September 13 Synchronicity

For me,  September 11 is often shadowed (if not overshadowed) by the Dawson College shooting of 2006, which (as a teacher there) I witnessed, from a fortunate, safe distance.

Today, however, reflecting on the work, I opened Ladonian Magnitudes by chance to the poem “Epistle to Zsolti”, a versified missive to my friend, Hungarian sound artist Zsolt Sőrés. The letter, as much as it overtly expresses a desire to correspond and communicate with a distant friend, as a poem, has other motivations, one of which was remarked by the “Gefin” in the poem (Hungarian-language poet Kemenes Géfin László, a close friend at the time), namely, the death of another friend, writer Daniel Philip Brack (DPB), September 13.

DPB reads

In acknowledgement of this manifold synchronicity, and in warm memory of DPB and the other friends in the poem, and the attachment that motivated it in the first place, I share it here.

 

Epistle to Zsolti

 

been on a Tom Waits

immersion course

for weeks now

buying him all up

latest and lastest

new or used

listening to just one new song

a day

carefully

these days Foreign Affairs 1977

like Blue Velvet’s soundtrack

reminiscent of Cronenberg’s Naked Lunch

 even a couple of “One-eyed Jack’s” in the lyrics:

our cinematic interests

our show’s DAT I’m so eager to hear

because of a heightened self-consciousness about Performance

teaching again now two weeks

Primal Shamanic poetry and poetics

that is “magical”, “sacralizing”, “holy-ing” “aestheticizing”, “estranging” language-act

& “The Truth is Out Where?! Exploring the Unexplained”

eager to get you a draft of our interview (!)

write up a short article on why my favourite books today are Hungarian,

namely yours and Gefin’s

Poems for Jolanta urged me

around high noon today

to likewise edit the literary remains of dear departed DPB

Yes! He in the Budapest Suites

hopfrogging with me a parodic waltz

through that night empty streetcar subway hub under intersection of those big utcas

loud and lively red eyed Bacchic old electric blue shark skin suit skinny black tie 50s grey hat

who one Friday

September 13

overdosed OD’d

in San Francisco LA

right out of rehab

he who made

our furious correspondence

into spontaneous pseudonymous

“heteronyms” like Pessoa’s?

Kierkegaardian personae?

serial surreal literary works

whose literary remains

but for one

now lost?

novel on old 5-inch floppy

now my care

hardly able to pick them up

for grief

for guilt

the years since

so really should get together with Cronenbergian croney and computer design wiz and get to it

Did I ever send you photos of the Trabante?

Hold-ups began on our return in July

when installing Flashcard reader jammed access to my Office Suite

& December saw the whole house of cards come crashing down

Just when the Raelians announced they’d cloned a human being

& BBC Radio 4 Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung feuillton Times Higher Education Supplement all wanted my opinion

now I’m waiting for the cheques and checking my expectations that something poetic might come out of it

Sleeping, eating,

& now working

are all I’ve been able to do since December 3

But now apparently energetic enough to send out some feelers

which seems appropriate for someone who aspires to be

the antennae of the race

 

 

Corpus Sample: Materializations II: “Gloze”

Last week’s “materialization” sought to concretize the language by collaging snippets of decontextualized conversation. This week’s tightens the knot, making “the language speak” about the language itself.

The philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein is remembered for remarking that “meaning is use.” Taking this maxim literally, I collaged together examples of every use of the word ‘gloze’ drawn from the examples supplied by the Oxford English dictionary under the word’s entry. The word is thereby lexically if not semantically “emptied out” in a cubist fashion, putting Wittgenstein’s contention to an ironic test. The poem is further self-reflexive, because the word means to glare or inspect closely; therefore, the title can be taken to be the imperative tense, instructing the reader to gloze, gloss (another meaning), or otherwise attend to the word itself. The word has the added bonus, aside from its polysemy, of being a pun on the plural of the substantive ‘glow’ and the third person singular conjugation of the verb ‘to glow’ among other things. Attentive readers will also note the poem is a chance fourteen lines….

Though this compositional procedure held promise, I exploited it only two more times, to write the poem “Gnarled Box” (along with “Gloze” included in Grand Gnostic Central) and a longer, much more complex, intertextual work that develops a passage from Lautreamont’s Poesies fittingly entitled “Poesies”.

‘Gloze’ is also the name of the first, self-published chapbook, that served as my calling card in Germany during my first European tour in 1996. And, like “Elenium” it inspired a videopoem by Ty “Jake the Dog” Hochban, viewable after the poem.

Gloze

 

Gloze

 

No more men maye glosen withouten text

Than bylde materles.  With fals talkyng

Many gloses are made.  With Retorike,

Ne glosed eloquence, some to opteyn

Favour will flatter and glose, with new Glozes

Tainte the Text, and vnto you a fayned

Tale will gloze.  Give a good glose from thy strain’d

Goggle eye, peep from the watry Humour,

And glow upon any word you may gloze,

The parasite glozes with sweet speeches,

With the tongue of flattery glozing deeds,

Known only to those who have glozed over

An illusory glozing of light dismally

Glimmering, glosing with the glory of day.

 

 

 

Corpus Sample: Materializations I: “Elenium”

elenium

Ironically, at a time when text is at its most material (as something to be cut and pasted, or mindlessly composed or translated by software) it is at the same time most invisible, the sign a mere window onto its meaning, disposable as a paper coffee cup once the latté is finished. Poets have, understandably, especially in recent decades, worked against this trend.

“Elenium” (aside from the elusiveness of its title) slows down the too-ready consumption of the language by complicating its logic. The poem collages overheard bits of conversation without any indication of which words belong to which speakers or even how many speakers there are. However old (and it is very old) this device is, it caused no little consternation to the most vociferous of the reviewers of Ladonian Magnitudes (see the “Product Description” at the book’s page at Amazon.ca) from which this poem is taken.

Happily, the poem inspired a video interpretation (by Ty “Jake the Dog” Hochban), viewable after the poem itself.

 

Elenium

The isle is full of voices

 

a tiny little yellow oval pill

Judy Garland ravaged by her phantoms

it’ll all be alright

 

they’re all pretty full—one’s puffed up

hashish, port, and In Memoriam

we must have some music, some more to drink

 

and then we are ready for “Shades of Callimachus…”

late night calls for coke are disturbing and boring

I always bring him something from Holland

 

what have we done yet? —I can see

the flower in the bud—and she is a bud!

let’s remember hysteria was thought to be a migrating uterus

 

you having sex would never look good

a colony mongrel hand-me-down genes

yet eyes are the guides of love still

 

that must have given you a twitch or two

with the Xanax I don’t feel like I need a cigarette

though you wouldn’t say you have beaten out your exile

 

 

 

Corpus Sample: “A Visitor from Jerry-Land”

Last week I shared a poem a little more complex and elusive than what I’m wont to compose of late. Whatever difficulty it presented was more logical than anything.

However, a more persistent concern with no less complex consequences for that linguistic art whose medium is essentially public has been a struggle with how to maintain individuality in the face of all the forces that would liquidate it. During my undergraduate studies, “the Death of the Subject” was a hot topic. Today, the Subject is, again, dissolved in various identities, whether gender, race, class, or something other, or, even more gravely, as mere data, profiling a pattern of consumption.

singularity

 

In this poem, from Ladonian Magnitudes, that most public of things, language and text, is folded around the singularity of intertextuality and personal allusion to create a space for individual thought and, paradoxically, dialogue and expression. “A Visitor from Jerry-Land” answers an unpublished poem by the dedicatee (though included as an appendix to Ladonian Magnitudes). To further complicate things, its field of reference is unapologetically personal. Nevertheless, in this nearly hermetic space, it remains possible to engage urgent poetical, ethical, political, and existential matters at the site where they all in fact come into play, the individual person.

 

A Visitor from Jerry-Land

to Daniel O’Leary

“The makar must a wanderer be”

 

The chance

97% in my favour,

as even the hooligans

who stoned blind

Homer knew,

is the nether lands’

weather is variable

as the garden’s flowers’ colours’

pleasures under its lights.

 

Sloth, sallow, must swallow

its name’s root’s in Sanskrit

He-Who-Causes-To-Fail

 

Ferret out and squirrel away

what you can quoth

Master Ant smugly

even before his widescreen TV

where the Albanians’ Lada

is shot to shit and first one

on the scene’s no medic but

a cameraman focussed

on the slumped driver

his passenger’s shock-eyed begging.

 

The gravy, this meat’s juices

heat-pressed by kinetic attention.

We drove here in a Peugeot,

right away downed two Stoli shots,

and now, hours later, one makes

it up as he cooks supper while

the other scribbles his version

at the dining table. The sheer volume

of spirits swallowed and inspiring here

prevent the endless end of ill-fare.—

 

Look: the light waxes every morning

and night argues its obfuscations so

we might see its numbers plain.

In this light

an 18th century volume

of Juvenal with French crib

beside the new reading-chair upstairs

aside the modern English

concurs.

Corpus Sample: “After a Legend of the Prior of Urfort”

My stylistic trend of recent years has been asymptoting to a “poetry degree zero”, a language stripped of overt figuration or texture, relying, instead, on metonymy, allusion, and, what in classical rhetoric might be termed, arrangement. But recently I’ve been hankering for a more complex poetry, not unlike some of that included in my first trade edition Grand Gnostic Central and other poems (1998).

One poem there that embodies what I have in mind is a slightly cheeky retelling of a story about the medieval German mystic, Meister Eckhart, awhile the Prior of Erfort. Eckhart is referred to only paraphrastically, and the spelling of Erfort is modified, as well, for, well, poetic reasons. Whether the poem achieves the sophistication of thought and expression it aspires to I leave, of course, to the reader.

Too, thematically, it touches on the concerns addressed in my last Corpus Sample, since, one way humankind has traditionally attempted to tame the chaos of the wild ride of being alive is to impose a mythic pattern or order, as we’re told the Prior of Urfort seems to, here.

mystic

 

After a Legend of the Prior of Urfort

 

No soul

Has effect

But by the body held

 

What you know

What two no one can hold

Weave in a scuffle

 

These

The plottings

The subtle wishes

 

Sung by one

An inbred family

On a mountain top

 

These in one

Divine

He said

Why the title, “Bread & Pearls”?

It has some pleasant affinities with the title of Roland Barthes’ magisterial study S/Z.

The conjoined substantives are, first, singular and plural. The initial phonemes of each are in opposition:  /b/ voiced, /p/ unvoiced. Orthographically, the consonant-vowel pattern ‘r-ea’ in ‘bread’ is reversed in ‘pearls’, ‘ea-r’. Like the initial consonants, the more-or-less terminal consonants of the pair seem to me again in phonological opposition: both /d/ and /l/ are formed by placing the tongue-tip to the palate, but the former releases the flow of breath, removing the tongue from the palate, while the latter does not.

Semantically, in one regard, the first substantive denotes something edible, while the latter does not; bread is artificial, while pearls are natural (if susceptible to being cultured); however, one sense of ‘bread’ (money) makes both terms media of exchange. The substantives allude, too, to two bible verses not without a certain rhetorical significance.

Much more, of course, could be said….

Avant le deluge…Rising up against that sinking feeling

sinking feeling

A bitter example of how vested interests (William Burroughs named them “the Nova Mob”) pervert reason, choke compassion, and stymie sane responses to global warming played itself out at this year’s Pacific Island Forum. Australian Prime Minister, Scott Morrison, refused to endorse the Tuvalu Declaration proposed by the Smaller Island States group, “which acknowledges a climate change crisis, encourages countries to revise the emissions reductions targets and calls for a rapid phase out of coal use.”

“I am accountable to the Australian people, that’s who I’m accountable for,” Mr Morrison said.

Tuilaepa-Sailele

Tuilaepa Sailelethe

Not a year ago, Tuilaepa Sailelethe prime minister of Samoa, delivered a speech in Sydney, Australia, 30 August 2018, wherein he said that “Any leader … who believes that there is no climate change I think he ought to be taken to mental confinement, he is utter[ly] stupid and I say the same thing for any leader here who says there is no climate change.”

By serendipity (if not synchronicity), the year the world was supposed to end (2012), I composed a chance, fourteen-line poem in harmony with Sailelethe’s sentiments. I’m not sure it’s much of a poem per se, unless a linguistic expression that fuses topical pertinence, heart, and complex irony is enough.

 

“BE IT RESOLVED…”

 

BE IT RESOLVED that

whereas public officials

who deny the reality

 

of Anthropogenic Climate Change

and hinder efforts to mitigate

its destructive effects present

 

a clear and present danger

to themselves and others,

said public officials should be

 

removed from office forthwith

and placed under a physician’s care

until such time as their suicidal

 

and/or homicidal and/or ecocidal

tendencies cease to present.

 

Corpus Sample: Grappling with the Heraclitean Tao: “At Red River’s Edge” and “Tonight, the world is simple and plain…”

Sometimes, whether sincerely or out of hubris, one comes to believe they’ve got a grip on things, and so it seemed, more or less, to me. But, recently, reading Baudrillard’s Symbolic Exchange and Death and an overview of the late Mark Fisher’s life and work, reflecting how, when I was around ten years old, the world was being maneuvered into its (apparent) Neoliberal (dis)order (a view of things probably already belated) and beginning a perceptible acceleration into what has come to be called the Anthropocene, I feel, now, there is nowhere to stand, nowhere at a standstill, that vertigo and fear just under the heart that starts at a sudden drop.

Of course, unknowingly, I’d grappled with these matters before. “At Red River’s Εdge”, the first poem of my first book (Grand Gnostic Central) attempts to resolve, with all the virtues and vices of a youthful work, this nigh metaphysical  flow of things (or, as I thought of it at the time, “dissemination”), while the last poem of the book (“Tonight, the world is simple and plain…”), it appears to me now, approaches the same concern, but from a different angle.

IMG_3184

 

At Red River’s Edge

 

I shed scales and

blood the slow water

at the river’s edge, the fish

gutted on some warming rock.

A wondering after

origins and wellsprings

rises with my standing

and squinting into the glare

of light broken upstream

at my vision’s limit.

What source spills

up this river?—

numberless puddles brimming

over as rain falls

to fill them, clear

water writhing

over slick dark rock

too hard to carve

a lasting path in,

waves of rainwater

draining in rippling sheets

off flat rock walling

a gleaming highway,

or running in rivulets

charging a careening stream

from a sudden height

in an opening spray of sparks

that scatter against one

mountain’s steep

lower rises. Upward,

glaciers moan and turn

themselves to fluid under

their own weight

for the sake of motion.

Lighter ice and snow

drop, overheavy

overhang, giving

the glitter of crystals

to the lift of winds

and the long swerve of descent

to dew on darting speargrass

leaves or on the grains

of the smallest antmounds

mining the glint

of sand mixed in the topmost soil

of swelling foothills.

Clouds shadow the climb

of rock, condensing

and losing themselves

in the strain

to come to nothing

but clearest light.

Everywhere, countless sources urge

one flow that fills

perfectly any particular

gap in every ground

in its scrambling run

to that ease of gravity

proper to the sea.  This river

one route before me

and beyond me on

either side, never ebbing,

only ever changing course

to another.  I follow

some black bark carried free

on flashing rises of the current,

sometimes edging a shore, sometimes stilled

in the turning of

a darker random

swirl, but always

spiraling out again

to give with the slow measure

of the ocean’s deepest founding swells

or float on the light

lift of waves

and the chance of the wind

into some child’s quick

excitement in the seadrift.

 

“Tonight, the world is simple and plain….”

 

Tonight, the world is simple and plain.

The earth is round and the sky two domes

Enclosing us, excluding nothing.

 

The stars are all arranged in such a way

As to suggest an endless emptiness

Or heavens full of foreign deities.

 

And choosing to choose neither we lose

Ourselves, desiring only an end

To this plane enclosed around itself

 

That keeps us coming to ourselves again.

 

sk night sky

Corpus Sample: “Hamburger Smalltalk”

While I was trying to imagine a set list for my last reading, I had thought to perform poems that, though written in the early 90s, spoke to today’s world situation. One of these would surely have been the following poem, “Hamburger Smalltalk”, composed in 1991 and later collected in Grand Gnostic Central and other poems.

One of the stops during my first visit to Europe was Hamburg, Germany, where we stayed a few days with a couple, friends of my partner at the time. One was widely travelled and had lived some time in Africa. During a very pleasant, evening walk, with our respective partners and the dog, he related the anecdote the poem retells. Accordingly, the poem is spoken in his voice, complete with Germanisms of syntax and expression.

 

Hamburger Smalltalk

 

You’ve seen a picture of a cheetah

on a gazelle:  its teeth in its neck

bent back, its leg

around the gazelle’s hind leg

to break its back.

 

Cheetahs are a serious nuisance

for farmers in southwest Africa.  Lions

and other cats kill what they need

and leave something

for the jackals and vultures.

 

A cheetah goes into blood-frenzies—

if you have a herd of sheep

in the morning you’ll find forty

torn apart and maybe seven lambs

carried off.

 

The farmers know their herds

they watch and know which cows are ready

to calve and if a calf goes missing

they mark the mother

and send her next to the abattoir.

 

Now you’ll see five cows gang up

on a cheetah to protect the calves

and drive it off.

(He shook his head and chuckled)

The white tribe of Africa.

 

BSAC_settlers_Southern_Rhodesia

New on the Video Page: Accent Poetry series 29 July 2019

New on the Video Page!

Thanks to Devon Gallant for the invite; and a pleasure to have read with that evening’s other featured reader, Derek Webster.

As I have the creative metabolism of a pop star (i.e., roughly a dozen new poems a year), new volumes of work are slow to appear. Four of the seven poems I perform here are therefore “new”.

Play list:
1. Budapest Suites I (from Grand Gnostic Central)
2.”European Decadence in medias res” (from Ladonian Magnitudes)
3. Hamburg & Kassel sections from “Made in Germany”
4. Toronto Suite
5. “By Mullet River”
6. “Flying Saucers” (from Grand Gnostic Central)
7. “A sonnet is a moment’s &c.”

R&Ra