Archive for the ‘Ladonian Magnitudes’ Tag

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.

Ye good old days

A friend brought to mind today his meeting a now-mutual friend, musician Zsolt Sőrés. I Trabant_P_601_S,_Bj._1986_(Foto_Sp_2016-06-05)had the luck to collaborate with Sőrés and his co-musician Zsolt Kovacs in Budapest, an aspect of which is memorialized in the first part of the poem I share below, from Ladonian Magnitudes. (As usual, the formatting here messes up the lineation: the original is written in tercets).

 

Pisces

“If our child is born in February or March it will be a Fish.”

 

Laszlo told us Tibor’d invited us to either his place or The Fish Restaurant

& Laszlo consistent with our unanimous consensus told him The Fish Restaurant

which miffed him a little but then why offer us the choice?—“You don’t do that!”

 

Besides he has a Stammtisch there

there’s always a table for him

“Of course, sir, just this way!”

 

So that day Kovács is supposed to arrive around five to record “Trabant” on DAT in his Trabant

because Tuesday after a solid three quarters of a litre of Tokaj, some beers before, innumerable Unicums, and even a little hash? then two big double vodkas

after the rehearsal for Wednesday night I spouted Marinneti glossolalia driving back to Laszlo’s in Kovàcs’s Trabant no one could stop me

 

So we went to the Tokaj bar Laszlo and I where they ladled half a deci of sweet and half a deci of dry into a glass for each of us drunk down in one go for the effect of a double martini

Then back up to Laszlo’s for a little more hash, no beer! vodka palinka Unicum whiskey two generic Gravol

Kovács an hour and a half late so I’m lying on the front balcony when the Two Zsolts arrive

 

Petra tells me she and Laszlo looked at each other knowingly as I swayed pale out the door

I remember raving the way I did the night before and arriving at The Fish Restaurant by surprise before seven

Sitting with Tibor and Laszlo who looked at each other and in Hungarian agreed I couldn’t eat with them

 

Ordering me a mineral water and putting me out on the balcony

Where I got up telling Petra I just need some air

And wander out into Buda’s streets looking for a bench

 

I remember Petra coming up and seeing how I was sitting tilting back and forth on a little wall over the Duna

The taxi arriving and Petra and Laszlo helping me up supporting me on each arm the taxi driver saying “Later.”

“Get up before they call the police!”

 

“Should I get an ambulance?”—“No, no, he’s just had too much to drink.”

And Kovács coming in his Trabant, me reeling beside him

Rolling down the window on the way and puking a great orange arc

 

Kovács tells me it was as if as he made the U-turn in front of The Fish Restaurant

everything I’d drunk sloshed out

One waiter pointed “Look! He’s doing it again!”

 


 

From Bremervörde we drove north to Otterndorf at the Elbe’s mouth

In the sun Matjes with raw onion on a bun and a plate of crispy gold Pommes with a big dab of mayonnaise

On the picnic table outside the strand café landside of the dike

 

Seaside a briny brown tide covered the sand and washed up cold over and drained through honeycombed red bricks enforcing the shore we walked on

Two black-suited windsurfers rode out fast crazy as the two boys splashing in the swimming pond just left of lunch

The sky painterly with grey-rain and sun-bleached clouds framing low sea daisy yellow mist and high blue

 

The Gasthaus we aimed at for an early supper closed so we drove in to Otterndorf

Brick houses cool sienna tomato rusted in early dusk

Even cobbled clean streets narrow as in Hamburg or Holland

 

A sample of Italian absinth and a flask of Grobmuter’s Apfelsaft in a gift shop just around the corner from the Ratskellar—“Danke, Mutti!” (Danke, Renate, for the absinthe spoon!)

A Norwegian acquavit before a litre of German beer and three rich Matjes filets Hausfrauen Art with a creamy apple onion celery relish and Bratkartoffeln punctuated by a bitter

A soft chocolate-dipped Eis eaten up quickly melting out the bottom of the cone

 

The way back musculature uncomfortable on bone-rack, aching joints, and threatening cramps

In bed sweat wet uncontrollable shivers chatter teeth and fingertips tingle numb

Every joint sore unable to lie still three seconds

 

Eyes rolling in a reeling lolling head

Delirious poetic prayers to Apollo in the name of his son Asclepius to shake from a leafy laurel branch drops blessed by Morpheus to cool my head and just let me sleep

Finally making myself puke three times about three in the morning

“…where lives the virtue of poetry…”

Yesterday, Canada’s Chris Banks baldly posed the question to his Facebook friends “What is authentic poetry?”. I (mis)remembered, after my own initial contributions to winding or snarling the ensuing thread, I had written a poem that addressed at least “the virtue of all authentic thinking” (and I’m hardly the first to imagine or suggest that poetry can be a kind of thinking). I post that poem, below.

It was written at the same time as the poem that opens Ladonian Magnitudes, “topos tropos typos’ (a confession”, itself composed before even my first trade edition, Grand Gnostic Central. It’s title is a quotation from Charles Olson. Whether it is possessed of any qualities that might be construed as “authentic” I leave to the judgement of the reader. For my part, I cite again, as I did first in yesterday’s thread, Novalis, from his Fragments and Studies 1799-1800, #671:  Schwer schon ist zu entscheiden, doch einzig mögliche Entscheidung, ob etwas Poesie sei oder nicht”:  It’s already difficult to decide, but it’s the only decision possible, whether something is poetry or not.

 

“Unreal, that is, to the real itself”

 

where lives the virtue of poetry

and all thinking free

of the tyranny of the real

 

in perceiving the real

flow, elementally

fluid, hence watery

 

form forms

breath

seen in Winter

 

as slippery

hard and cold

as ice to the head

cracked

 

as the sea, unfathomable

God as Melville says

pondering

from the masthead

 

a shriek above

the water

 

a shriek

above the water

 

the same

“Apart Twelve Weeks, Together in Three” / «Séparés douze semaines, ensemble dans trois»

“Apart Twelve Weeks, Together in Three” / «Séparés douze semaines, ensemble dans trois»

Antoine Malette does me a great favour, translating a poem from Ladonian Magnitudes into French, and even sounding it out. Un grand merci!

Three poems in German translation

Three poems in German translation

Karawa.net has kindly published three poems from Grand Gnostic Central  in careful, meticulous German translation by Petra Sentes, with the English-language originals.

Poem for Humpday

Argo Books, MontrealNeed a poetic boost to get you on through to the other side of the week? Argo Books in Montreal thinks so, too, so they were kind enough to post a poem from Ladonian Magnitudes on their website!

Soughknot: The University

A nearly twelve-year-old poem reread by chance:  plus ça change…

The University,
medieval. Institutions
for hire, earnings.

Management,
archonic,
anarchic

, i.e.,  colleges and universities to perform
a function for tha plutocracy’s technocracy
, i.e., the formation of technicians in real time.

There won’t be monied enough
to send their kids to prep school?

(16:47 Montreal Tuesday 31 August 2004; Ladonian Magnitudes, 2006)