Showing posts with label Lacan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lacan. Show all posts

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

6.24.2016

Ode to the Two Panama Canals


ADVISORY TO SHIPPING

                “Gatun Lake’s level is currently at 81.75 feet, the lowest
                  on record for this time of the year,” the advisory said.
                                                              – New York Times

“For Man, Lacan explains, a nap is a Plan,”
declaimed le Docteur, smiling through his mouth-
toupée.  Martinelli fidgeted; he frowned.
“But an Alp is not a Map,” le Docteur (retrieving
his bone) barked, pleasantly.  “Lacan, Lacan!”
Martinelli complained – “Enough fitful conceiving!
We have no Alps in Panama!  This is South
America!”  The doctor’s office drowned
in sunset crimson (penthouse easy chair, divan).

Stumps of cypress peeked from Gatun Lake.
Rainfall was low; the people’s lips were dry.
In Panama City, Authority was out of town.
Tugs waddled tentatively through the locks,
testing the new routines.  “The Bohemian Rake
is proving useful in emergencies – shocks
to the system are to be expected” (wry
humor from our seasoned pilots).  Drown
Your Sorrows @GuppyCabana!  Salt Milkshake?

The new neo-Panamax behemoths
struggle on the uphill climb.  Old boats
were designed for any weather; these lunks
were built to be actually larger than the ocean.
It can make for difficulties.  National cloths
(flags) end up bumping into low-flying wren;
sailors die of old age crossing from floats
to bunks; giant ship fright syndrome (GSFS)
– a mode of Lacanian paramania-sloth 

mothballs many experienced seamen, before
they are even old enough to Man Overboard.
Just today, a Chinese super-blob christened
Large Ship (Tortugan colors) scraped itself
so bald on the starboard knee as to require
a complete soap-down (Polish Every Shelf!)
and as of today, two weeks later, a hoard
of destructions keeps its crew from Darien
for another week (at least until today).  Scare

stories like these spook international investors.
They collect in London, near Waterloo Station,
& count the oil bubbles that collect like flies
around the rainbows of the bubbles in the oil
that collects like gas bubbles from a Morse
Code info engine (old-fashioned tinfoil
type w/pink elephant-cake, called Mammon
– used in films such as Oil Bubble Rainbows,
starring Omar Sharif).  “Lacan – he bores

me!” complained Martinelli.  “I need stuff!”
His dream-flock of advisors waited, meek
as a collection of hubcaps, shining badly
in their eerie suite.  “We have the money,
your Excellency,” offered Twinglit, bluff
as ever, like the Wet Cliffs of Dover, knee
by jowl with his owlish advisor, Scuttley
Shipley of Scotland.  “What’s wrong, honey?”
inquired his wife, Toeniall Delendo-Muff.

“Is the yacht okay?”  Bobs her bouffant
toward the windswept film poster, from
Cuernavaca.  Under the shadow of the Liner
(Queen Elizabeth of Bath XIV) she files
herself into a small pile of clippings (faint
headlines featuring her husband as Crocodile’s
Crumbcake) and begins to tidy up some
leftovers from the funeral (this was her
finest hour, not Martinelli’s).  Old Paint

was the name of her favorite pony; the whole
City of Panama loved that showhorse filly
like their own flanks.  You could pour concrete
around all four of her dainty hooves
and she would still outrun every international
vessel you could flip her way, because
the concrete we bought was an absolutely
incredible feat of quadruple-booking, complete
with sub-microscopic fractures (intentional)

which will allow Toniall’s beloved steed
to trot alongside even the magnum monsters
of the deep with no fear of plunging suddenly
due to earthquake or stock quirk through
muddy lips of Gatun Lake – Life’s high meed
being nothing to the Bible (many tickle you
for fun, but sin be not in our thesaurus).
Camels will thread needles, Martinelli –
but not you Pacific.  Try Panama weed.

6.23.16


*Note : this poem occurred after collision with an article by Walt Bogdanich, Jacqueline Williams and Graciela Méndez, which appeared in the New York Times on Thursday June 23, 2016.