Lanthanum. The design of this long, long poem is like the letter "L" laid on its back. For 3/4ths of the way it pokes along, slow & repetitive, sleepy... & then finally it stands up! Like lazy Hobo, or Lazarus in his grave - a lazy Rus. Like a Mississippi river-barge, or Mandelstam's "Egyptian bark of the dead."
Or Lanthanum is like a still gray clam, rather dull on the outside... which finally produces a pearl. You have to be patient & willing to listen as it goes along - a very quiet turtle (or turtle-dove) song.
The numerical design of this poem is rather intricate and symbolic - something like a wheel. But I will leave that for others to figure out....
7.21.2012
7.19.2012
poetry continuum
Next project may be some kind of essay, responding to the discussion around Marjorie Perloff's article on the Conceptual poets, and Matvei Yankelevich's response, & so on. The effort to inject Russian avant-garde/Futurist/Formalist models and theories into the American milieu has a pretty long history. The Language Poets expressed an affinity for same. Perloff's critical formulae have an oddly recherche quality, and Yankelevich echoes that to some extent : they both set up the personal MFA-workshop lyric as the great stumbling-block to literary advance, the middle-brow bourgeois anti-intellectual mainstream conventionality which must be demolished and overcome.
I have an ongoing, longstanding problem with this maneuver... I remember arguing about it often on the Buffalo Poetics list back in the 90s. My problem is that I identify with the contrasting poetics and worldview of the Russian Acmeists. Of course there were crossovers and overlaps and collaborations between these two (or three or four) tendencies in 20th-cent Russian poetry - yet the basic contrast is there. And I'm repeatedly impelled to try to articulate it, to re-draw that line. For me it gets to the character of one's most basic sense of what the art of poetry is, is for.
Is art, is poetry, a radical detachment from experience - a permanent "making strange"? Are the roots of art in the alienation effect - of consciousness detached from unthinking life? This it seems to me is a fundamental article of faith among the modernist and postmodern avant-garde. Even the efforts of Dada and similar movements to disintegrate the special status of the art object, to merge art with everyday life, seem to be rooted in an act of disjunction : of shock, of breakage. The avant-garde seems tinged with violence at its core. The Futurists' concept of "the word as such" really means the word uprooted from its origins in the whole continuum of a language (the history of words, of syntax, of rhetoric, of representation, of dialect... and of meaning). Words were to be treated as things : not living things, but material - in other words, available (in an ethical sense) for artistic manipulation by force.
The Acmeists' shared sense of their vocation (I mean Gumilev, Akhmatova, and Mandelstam, primarily) and of the nature of poetry is strikingly different. The best word I can think of to describe this attitude is "continuum". The "word as such" - for Gumilev, for example - is God. Such an equation implies the whole panorama of Western cultural history. The word - words - exist in a continuum : of speech, of sentences, of philology, of cultural history, of time, of theology... and of past poets and poetry. You cannot tear off a piece of language by violence without harming the continuum. As Mandelstam put it : "the Word is bread and suffering".
As I see it, this is a fundamentally "incarnational" concept of poetry. We don't know words as detached self-sufficient entities : words are inflected and shaded by their presence in the poems of the past. Words have a history in flesh and blood, and continue to appear there, in the matrix of human conflict and strife : not as instigators of more shock and violence, but as avenues for mediation and reconciliation (peacemaking, healing).
I think there's a mystical dimension to all this. In the Acmeist sense of the "word as such", an aesthetic equilibrium arises which is really rooted in the unity of experience and representation, of intellect and sense, of word and flesh. Union, oneness, harmony. This is something I hope to explore more fully in another essay.
I have an ongoing, longstanding problem with this maneuver... I remember arguing about it often on the Buffalo Poetics list back in the 90s. My problem is that I identify with the contrasting poetics and worldview of the Russian Acmeists. Of course there were crossovers and overlaps and collaborations between these two (or three or four) tendencies in 20th-cent Russian poetry - yet the basic contrast is there. And I'm repeatedly impelled to try to articulate it, to re-draw that line. For me it gets to the character of one's most basic sense of what the art of poetry is, is for.
Is art, is poetry, a radical detachment from experience - a permanent "making strange"? Are the roots of art in the alienation effect - of consciousness detached from unthinking life? This it seems to me is a fundamental article of faith among the modernist and postmodern avant-garde. Even the efforts of Dada and similar movements to disintegrate the special status of the art object, to merge art with everyday life, seem to be rooted in an act of disjunction : of shock, of breakage. The avant-garde seems tinged with violence at its core. The Futurists' concept of "the word as such" really means the word uprooted from its origins in the whole continuum of a language (the history of words, of syntax, of rhetoric, of representation, of dialect... and of meaning). Words were to be treated as things : not living things, but material - in other words, available (in an ethical sense) for artistic manipulation by force.
The Acmeists' shared sense of their vocation (I mean Gumilev, Akhmatova, and Mandelstam, primarily) and of the nature of poetry is strikingly different. The best word I can think of to describe this attitude is "continuum". The "word as such" - for Gumilev, for example - is God. Such an equation implies the whole panorama of Western cultural history. The word - words - exist in a continuum : of speech, of sentences, of philology, of cultural history, of time, of theology... and of past poets and poetry. You cannot tear off a piece of language by violence without harming the continuum. As Mandelstam put it : "the Word is bread and suffering".
As I see it, this is a fundamentally "incarnational" concept of poetry. We don't know words as detached self-sufficient entities : words are inflected and shaded by their presence in the poems of the past. Words have a history in flesh and blood, and continue to appear there, in the matrix of human conflict and strife : not as instigators of more shock and violence, but as avenues for mediation and reconciliation (peacemaking, healing).
I think there's a mystical dimension to all this. In the Acmeist sense of the "word as such", an aesthetic equilibrium arises which is really rooted in the unity of experience and representation, of intellect and sense, of word and flesh. Union, oneness, harmony. This is something I hope to explore more fully in another essay.
7.12.2012
Why I am a Russian poet
COSMIC LOCAL POETRY
Brown Univ. Bookstore,
Providence, RI. July 18, 2012
Stuart and I are here today as part of the Bookstore’s Local
Authors series. And we are local authors – very local. But we’re involved with something global,
even universal. Poetry is a world endeavor,
and we are caught up in that, each in our own way. For my part, I consider myself a sort of Russian from Minneapolis. I’ve been inspired by a group of poets based
in St. Petersburg around 1910, who called themselves Acmeists : Gumilev, Akhmatova,
Mandelstam. Mandelstam defined Acmeism
as “nostalgia for world culture”. This
is a concise summary of their sense of poetry as an enterprise in building
civilization, and as poetry as a global, trans-historical continuum, a
tradition stretching back into prehistory.
Orpheus, legendary ur-poet
of Greece, was priest of Apollo, god of music and medicine : a pairing which
suggests that art and song are about healing.
For the Greeks, this meant a restoration of health and balance through reason,
justice, clarity, wisdom. Orpheus,
Apollo’s representative, fell victim to the frenzy of the cult of Dionysius : the
music of the word was sacrificed to the fury of desire amputated from understanding. Poetry appears at the edge of this polarity,
between mind and sense, intellect and feeling, consciousness and dream. The Acmeists looked to their national poet,
Pushkin, as embodying such an equipoise – at the cusp between alternating waves
of neo-classicism and romanticism.
Mandelstam wrote : “Classicism is revolution.” This had a special implication in the context
of revolutionary 1920s Russia. The
Acmeists were seeking a paradigm, within art, for the sanity and equilibrium –
the “nostalgia for world culture” – which they recognized in the poetry of the
ancient world. The Roman poet Virgil was
searching for such balance in his own day.
His Georgics, ostensibly an
agricultural manual in verse, was really a meditation on a world which had
fallen from a Golden Age of rural peace, into an Iron Age of violence and war. The “audacity of the poet”, as Virgil put it,
was to re-imagine that Golden Age, by way of an all-embracing pity : compassion for a world oppressed
by the rule of brutality, force and chaos.
This is the fundamental Apollonian vocation : through imagination and
song, to bring mankind, us, back to our senses – our intuition of profound justice
and harmony. This is the inner meaning
of Mandelstam’s “nostalgia for world culture” : he thought of Classicism in
this sense as the future.
To my mind, these ideas bring us back to the local, as well :
for here we are, in Providence : we are Providence poets. Providence, to Roger Williams, the city’s
founder, is a theological term, closely bound up with the RI state motto : Hope.
Providence signifies a cosmic plan : the Master Architect’s (or
Musician’s) intention to restore all things to their original well-being. Note how the meaning of this word resonates
with Virgil’s, and the Acmeists’, sense of the poet’s vocation.
Today we are awash in aggressive discourses, a feverish
babble of new technological means and motives.
Many today would advance the image of the poet as master communicator : rock
star, rapper, stand-up comedian, celebrity, social spokesperson, political
activist, promoter of recondite ideologies.
But I think the most basic stance of the poet is as listener. Dante wrote, “Love
speaks, and I follow after, noting down her words like a scribe.” The poet listens to a mute song : the whisper
of conscience, the music of understanding.
And this means that we are all poets here – Stuart and I and each of
you, who are also listening.
7.03.2012
Lanthanum 12.23
23
...nothing stamped with the Divine image and likeness was sent into the world to be trodden on,
and degraded, and imbruted by its fellows. They grasped not only the whole race of men then
living, but... reached forward... seized upon the farthest posterity. They erected a beacon...
– Abraham Lincoln (Aug. 17, 1858)
Your birthday tomorrow, Grandma born
on the 4th of July, 1900 far off there in
Sunset Land I’m thinking of you & of
Great-Grandma J. 2-wheeler captain’s
daughter Jessie O. Ophelia the river-girl
now at the end of this milk-train rainbow
way back in summertime prairiespace O
Jessie, little tree I hear that lonesome horn
wail my old St. Anthony trystle-humlet
suspended 7th plunged into black earth
a shiny hinter-horn of milky lanthanum
(dawn-anthem) & Amaranthousa sets
her Pocahontaseal a Morning Star some
menorah-constellatio over 50 more their
hard-earned stripes a chord (accord) for
ear attuned to Jubileeday (freequilibrium)
only a promise of soul liberty (Everyhew-
manever) under these stars their birthright
mine may be new birth of freedom (night
brings dawn) the sun of justice risen again
to bloom as once on earth in stable born
out of the Pharaoh’s precinct into happiness
just over Jordan (almondejoie) by wilderness
to mercy forgiveness peace a Restoration
of all things beneath two tender-tending wings lark
tempering my mumbling well, contrapuntal polar
sarabande (labor & rest yin & yang). Soar,
7/4 to 4x7 : welded annealed (almond birchbark)
7.3.12
Labels:
lanthanum15
7.02.2012
Lanthanum 12.22
22 EVENING LAND
We drove to the curl of Sakonnet Point at the
SE corner of RI snuck past the private property
& the “keep out” signs onto its pebbly spiral jetty
& watched the sun set, somehow into the Atlantic
late early summer evening the sun only an eye
veiled in lambent mist 57 fine shades of violet
most luminous sky ever screened by retina &
I saw one kind round rose iris in clerestory
lanthanum air-cathedral through the vault
of steel in heart of the earth or simply
the heart itself where 144 lines meet (ply
pan o’ply) an elemental number (all complete
now, fin) for Love is Lake Victoria of Poem
& Universe the shared factor (O Unionverse)
both yin & yang a givenreceptive openness
infinitenfoldunfurled banner of Joy (freedom)
Love is egalitarian & kind it will not break
the weakest willow branch of orphan poor
man widow it will endure with them, for
righteousness & justice & when the scales
fall from our eyes at last we’ll behold Scales
held in your palm of matrix-lines life-lines
a Romany (RIMN) hrmny, Maggie 28 pines
all swimming into view & one eye-in-hand
prevails. & the shadow of your hand on my
brow in the starlight of Cosmos-over-Chaos
(olive mountain) your paddlwhrlng S-O-S (O
sip & see) Ja-El Jessie O’L little song-tree
7.2.12
Labels:
lanthanum15
7.01.2012
Lanthanum 12.21
21
I’ve lived for some years now along Abba River
in Q’ville a stream wide, deep, invisible to which
Ocean is tributary & stars are lights each
in a niche of a bend along its banks a quiver-
full are clustered at the center of the earth
matrix of bends & origami folds a silvery thread
knotted tight & gleaming there the stream’s head
source & watershed (east west north south)
This river’s where inside turns out & myrrh
turns mirror (by St. Louie MO) where wanderer
goes OM at last prodigal Absalom to his poor
long-forsaken Solomon (Abba Pop Dad Father)
& the tripod of their lost, lasting embrace is
bond of universal steel (titanium-lanthanum-
oxide alloy) which is most tautwound anthem-
flower in the planetary plot grave Providence
of all things in those arms their hands
united fingers interwoven & unbreakable
palm-vault beyond every Olympic pinnacle of
bronze or gold & racing now (triple-handstands)
toward that Finnish line in summertime halcyon
days up north (is it Karelia? Sibelius swam-
pineland?) where a vain little man in his own
birch canoe (Longfellow? Hiawatha?) glides down
Minnehaha Creek his boat festooned with 7 flags
of 50 stars (red, blue, purple) a paper hat (or
tiny boat) crowning his brow crowing Excelsior!
paddling home (homesick Frank in his glad rags)
7.1.12
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