & before that to Americans vs. British. . .) & I've been badmouthing it for years. It's been fun. Prof. Hinkel has even written a book about it : it's called The Garden of Forking Paths : My Journey into the Labyrinth of Mirrors Known As "The Garden of Forking Paths : My Journey Into the Labyrinth of Mirrors Known As The Garden of Forking Paths : My Journey. . ."

Lack-a-day, Providence has declared a fog emergency.
Fogman, what you doin'?

Walt Whitman stopp'd by, said to say hello.

I just thought I'd write this so malice didn't get the last word.

I am now leaving the building (to you, Agatha Trillenta : most beautiful and intelligent poet in the Western World, bar none).

malice constitutes the game of oppositions. Rene Girard.

from toward the end of July

10

  
         A halting freedom   hesitant, grieving
 draws her on   she's limping
 on the empty earth
 toward a last vagrant

  
         flowering   the way the Yenisei flows north
 more slowly   under the rustling ice
 and the crackling of timbers
 the way a clay wheel   rotates

  
         more slowly   after your hands have
 gone away   the way he walks
 (the greenish iron   of a broken
 spring   Hans the yurodivy

  
         lifted to his lips)   the last ecstasy
 blooming so   invisibly but   sounding
 there   diminished   minor A
 15th Quartet   staggers so

  
         delicately   drawing on   does not want
 to end it or   to leave   the weeping women
 there   behind   as his   wind-dragged
 accomplices   (heart's magma  Opus   1-3-2)

  
         so in the myrrh within   her casket of acacia
 a pair of stones breathe   from-the-depths
 where   two lines of their footsteps
 meet and   her wooden pine-box

  
         makes an ark as Julius sees her
 yurodive (steel spoke di-ditched)
 a J-stroke (C-B fl. Shostakovich)
 from the C and sown   so recedes

  
         (just a kinetic holey furled seashell)
 into the mirror once again  (an easy-
 does-it Yenisei   or   seizure-salaud)
 (let us pray for them   sailing away)

       
                                                        2.6.2000

George W. Bush is using language to topple the Tower of Babel in your backyard. This from a recent study by Elwood Latitude of the Latitude Leeway Foundation. Because he is President he thinks he can fool us with bomber jackets he bought at Job Lot, thinks he's cool. We know better, nyah nyah Georgie-Porgie! I will vote for Delbert Deal because he is a good deal better than his brother Fred Deal, who was an all-around Bad Deal. George uses language as if it were sticks and stones, but names will never hurt me, I am going home now for my mother calls me home from the flock with the flock, here little flock come with me for I am the good little Shepherd Boy.

THEY FLEE FROM ME THAT ONCE DIDST SCAN MY BLOG. . .

so, I'll have a BLOG POLL QUIZ CONTEST TOO.

Answer the following to the best of your ability, then call your pet in from outside and fill his/her pet bowl with it HAUTE CLAMANS:

1. George W. Bush is a:
a) President
b) form of raft
c) a type of fishing fly

2. My Favorite Blogger is:
a) me
b) you
c) the other one

3. If I had a Choice, I Would Order:
a) caviar
b) hot dog
c) none of the above (vegetarian)

4. To Me, Sex Is:
a) a dialogue of the deaf
b) better than cheese
c) both of the above (vegetarian)

5. Poetry Is:
a) better than cheese
b) the same as cheese
c) deeply intertwined with cheese at all levels
d) different from cheese
e) like cheese, sorta
f) a mode of cheese "language"
g) dissonant, yet, somewhat cheesy
h) political in the same way as cheese
i) more/less important than cheese
j) cheese, the last time I checked. shine, shine, shine!!

When you have completed this quiz, place your pencil on your desk at 90 degree angle from this quiz, and lay your head on the desk, and sleep, sleep. You have done well, good and faithful servant.

Why Josh & Jonathan are perturbed about Language Poetry I cannot fathom. Prof. Hinkel cleared all that up in his lecture yesterday.

Language Poetry conforms to the trope known as hypneropophatela (no relation to mortadella, which is pretty good with provolone), ie. "the use of a word as if it were a word", for ex. if I say "Give me that brick" in a language poem, this means precisely "Give me that brick" in a context wherein "bricks", "me", and "give" refer strictly to each other in equilateral congruence, ie. brick = me, me = give, and give = brick. Linguists believe this usage developed among children playing "rock scissors paper", a competitive form of an more "primitive" game called "mud puppy dwink".

I love this weather, not too cold, cloudy, moist, yellow leaves, or none, or few.

Sun Returns to Womb.

Driving through Jersey wastelands near Newark Airport over the weekend, had old recurrent impulse to dig cave in abandoned area (say near freeway off-ramp), start fire, live there. Kind of escapism. Poetics of hobo-ism (as distinct from homelessness).

Island Road begins in this weather. The "structured" meanings of this sequence have yet to be explored. Reading a poetic text re-enacts death/rebirth. The time-design, the seasonal "year" of Island Road, culminates in the Shakespearean "year"-echo in the section called "To the Green Constellation" (based partly on Fowler's numerological readings of The Sonnets). Sonnet-rebirth; Shakespeare-Now.

But you already knew that, and so does Prof. Hinkel.

Have been reading John T. Irwin again (Mystery to a Solution). In the intro he says he's working on a book about Crane.

Cloudy November day, chance of showers. Wear your headdress & golden slippers. Men, carry shields.

What I did today : smelled my socks before waking up, had nightmare, regressed to Zone 3 Sleep, heard chicken crossing road very loudly & woke up with start, smelled socks again, got very depressed, rolled over, decided to get up & eat breakfast, sleepwalked into kitchen smashing head on corner of fridge, opened fridge door, smelled socks again, realized I was still dreaming, smacked myself upside the head & finally awakened, smelled coffee at first but then decided it was socks, ran out door screaming, ran back in put clothes on ran out door screaming, walked in nonchalant fashion to coffeeshop (Jimby's), had 7-League-Boots Kenyan with 17 truckloads of sugar and a diverted-river's-worth of half & half, thinking this would do the trick, fell asleep at counter before paying, was ejected spiritually and intellectually from coffeeshop by Bruno, very politely, went to chiropractor for dislocated body, left chiropractor without paying (they are all quacks), was chased by chiropractor back to my house, went in house & barricaded door, realized I had not been dreaming & immediately fell into deep blissful slumber, troubled only by images of gigantic pincers reaching for my refrigerator (no problem, they can have it), slept for rest of day (that's all I can remember - is it tomorrow yet, or still yesterday?).

HGPoetics has been a blog for 10 months. The world has changed much since I began; new hairdos have appeared; people are predicting things which happened, as well as the obverse (things have happened which people will predict), otherwise, things have been pretty much going along as per. I have reported dutifully on everything I noticed along the way, including the high proportion, in comparison with previous decads of months, according to the Julian calendar, of poems about cheese which made their presence felt in the spectacular and mind-goggling literary whirl which is our fate. Thank you, merci beaucoup, dear readers, for accompanying me on our journey of change and growth; I hope to be with you for many more decads of months in the coming days & years.

I myself have always considered Duluth cheese superior.

Hello again, people of the world. I greet you from the mountaintop off-centered in the vale which is Providence, former armpit of New England, now fragrantly deodorized.

My lecture this morning centers on Language. Language, the thing, the poetry Movement, the something something.

In recent decades "Language" has been re-conceptualized for us by a looseleaf-bound collective of poet-thinkers, who around the mid-70s discovered the comic potential of tautology and self-reflexivity, if you "know" you know what I "mean" mean. How do we know we know? Since in "knowing" ourselves we enact a fission of subjectivity, producing a knower/known dichotomy where once was a single "identity" (I put "identity" in quotes in case someone tries to hit me)?

Let me ask again, "?"

Ron Duluth foresaw the cul-de-sac of "language" about "language" several years before language poetry came to the fore (perhaps intuiting the epistemological conundra by way of his own name, often implicated in a radically unstable way with the third largest city in Minnesota, at the apex (or nadir, if you will) of the largest freshwater body of water in the world, Lake Superior. Duluth, twinned with the town of Superior, Wisconsin, has as a result been "subjected" to an inferior "position" (since Superior, Wisconsin will always be "superior"), and Ron Duluth, unavoidably linked with his namesake city, Duluth (the dual "u"s in Duluth undulating with reinforced abjectivity), is himself consequently abjectified within a form of urban "inferiority complex", resulting in an emotional shading of surface phenomena denying meaning to itself, in itself (& for itself, obviously).

Thus in this sociological complex we recognize by analogy a structure of hierarchical power relations, whereby "poetry" - already abjectified as "inferior" to utilitarian prose (which does things with itself) - when identified with Language-As-Language, reverses these power relations by instaurating them in formal actualization. In doing so, however, "language poetry" attaches to itself a permanent Achilles heel, a wound or scar, the mark of Cain or ritual victimization, just as "Duluth" (Ron, I mean) by the very fact of identity of name-and-(inferior)-city, is immoveably positioned in his victim status (as inferior to Superior, Wisconsin). Thus we see how the tautology of self-reflexivity has come full circle : the abjectivity of poetry, having been granted a "name" ("Language"), is now confirmed in a kind of official academic-ceremonial status-granting ceremony (indicated by my lecture, which you are "reading" at this moment (I think so, anyway, unless you're slurping some coffee all over your keyboard instead)).

This week's assignment : re-read the Collected Completely Long Poems of Ron Duluth, and "write" an essay based on your "responses" to his "work". Due Friday; no excuses.

- Professor Hinkel

Happy Halloween, everyone. I don't personally celebrate this holiday as I am allergic to salt. However, my black cat, Pushkin, is in protective custody, thank you for asking, everyone. & I mean everyone, you literary mutts out there included.

I thought this might be an appropriate time & place to post an interview I did with Ron Duluth, of Duluth, MN, back in the early 70s, which was also, as some of us are old enough to recall, a time of stress and crisis, especially for cats. It was published in the little magazine Little Duluth Magazine in 1975. I reprint here without permission from Ron, because he was always borrowing my toothbrush anyway, yecck. Happy Halloween to you too, Ron.

RD : Welcome to Duluth, Henry.

HG : Thanks, Ron. Are you speaking geographically or personally?

RD : Excuse me?

HG : I mean, do you mean by that, Welcome to (Ron) Duluth, ie. welcome into my personal presence, or, do you mean, Welcome to Duluth, my home town?

RD : Let's move on. Welcome, period, Henry. And I mean that.

HG : Thanks. You're welcome, too.

RD : OK. [takes sip of Doobie-Duluth, a local brew] I'd like to start by asking you about the portable chess board you carry around with you on reading tours. Can you tell us something about this? It's rather unusual. I wish I could print an image of it here, for future blog readers, but unfortunately, it's only 1975, and we'll both soon be in the nursing home if not Duluth Frozen People's Cemetery.

HG : Geez, Ron, you talk like it was Halloween, or something. Let's cut the gloom & doom. I don't really care if it's 1975 or 1597; in either case, neither of us knows Shakespeare on a first-name basis.

RD : That's true. Though I did pour him a brewskie last week over at Glug-Glugg's.

HG : He is some writer, huh? Have you had a close look at my chessboard? Check the pieces.

RD : How do you tell them apart? They all look like. . . kind of chunky pawns.

HG : It's a cheese board, Ron. Pawns, cheddar; rooks, swiss; knights, havarti; bishops, provolone, what else; queen, emmenthaler; king, blue cheese, it goes without saying.

RD : Do you actually know anything about cheese, Henry? There are more distinctive cheeses out there.

HG : I find that these standard grocery-store breeds have longer shelf-life, or board-life, if you will. Chess is a slow, stinkin' bloody war game.

RD : Don't I know it. It's how we get through the long winters here in northern Vermont.

HG : I thought we were in Duluth. Minnesota.

RD : Let's move on. I read a poem of yours about a year ago in Hoppers Bizarre, the one Lindy Spelling edits out of Grasshopper, ND. The last line has stuck with me over the 7 or 8 years since I read it:

"I spread my word around, mingled with wine and cheese."

Now on the surface, this is a very bland, slightly stupid sentence, if you don't mind my saying. But it refused to be ejected from the rooming house of my brain, for some reason, even though the rent came due long before I was even born. I thought of Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes, sending darting glances of animal heat across the Reading Room at Doddery House, Cambridge : poetry mingling with cocktail snacks, poetry moving out of its ivory tower into its ebony bower, into its limousine, into its chopper. What you seem to be saying, in this ultimate, rather than penultimate, line, is that poetry is not an arcane autonomous pursuit, like chess, for instance, but something far more complexly (new word, for me!) implicated (big word, for me!) in everyday emotional give-and-take of love-burnt lovebirds everywhere.

HG : Gotta hand it to you, Duluth; you must have labored over these questions all night long.

RD : Are you implying something about Cindy & me?

HG : Cindy spent the night at my hotel, Ron.

RD : Whaaa???

HG : - but not with me. There was a chess tournament in Duluth this week, didn't she tell you? Cindy is now a Grand Master; she's been invited to San Clemente to play Richard Nixon & that crazy guy Gary Kasper the Friendly Ghost next month. I'm surprised she didn't mention this to you.

RD : She knows how I feel about chess.

HG : Yeah, I know. She beat me too, yesterday. I'm just a Little Master now. This cheese board is just a novelty trick; I don't have the ruthless reptilian aggressive chromosome you really need for this game.

RD : Let's move on. Is poetry political, in your view?

HG : Does the Pope drive a Popomobile?

RD : What are your implying by that statement?

HG : Are you questioning my religious beliefs?

RD : I'm questioning everything. This is an interview. You're supposed to be answering.

HG : Is poetry political? Let me tell a little fable about that. Once, long ago & far away, in the kingdom of Shnoz, the masses were enamoured of Rex Regal & Regatta Special, their very own King & Queen. Rex & Regatta were not only good-looking, they were also well-mannered and well-spoken in any situation. Rex was, moreover, an excellent water-skiier. Regatta was raised in Humble Circumstances, a village not far from Capital, the capital of their nation (Capita); but she knew she could handle the jui-jitsu of social climbing; she put on her velveteen hiking boots and lo & behold became queen of her fair land. There was a poor ugly soft-muscled man in Capita, whose name was Lex Verbosity. He had become the Offical Man of Letters after winning the spelling bee in Capita Junior High three years in a row, an unprecedented achievement for someone with such poor handwriting. Well, Lex decided to become a poet. But in order to do so, he had to win the hand of the Princess of the Dark Wood, whose name was Circe Circuitous (really!). This was just the way they did things in that fair land known to this day as Capita. Well, to make a long story short, Ron, Lex succeeded. He lived in the forest with Circe for 35 years, only to emerge as Pig Laureate 35 years after that. Rex, King of Capita, was mightily alarmed; he sent his entire chessboard into the Dark Wood to capture Circe, but a short time later his army came running & squealing back home, curling their little piggly tails behind them.

RD : Henry, is this somehow related to your poetics?

HG : Did you note the word "chessboard" which appeared in my little fable just related?

RD : I did.

HG : Did you note what happened to the chessboard, Ron?

RD : I did.

HG : What conclusions can you draw from this story? Who is your favorite character, and why? Do you think that Lex did the right thing in marrying the Princess of the Dark Forest? How would you have become a poet differently?

RD : I don't know, to tell the truth.

HG : It's fairly simple. In this country, the United States, Dylan Thomas represents King Rex. Marianne Moore represents Queen Regatta. Sylvia Plath can play Circe. But who is Lex Verbosity? This depends upon how you view the impact of modern art and 20th-century history on poetic productive forces. For most American poets, poetry is a force for retirement, despite the impression, created quite premeditatively, of Wild Boy & Girl romanticism fostered by the likes of Rick Temblor, jing-a-ling poet-cowboy, & the like. But for an extremely astute & rigid avant-garde, the productive forces of poetry have been marshalled for the manufacture of a new and better world, represented by ee cummings, mm eekings, the Doodle Sisters of Paris, France, Ernie Hummingbird, TB Shott, Nozra Bash, and so on. These are the antennae of the rat, if you will, and the alert young minds of our generation - I mean those who dare to resist the cantankerous imposition of middling classy mores throughout the suburban hell which is our world - these young people are standing up together for freedom, and saying We Are The Pepsi Generation! in terms of verse.

RD : And you? Where do you stand, Henry Gould?

HG : I usually sit. But thanks for asking.

Since I have nothing better to do than juggle 45 boxes of cheese-flavored cheerios with my feet while translating Mandelstam into pig Latin, I thought I'd paste in here a portion of a letter written many many years ago to Agatha Trillenta, who was living at the time over a bicycle shop run by a collective of Italian film-makers (the year was 1947) in Rome:

Cara Agatha,

You ask about my poetics. Well, this is a subject dear (as in "expensive") to my heart, as I spent many years during World War 2 fighting a certain amalgam of abstract flotillae ranged against me in that epistemological episteme, or steam-pit, as it were, then.

Generally, or "kernelly", as we say in midwestern corn country, I think it may be said, and I think it has been said, by several thinkers in the range of nations between the 15th and 17th Parallels, and not only by myself, I might add (sorry for the prolixity here), that my approach, or, as it were, technique, in poetry, involves treading a narrow middle path between fromagitude on the one bank, and the avant-gouda on the rocks t'other side o'me. To begin with, I think it is fairly obvious, I never, at least to my knowledge, and I should know, I think, if anyone should, that, in the main, in my writing, I never, for the most part, or should I say, ever, in fact, use, usually, commas, or, to put it plainly, in laymen's terms, but perhaps more precisely, I, that is, me, here, now, and also then, whenever, tend, most often, to, at least most of the time, anyway, avoid, you know, cara amica, subordinate, as they are called, phrases, if, and this is a very, in fact, huge, large, if, possible, that is, if, in other words, it, what I say, is, duh duh ain't it obvious, can, like, be, y'know, done.

This kind of writing, this avoidance of the necessary along with the unnecessary foci of syntactical abrasion, has gotten me in lots of trouble with the gatekeepers of literary decorum, I mean, the slop-happy statisticians of the jail yard, like, I mean all of Boston, most of Buffalo, 99 percent of San Francisco, and NY faggeddabaddit. Rhode Island is a wee very tiny small state; and why, you ask? my dear & extremely radiant charisma-saturated poet of Italia? Why, well, because we have no GATES here; all the stuffing of Rhode-Island goes runnin' through the sluices, skippin' trew the rye, hoppin' down the bunny path, smack into the Gates of dem other States, whammo!! That's why we is small and that's why we is an island that is no island, that's why, I tell you that's why [sing to tune of "Well Drop My Rrrrrs Blues"].

Agatha, my pet, molte molte grazie for sending the Lambrusco-soaked pettini; I will return the favor as soon as my corn bread rises and the cheese is duly somnolent. Until then, arriv', baby!!!

young John Latta in poetry class. Weren't the word Charles Wright were looking for prolific? Happy medium between profligate & productive, Prof. [uh, was this a Hotel Point quiz, maybe?]

poem about doves by CK Williams in this week's New Yorker. didn't really grab me. (now perhaps if he'd written about Cheese. . .)

wish I could see the Philip Guston retrospective at the Met, though.

A friend emailed to say how much he liked my awkward comments earlier this week about the anonymous, "un-literary" dimension of poetry's presence in the world. It reminded me somewhat of Kent Johnson's forthright criticism, in various places, of the merely theoretical-academic politicization of poetics. The distinction he draws between theory and actual civic-political realities is a sane & healthy one, I think.

The email also reminded me of this old poem, a little different from my usual. The last two lines say what I meant better than the blog comments did.

ARS POETICA

                              in memoriam W.W.

 
Walking over the bridge to the post office, the wind
raking trash against the steel fences, I saw a carpenter
hoist on a nonchalant frame of ropes and wood – intent,
healing a wounded wall, a gash of red bricks
curved like a crazy smile beneath an empty window.

 
Maybe this carpenter is cruel – rough, cold
to his children, beating his wife.  Maybe cheats
on his taxes, scams his customers; maybe
he harries gays and poets and femmes like me
in order to prove he can still get stiff,
or get those lingering rumors off his back
about his adolescence. . . maybe this man is evil,
in all the ways an old sinner like me can imagine.

 
The wind smashes newspapers, election notices
across the road, over the bridge wall.  The world
rages in throes of death and thirst echoing
over the tough skin of the rooftops – the scream
of an orangutan, stuffing a broken body up the shaft.

 
Scant light from a failing sun penetrates the clouds,
glows a little against the face of the wall.
Unexpected beauty, like this faint light
holds firm that workman on his floating planks.
Unheralded, unglorified, the earth is secret.
Mundane eloquence, whispered every day.

This letter arrived yesterday in the midst of a torrential downpour (I gave the poor mailwoman a slice of provolone) from Agatha Trillenta, the exiled poet of Istria. I publish here with her distinct permission.

"Caro Enrico,

It is a matter of indifference to me, now, after so many long months living in solitude here in the quaint, depopulated, and fundamentally desolate town of Ciopinnara, on the island of Istria, in the middle of the Mediterranean, on the tragic planet now known as Earth (in the Universe commonly understood as, "the Universe"). It is a matter of indifference that my public no longer asks of me, no longer remembers my name, the name of the most beautiful and intelligent poet of the Western World. It is a matter of indifference to me that my books have fallen into the seventh circle of the Second Hand Book Stores throughout Europe, and needless to say have never even been published in America (despite your gallant & tireless efforts, amico - I know, I know!!!).

It is a matter of indifference. And why, you may ask? Because I know that in the depths of the cosmos, where the shades of Michelangelo, David & Monticelli share vino e pane with Dante Alighieri (if he's in a good mood, you never know - & how well I know this, amico!!), I assert that there, in that eternity promised to the way-farer faring forth, my dear "W.H." - there, there, indeed, the lasting & eternal odor of Fromagitude reeks in its beloved nest, among the fervent flock (ever fit, ever few)!

Remember me with lilacs & muenster - as I, in turn, behold your image in the ancient cheese tray, mio companero!

- Fragrantly,
your Agatha T.

venepoetics

Watched the happy-go-lucky PBS show on cosmology last night (Elegant Universe). I could identify with the neglected string theorists & their rejection slips from science journals hither & yon.

Over the weekend the true impulse returned & I went back to my template quatrains & I think it will work. Some excerpts below from the new version Dove Street.

  It begins like this, on a dark autumn day.
  The wind is blowing, you don't know
  where it leads.  Pussy-willow, dogwood
  wave their last leaves.   The lead-gray sky

   
                  shrouds the universe in its camouflage
  of sleep and melancholy.  Ravens
  mark your place in the book of dying
  and being born.  Goldfinch paces his cage.

      
                                        * 

   
                  In Bruegel's The Dark Day, the herdsmen
  follow a ridge in the foreground, drawing on
  their oxen, charcoal outlines seemingly stolen
  from the Lascaux caves.  In the distance

   
                  storms lash a somber, mountainous coast
  helmeted with desolate castle;
  shipwrecks ornament the entrance
  to the harbor.  A wintry violence

   
                  looms in murk above muted ruddiness,
  ramshackle roofs of valley and village;
  Bruegel grins in the teeth of all this rage,
  shepherding home his cataclysmic canvas.

      
                                         *

   
                  Every leaf bears an image of the tree
  (as when the underside of an autumn olive
  stands upright, tall - a tiny silver cypress).
  Every book bears an image of the Book To Be

   
                  and every child bears an image of the singer
  (almond-eyed) who left a humming shadow
  in the neighborhood - that summer cicada
  shrunk to autumn cricket (fading, lingering).

      
                                      *

   
                  Cosmologists are gathering in conference rooms
  with maps and diagrams and arguments;
  Anthropic Principle, String Theory, Branes,
  Dark Energy vents, dents - various dawns, dooms.

   
                  I walk down Dove Street almost every day
  to watch the silver-gray autumnal sky
  mirror the shifting moire of the bay
  (soothing my heart this way).

   
                  Orpheus fingered the space between the strings
  of his imaginary lyre (he'd thrown the real one
  in the river, after Eurydice had gone).

   
                  Only a pearl-gray shadow (lightening).

      
                                    *

   
                  What mutters and broods in an undertone,
  the doves and pigeons underfoot, gray
  wing upon gray stone.  What flits off
  at your lumbering step, O ponderous one -

   
                  through a gap in the trees in your heart,
  under your eyelids, beyond memory,
  beneath, behind.  Dazed now, you see
  but can't explain:  home again - Dove Street.

      
                                    *

   
                  As if childhood were Bruegel
  panorama - tiny almond eye
  planted (hidden) at the center. 
  And the passionate quest - trial's

   
                  puzzle of yearning loneliness
  only subplot, type, analogy
  (ink-path echo - shady
  image - singular ingress).

       
                               *

Read yesterday & today, new book:

This Much : selected poems 1970-2000, by David Cashman. Catskill Press, 2003. David used to edit The Providence Review with Mark Halliday. I met him back in the 70s and then didn't see him for 30 years, until I started going to church across the street from my house & found him there. He's an excellent poet, & I admire & envy this book. Makes our blogger's games look like so much trivial pursuit.

(Poetry happens, sometimes, on a different level, unbeknownst, anonymous almost, closer to ordinary non-literary life, without losing any of its authority, integrity, freedom, "literariness".) (I'm being somewhat more inarticulate than usual this morning.) (The ambitious & the professional can lose touch with it. I am speaking for myself here, others may identify. This may be some kind of natural or moral cycle, leading perhaps to re-discovery.)

Gabriel Gudding might be interested in the following, if he doesn't already know about it. I just ordered a rare book from Scotland for the library, titled A Conchologist's Text-book, by Captain Thomas Brown, published in Glasgow in 1833.

In doing so I noticed that the library already owned the following, "published for the author by Haswell, Barrington & Haswell" in Philadelphia, in 1839 : The conchologist's first book; or, A system of testaceous melacology, arranged expressly for the use of schools, in which the animals, according to Cuvier, are given with the shells, a great number of new species added, and the whole brought up, as accurately as possible, to the present condition of the science. The said author is listed as EDGAR ALLAN POE. A note to the library record : "Stated by R.W. Griswold, in the International Monthly Magazine, Oct. 1850, to be a copy nearly verbatim, of the text-book of conchology by Captain Thomas Brown, printed in Glasgow in 1833."

Was one of Eddy's heteronyms a certain Captain Brown?

I want to apologize to my faithful hip-booted blogsloggers for neglecting the important issue in poetics lately : the differing notions of metonymy/metophany held by the School of Fromagitude on the one hand, and the Avant-Gouda on the other hand (or in the other hand, I should say). Considering the avalanche of commentary - a veritable landslide of cheese - which accompanied my last foray into that aromatic arena, I look forward to another big helping of the same.

Now today's lecture will consist of an in-depth consideration of metophany from the perspective of goat cheese aesthetics. Metophany, as we all know (or we all should know, if we have read our Johann Schlimmen carefully, and I mean you, Gertrude, friend of Louise in Scottsdale), as we all know, is a blend of metonymy & catachresis (the rhetorical manuever involving the use of very thin slices of provolone in a frisbee-like mimetic "toss" motion). [More info on catachresis can be found at the Schlimmen memorial website, http://meinminnyminyyminischulekittykittykatistzookute.com] Catachresis is not limited to poetry about the moon, cats, or cheese; far from it! The trope shows up all over the joint, as the old Bogart line has it. Unfortunately, the overwhelming majority of Fromagitude poets (and my comment is not mere fly-swatting, but is based on the statistical work of the Cheez Whiz Commune, a group of avant-gouda poet-statisticians based in Madison, Wissenschaftsconsin) apply catachresis solely in their works about cheese, reflecting a preternatural bias toward established dairy vendors centered in the Chicago trucking distribution poetry scene.

More later : I must run to the kitchen for a moment.

Ron has emailed me to say that he did not delete my comment to his blog posting of today. I have asked him to re-instate it if possible. How it disappeared no one seems to know.

I have deleted some previous messages triggered by my over-sensitive censorship antenna.

If, as John Latta suggested yesterday, writing under a pseudonym or fictive persona sometimes enables free (or freer) expression, then it seems possible that feeling & emotion in poetry might sometimes take authentic form through a "heteronym".

If, in addition, we grant that all language is an artificial construct, a kind of shorthand "dress-up" for an irreducible reality, then, paradoxically, the "truest" expression - what corresponds to the situation most closely - might be such a "fiction of a fiction".

Halloween is coming, oh boy (put on costume; get candy). Curious how a masking ritual precedes the feast-day celebrating community as a symbolic whole (All Souls, All Saints Day).

I've never been too interested in Kent Johnson's obsession, the problematic nature of authorship. But reading through the latter part of his interview in Vert makes me wonder if there's a connection between his idee fixe & the version of negative capability[?] I wrote about earlier here - the idea that the emotional ground of a poem is where both author & audience connect, and that this emotional area is outside the author's control. (On some level, is every poem written by Anonymous, then? That's stretching it. But neither is "identity" in a simple identifiable state at the moment of composition.)

This might also have some relation to the notion of sincerity which Kent also discusses. Edwin Honig was always concerned with distinguishing between the authentic poem and rhetoric : he would often slash away at whole stanzas of others' poems, saying "you don't need this, it's just rhetoric". Perhaps what he was getting at was the difference between authentic emotion in poetry & the rhetorical manipulation of a phantom emotion. (Honig also once proposed an anthology made up entirely of poems by Anonymous. Not incidentally is he one of the leading Pessoa scholars.)

grey-eyed Athena.

the bay down at India Point was lead-gray this morning. melancolia : plumb.

I seem to be looking for the emotional key for another writing project.

Gray is a shade of grey, or vice-versa, I'm not sure which.

Thinking about the color grey lately.

Sort of an indeterminate blend of two already-absent shades. Grey sea, grey clouds, grey stone, grey pigeons, grey whales, grey dolphins. The old grey Manxman in Moby Dick.

Grey is the servant of the other colors.

On a walk over the weekend in South County, passed a greenish silver-grey tree with scarlet berries, which I thought was some kind of willow, but Sarah said it was probably an autumn olive, an invasive species on the East Coast, almost indistinguishable from the Russian olive.

I've deleted a previous post, which was waxing sarcastic.

As a would-be poet with a blog, I'd rather not participate in clique politics of flattery/exclusion. Most of us experienced enough of that in junior high.

There are better things to do with writing talent in this world.

I'm a little embarrassed to tell this personal story, but what are blogs for, anyway? When I read something enjoyable or compelling, I hold a little awards ceremony for the book or blog or whatever. I have a special bronze, silver, or gold medallion (cast in the form of a Havarti Moon surmounted by twin leaping Guernseys) fashioned by my friend and personal sculptor Guido Lunasco, who lives in a little hilltop studio overlooking the Arnosuch River in Tuscany; then I invite a few select companions (apologies to anyone accidentally left out) to my own study here in Luigilottodusto, and over a few bottles of choice champagne, we toast the winning volume (url site, whatever) and, suspending the medallion directly over the center of the award-winning object from a length of gold chain, by oscillating it slowly back and forth, I hypnotize everyone present and throw the award-winning volume about 10 feet in the air, whereupon my assistant, Fianciuletta Fellini, catches it in mid-air and places upon its surface a ceremonial baccio (kiss). Immediately afterward, with a snap of the fingers, I awaken the assembled entourage, and, strange as it may seem, the hypnotic spell convinces each and every participant that he or she has actually read the award-winning work in question.

Congratulations, award-winners !

Kent Johnson interview. Expand your mind.

Shanna Compton, whose endearing blog is new to me, and who must be deeply caught up in the incredibly rich and flavorful ongoing debate between the School of Fromagitude and the Avant-Gouda, forwarded me this important poem:

Ode on the Mammoth Cheese
   Weighing over 7,000 pounds

 
We have seen the, queen of cheese,
Lying quietly at your ease,
Gently fanned by evening breeze,
Thy fair form no flies dare seize.

 
All gaily dressed soon you’ll go
To the great Provincial show,
To be admired by many a beau
In the city of Toronto.

 
Cows numerous as a swarm of bees,
Or as the leaves upon the trees,
It did require to make thee please,
And stand unrivalled, queen of cheese.

 
May you not receive a scare as
We have heard that Mr. Harris
Intends to send you off as far as
The great world’s show at Paris.

 
Of the youth beware of these,
For some of them might rudely squeeze
And bite your cheek, then songs or glees
We could not sing, oh! queen of cheese.

 
We’rt thou suspended from balloon,
You’d case a shade even at noon
Folks would think it was the moon
About to fall and crush them soon.

                                        
                   James McIntyre (1827-1906)

Somehow I feel the soft texture & delicate aroma of this poem will have an appetizing effect on the whole prix fixe perplexity.

Attended RI Philharmonic last night. (knew Phil Harmonic & his brother Fred in high school. yeah.) Music by Berlioz, Prokofiev, Barber, Respighi.

Stirred by the emotional keys, later one of those thoughts occurred to me, the kind of thing we don't like to admit:

that our frenetic debates about poetics have missed something essential, which is that good poetry is emotionally expressive & expansive, in a way that touches the crowd, touches Everyperson, and that this elusive something is not measurable in terms of a political or aesthetic "position" nor by the minutiae of stylistic dissection. Thus the successful poets for the most part are elusive, evasive, noncommittal, &/or terse about "poetics", since it's a matter of an imponderable faculty outside the poet's control.

Mandelstam actually wrote several poems which address this conundrum of the "dream beyond reason" from various angles. From "Octets" (Moscow, 1934):

And Schubert on the water, and Mozart in the uproar of the birds,
and Goethe whistling on the winding path,
and Hamlet, thinking with fearful steps,
all felt the crowd's pulse and believed the crowd.
Perhaps my whisper was already borne before my lips,
the leaves whirled round in treelessness
and those to whom we dedicate our life's experience
before experience acquired their traits.

(trans. by David McDuff). this poem something like a Zen koan, to me anyway.