Showing posts with label Janus. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Janus. Show all posts

1.15.2020

sketchy star-map




GREEN PYRAMID

The idea of Janus.  Osip is born;
war saw.  The tiny hexagons,
whose bite is bitterness
& valediction, zigzag down

here, in our Cerealian Capital
(Pillsbury, General Mills).
Grandpa, in Saskatchewan
wills grain elevators toward the pole.

Above these winter clouds, invisible
Venus the flower-star
describes tobacco-petal arcs –
Gravesend’s Dark Lady – indelible

cartwheeling Corn Maiden – springing
& sovereign rite of way;
dewy washerwoman, our MVP
lifting the horizon over D.C. (washing

everything).  Verily... except a corn of wheat
fall into the ground & die...
Over the green pyramid, an eye;
red rose for Memorial Day (complete

now, finished).  Elvira, out of Ravlin
opera, spins toward blue clay
herself.  We go that way
with snowflakes, with January’s frozen

squeaky violin... we go together.
At our reed-muddy center
she alights on the perimeter –
Adonai cornucopia, our milky tether.

1.15.20

from David Ovason, The Secret Architecture of the Nation's Capital, p.190

1.31.2017

Red Wing colors



TWIN WINGS

Sun through winter clouds, light
grays, pale blues...
Red Wing colors –
Mississippi stoneware (molded tight).

The heavy clay, churned by the river.
Earth forms distend,
disintegrate... days end,
begin... arrows in a quiver

of darkness.  Black Sea, cold, dead.
Salt lashing the eyes,
unseeing eyes – Oedipus
in his beast maze (Minotaur Ed).

Bruegel with his traps & nets.
Sardonic Injun Joe.
Taut lips of Little Crow.
To the bottomland we go, eaglets –

where Janus wrestles in the ice
with icon of his father.
Horned (narwhal weather).
Stars nest in a pair of dice.

High in stretched vaults of shade
stone elms lean down
over a golden corn-
maze (Ariadne made).

Light-roping constellations chant
reunion, reconcilement –
on twin wings of prairie-tent
coulombe (your ghostly complement).

1.31.17

1.07.2017

medieval eaglet


CZECH MATE

So Janus comes, two-faced & torn
like split Siamese
Dioscuri – full of unease.
The sun (low orange after-burn

flailing to keep from sinking down).
Not President, not King,
but some other Something
wobbling like egg inside a crown –

Huffer-EZ Beast, out o’th’slime.
Trumpeting his name
in blocks of guilty flame,
a mountaineer of lofty crime.

Apocalypse Now was a bad movie.
Calypso (soeur of Circe)
kep’ sous in her purse
for just such a very groovy

way of passing the Gol’mighty Buck
to Time.  MAMMON FOR SALE.
Everybody turn pale,
turn tail... rabbit-tracks in the muck.

                     *

Don’t try t’cross the radiant Kremlin.
Its flush rust-orange flare
steal into every corner
of the dacha, like kitchen gremlin

or turquoise exhaust.  They know your name.
They don’t like your move.
The knight’s in a groove
off L-shaped Room – Lucky Vadim

or Gimpy Natasha (pseudonym
for Czech Mate, starring
Leslie Caron). Bring
him in for questioning.  Da.  Hyim.

True jealousy is Kremlin green.
Not copper, like that lady
bugged with epilepsy,
aboriginal Macadamia (aquamarine)...

                    *

The fire in heaven – constellation
of a million little candles –
leaves no left handles
on the lofty candelabra.  Station

by station, ring by rung, the bell
drones Baselitz (b-flat)
inverting chasmic fiat
Everywombat’s hurtling medieval

eaglet dissemination
(Fiore Scandal – Foundling
Raptor for Swaddling –
Closed) perplexes simian

foundations.  Eye sore to grub.
A peacock circumference
fans incoherence,
welds magnitudes into one cherub –

angel, messiah... ghost dance
figure for yearning.
Navvy Jonah musta fling
her sweet life-saver (mickle glance).

1.7.17

12.15.2016

Janus-Faced Henryism


In my Janus-faced post of yesterday ("poetry is/is not a psychological double-bind"), I did not quite express the whole of the elusive notion which triggered the initial commentary.  Let me see if I can briefly get there now.

The notion itself was about doubleness : a sense that some kind of detachment or critical awareness is integral to creative art forms - including poetry - and the art-experience itself.

Pasternak once characterized Mandelstam's appearance on the Russian literary scene thus : "you entered a conversation which had already begun."  Many the poet & theorist (Plato, Lacan, Levinas come to mind) have emphasized the dialogic nature of poetry (and consciousness generally).  But the notion is perhaps idealized to some extent.  If art is a dialogue, it seems somewhat one-sided.  One partner speaks, the other listens.  One is expressive, the other is mute.  One is conscious, deliberate, rational - the other subconscious, intuitive, ineffable.  One is assertive, the other receptive.  Yin, yang.  The two halves of creation and reception play a subtle chess game : poets acknowledge dreams, intuition, inspiration, negative capability, or the Muse as the true source of their rational articulations, bringing into question : who is really speaking here?  Who listening?

Then the poet and reader (audience) replicate this original duality - another mirror of doubleness.  The poet recites; the reader listens, responds - is bored, is moved; is misled, is enlightened; is offended, is pleased...

And then, finally, the poet is also the reader.  New poetry grows from old poetry, as the complex emotional-intellectual receptors of the poet respond to achieved works of the past (impossible to overstate the chasm which lies between the poet giving birth to a new, as-yet unknown work of art, and the examples of finished poems, which represent the poet's benchmarks, models, and obstacles).

Moreover, the poet is famously characterized (Keats' negative capability) as the embodiment of receptivity : he or she "reads" not only prior literature and rival poets, but the "signs" emanating from nature and experience as a whole.

The sketch or pattern of the field we are presenting here - this notion of "detachment" as integral to creative expression - begins to appear less like a standard opposition between "poet & critic", or "intuition and intellect", and more like a dimension of aesthetic experience as a whole.

Which raises, in my mind, the question of value.  Taste, critical judgement, tradition : perhaps these are both tacit and fundamental to an era's literary culture.  What do I mean by this?  How does this follow from the previous?  I mean that if tacit reception is one half of art & poetry, as a dialogic duality, then there is more to poetic making than a simple 1-2 process of "create-disseminate".  Reception becomes a kind of fertile, intangible ground or atmosphere within which actual poems manifest.

American culture idealizes immediacy, production, re-invention.  "Make it new" becomes the paradigmatic shibboleth for the sales appeal of the stylish rebel, for the idealization of change per se.  It's a linear, one-way process.  Success = succession.  I think what I am proposing, indirectly, is a challenge to this standard arrangement.

The poem on the page is a kind of message in a bottle.  Sheer potentiality - nothing until it is found and opened and received and evaluated.  And the message itself may be in code; it may be meaningless until you find it out, you give it meaning.  It may also be allegorical - in disguise.  The obvious, the overt message may be meaningless in itself.  The poem lives in another dimension - a quintessence, a 5th element, active only in tacit reception.  The poem is, at heart, a riddle.

I guess I would like to imagine a somewhat different American poetic culture than the one we have at present.  There seems to be a kind of short-circuit driving the current machinery, which goes something like creation-dissemination-publicity-fame-awards-prestige.  What's left out here is the tacit "(reception)" bracketing both sides of the term "creation".  Maybe a healthier, simpler template for poetic culture would go something like this : (reception)-creation-(reception)-publication-(reception).  This model is not driven by ambition, professional interests, & prestige, by ulterior goals and motives.  If I were able to, I would display the latter, (reception) model as a circle.

bookstalls in Paris