Archive for November, 2009

Entry 19 — Poems & Rotation Words

Friday, November 20th, 2009

In #625, I had a version of the following:

Poem’s Environmental Activism

Poem consistently declines all invitations to
write poetry against the destruction of
the environment, reconginzing
that no politician or voter
genuinely desires a world
less than 98% of which
is squared off
into residences, crops and industry highwayed eff
ficiantly together and (perhaps)
lightly peripheried with 100% undangerous
“recreational” areas. To launch
peotyr
against their attitude
is futile. Always,
ytorep
will, to the extent that it is
ytxorepz,
befuddle or anger (without profit)
politicians and voters–
and everybody else who does not
already side with
euxartnz
beyond any need of persuasion
against its extirpation.

I value this mainly because it’s one of the world’s
few cryptographic poems. After another of my
environmental poems in #626, I had a poem from
way back in scorn of American theatre, for so l
ong scorning me, but accurate nonetheless.

The American Drama

on the hillside
sparrows dart
from one dry clump
of tight-leaved scrub oaks
to another,
glittering for an instant
under a huge
unentered sky

#628 featured a short excerpt from one of my plays,
then came this, which is a fairly complete list of
the “rotation word” in English, a rotation word
being a word that can be transformed into a second
word by replacing each of its letters with the
letter coming after it in the alphabet.

ad -> be
add -> bee
admi -> benj
admix -> benjy
aha -> bib
ahint -> bijou
an -> bo
ana -> bob
ana -> bob
anan -> bobo
ann -> boo
ann -> boo
anna -> boob
anna -> boob
at -> bu
ata -> bub
aten -> bufo
atka -> bulb
ax -> by
azo -> bap
cha -> dib
char -> dibs
chlor -> dimps
cho -> dip
chud -> dive
dand -> eboe
dodd -> epee
dud -> eve
ed -> fe
edh -> fei
eh -> fi
en -> fo
end -> foe
ens -> fot
eta -> fub
han -> ibo
he -> if
hin -> ijo
in -> jo
ind -> joe
inks -> jolt
it -> ju
its -> jut
khu -> liv
mho -> nip
ne -> of
nee -> off
nod -> ope
odd -> pee
ods -> pet
odz -> pea
oh -> pi
ohm -> pin
oho -> pip
on -> po
ona -> pob
ona -> pob
ons -> pot
oto -> pup
rho -> sip
rox -> spy
sh -> ti
sha -> tib
shee -> tiff
sho -> tip
shod -> tipe
snee -> toff
snod -> tope
snog -> toph
snork -> topsl
st -> tu
tch -> udi
to -> up
ton -> upo
tst -> utu
uds -> vet
ut -> vu
yn -> zo
za -> ab
zad -> abe
zan -> abo
zat -> abu
zax -> aby

My favorite is “inks/jolt.” This group
of ten entries ended with some comments
about a hurricane threatening the area.
It missed us.

Entry 18 — More Comments on Old Blog Entries

Thursday, November 19th, 2009

In #622, #623 and #624 I apparently had little to say so presented a few snippets of autobiography–and the following poems done for jwcurry, some of them possibly in collaboration with him calling himself Wharton Hood:


.                               peeling out of
.                               a bullet’s stipend

.

.                                her skirt
.                                crows
.                                skhert splhurt

.


.                                cats sleep the sky here

.

.                                flowers strip
.                                footsteps
.                                to the moon

.


.                                 pond

.                                 dusk

.                                 Pan’s thoughts
.                                 appled in place

.

.                                 eyesigh pray supherSkIrT

.

.                                 miles of 3. a.m.
.                                 after the
.                                 haik

.

And that’s all for now, for i”m deep in another null zone.

Entry 17 — Knowlecular Poetics, Part 1

Wednesday, November 18th, 2009

Today, #621 in its entirety because I’m too tapped out to do anything more:

14 October 2005: Eventually, neurophysiology will be the basis of all theories of poetics. My own central (unoriginal) belief that metaphor is at the center of (almost) all the best poetry is neurophysiological, finally, for it assumes that the best poems happen in two (or more) separate brain areas, one activated by an equaphor (or metaphor or metaphor-like text), the other (or others) by the equaphor’s referents. Manywhere-at-Once. Neurophysi-ologists may even now be able to test this idea–although not with much finesse. Their instruments are too crude to determine anything definitively, but could certainly determine enough to be suggestively for or against my idea.

I believe, by the way, that the few good non-equa-phorical poems get most of their punch due to their evasion of metaphor. That is, those experiencing them get pleasure from the unexpected absence of metaphor or nything approximating mataphor. It may even be that such poems cause those experiencing to experience anywhere-at-Once by activating two separate brain areas–one of them empty! (A kind of “praecisio” for Geof Huth to consider.) The pay-off would be a feeling of image-as-sufficient-in-itself.Be that as it may, I brought this subject up–well, I brought it up because I couldn’t think of anything else to discuss today. But I wanted to begin considering visual poetry neurophysiologically, something I haven’t before, that I know of. Recently, I’ve been trying, in particular, to distinguish visual poetry from illustrated poetry in terms of my knowlecular psychology, which is entirely neurophysiological (although the neuorophysiology is hypothetical). I’ve been having trouble. I believe I have a beginning, though. It is that an illustrated poem, like some of William Blake’s, put a person experiencing them in a verbal area of his mind first, and then into a visual area of his mind. The text activates his verbal area, the illustration his visual area–at about the same time that his verbal area activates some of the cells in the portion of his visual area activated by the illustration. This results in a satisfying completion that enhances the pleasurable effect of the poem.

A classical visual poem–a poem, that is, that everyone would consider a visual poem–will put a person experiencing it in a verbal area of his mind and a visual area of his mind at the same time. Because the text and the illustration will be the same thing.

The activated visual area will cause (minor) pain, because not expected–that is, it will be due to textual elements used in unfamiliar ways, or graphic elements jammed into texts in unfamiliar ways. If successful, the poem’s verbal content will secondarily activate some of the cells in the portion of the subject’s visual area the visual elements did–to result in the same kind of saisfaction the illustrated poem resulted in, except faster (the precipitating experiences not being consecutive but simultaneous), and with more unfamiliarity resolved, a plus in my theory of aesthetics.

Apologies if all this seems dense. I’m feeling my way–and writing for myself more than for anyone else. I hope to find my way to clearer expression, eventually.

Apologies for the misplacement of the above text: I can’t figure out how to indent at this site.–Bob

Entry 16 — “Poem Encounters a Nigger Man”

Tuesday, November 17th, 2009

Is this poem racist?

.

.                               Poem Encounters a Nigger Man

.                               One day when Poem was aimlessly making
.                               his way through yet another text, he
.                               was suddenly accosted by
.                               a drunken nigger man, almost too indignant
.                               to be able to stand, who blamed him
.                               for the presence in the text of
.                               the phrase, “nigger man.”  Wanting to be alone
.                               with his thoughts, Poem merely growled that
.                               he had nothing to do with what was in
.                               the text, which wasn’t exactly true since
.                               Poem was clearly an alter ego
.                               of the text’s author.

.                                                                          When he
.                               tried to continue on his way, though,
.                               the nigger man persisted, blocking his attempts
.                               to escape him until Poem finally
.                               exploded, telling the Nigger man that the phrase
.                               belonged in the text, the text obviously
.                               being about the type of black man the phrase
.                               stood for and he exemplified.  Poem went on
.                               to lecture the nigger man about the stupidity
.                               of caring about the names people called you,
.                               then made a quick move to one side that freed
.                               him of the nigger man before the latter could
.                               start in on all the innocent African Americans
.                               that had been lynched.
.
.                                                                          The nigger man didn’t
.                               mind.  He had more whiskey, and it wasn’t
.                               long before the daylight, under
.                               its, and his harmonica’s influence,
.                               began no longer to seem
.                               nothing more than a day’s proper wage
.                               but something wonderful the next
.                               roll of the dice had a good chance of winning.

Entry 15 — Misto Peas

Monday, November 16th, 2009

One of the “tiny special stories” in Al Ackerman’s recent collection, Misto Peas, is called “The Pendulum of Truth”:

“I put my face in a cat and it coffed up sucked-in hairs.  So that was some of it.  And out on the lawn something was peering through the swami who’d been posing dead so lmany weeks that his body was beginning to develop rips.  The thing peering through the rips was mimicking Jerry’s Drive-in.  A kid pulled in who’d had too much wine and at first from the awful shade of his nearly purple face we thought he was going to throw up on his date.  But then he began to swing back and forth on the gear shift and we saw it was the pendulum of truth.”

Why is this so funny to me, and not to many others?  I think partly because I instantly recognize it as a parody of the thought processes of “normals”– matter-of-factly explaining their religion, for instance, taking it for granted they are making sense, never considering the possibility of alternative explanations–and getting away with it!  We connoisseurs of irrationality can make the connections, sparse and frail though they be, to the surreal and/or emotional sense they make.  It’s nonsense of the highest level, but different from Carroll’s in that its speaker doesn’t realize it, which makes it all the funnier.

Okay, my explanation is lousy.  Just groping for an explanation that works, and confident I can find one.

Ackerman’s book is avaliable from Luna Bisonte Prods, 137 Leland Avenue, Columbus OH 43214.  ISBN 1-892280-78-7.  Price: $9, ppd.

Entry 14 — Back to My Old Blog Entries

Sunday, November 15th, 2009

I remain blank in the brain, so will return to my old project of revisiting old blogs in hopes that will get me going again.  A check of my back-ups indicates I made my last entry to the old blog 27 October.  In it and the entry just before it, I reported on my last trip to the hospital.  My entry for 25 October was the last in which I discussed old entries, getting to #610.  So I will turn now to some fumbly work with letters I did in #611:

Letter-Blocks1These seem to me like they ought to be interesting but they don’t grab me, at all.  In #612, I reported that I’d gotten an e.mail from an old literary friend (and early buyer of A StrayngeBook), Fred Stokes.  A not-too-interesting entry on Me followed, then this, which I quote in full more to give an idea of where my head was at the time than because it says very much:

“7 October 2005: Or, to continue my musing of yesterday (about the effectiveness of my aging brain), maybe I’m just recycling ideas I’ve had for decades. Whether original for me or just recycling, I think my putting literature into four classes, narrature, anthroture, evocature and poetry was nutty. Just a momentary aberration, I hope. I have nothing against the over-all concept, however. Ergo, I am rephrasing it today in a single statement: Every poem has four zones of operation: (1) the sagaceptual (or narrative) zone, (2) the anthroceptual (or people-related) zone, (3) the protoceptual (or imagery-centered) zone and (4) the reducticeptual (or technique-focused) zone. What the poem does as a story, what it does as self-expression, what it does as an evocation of a scene or object, and what it does as a mechanism or (i.e., how its grammar works, what its form does, what–in the case of my mathemaku–its mathematics does, and so forth). Right now, I can think of no other operational zones it might have (but would not be at all surprised if it had others, even very obvious others).”

I should have mentioned that there’s no such thing, in my poetics, as an idea-centered poem.  That’s because a text primarily about an idea would not be a work of literature but of what I call “informrature,” the use of words in pursuit of some truth.  Ideas can be important in poems, as is the case with many of Wallace Stevens’s, but only for what they allow the poem to do as (usually) protoceptually.

#615 and #616 continue my discussion of zones with the addition of two new ones, one (the verbo-protceptual zone) for verbally-mediated sensory perceptions (as opposed to direct ones like the sound of the words used), and one (the verbo-reducticeptual zone) for the ideas or thought of a poem. I had scanted the latter because I believe any text with a significant amount of ideas disbarred from being a poem–it must be either advocature or informrature (i.e., propaganda or nonfiction). I now realize that all poems have ideas, however vague, and some them to a significant degree (although, I contend, never are they the most important elements in the poems).  So almost every poem will to some degree enter an idea-zone.

The center of interest in #617 was the zero-onset, which is the blank onset (or absense of consonant) that begins some syllables–as in “out,” or “or,” for instance.  Next I took up vowels that act as consonants the way the u in use does, and the o in “one.”   My last two entries in this set of ten have two versions of a mathemaku I was working on:

12Oct-A12Oct-BIt’s not quite there, but I think it has the potential to be Major.  The pond, it should be obvious, is a cousin of Basho’s.

Entry 13 — The Null Zone

Saturday, November 14th, 2009

The null zone–I’m in it again.  Not sure why, for my health is improving, and nothing else in my life is going particular wrong.  But I just can’t think of anything to write about here.  And I had two lines of a poem started last night in bed I can only remember the gist of the second line of.  Usually if I can remember that much, the rest comes back to me.  I also remember thinking of a topic to discuss two nights ago, but remembering only that it lead back to my ordaining that there are two kinds of aesthetic pleasure, narrative or sagaceptual aesthetic pleasure and sensual or protoceptual pleasure.

Oh, well, I did get something done that may prove of some consequence: I e.mailed Ivars Peterson about my mathematical poetry.  He’s a well-known science writer who seems interested in subjects like it.  He wrote one article about the mathematical visual art of John sims.  I’d been meaning to expose him to my work for two or more months, but dawdled.

There, that’s it for this entry.

Entry 12 — Line Breaks

Friday, November 13th, 2009

I may know as much as anyone in the world about the nature and function of lines breaks.  That’s not a major boast: there isn’t much to know about them, and understanding them doesn’t take research or study, just a little commonsensical thought.  I’m making them the subject of this entry because of a thread at New-Poetry I got involved with.  A few of the contributors to the thread seemed to me to be having trouble fully understanding the device.  Anyway, I’ve decided to write  a minor primer about it, bringing back my recent Poem poem to illustrate its simplest functions:

.                                  Another Failure

.                                  For half the night
.                                  Poem struggled mightily
.                                  to sing himself a sleep
.                                  that melted understandings into him
.                                  as intricately deepening as April rain
.                                  dislodging a woodland’s smallest wisdoms;
.                                  but nowhere in it did
.                                  anything extend beyond
.                                  its decimal point.

I will now repeat it, with a comment in purple under each of its lines:

.                                  Another Failure

.                                  For half the night

The poem’s first line-break notifies the reader that he’s in a poem, as does every poem’s first line-break; slows his read to force him to pay at least a little more attention to what’s going on in the language of the poem and what its expressing, particularly its imagery, as do all line-breaks; with the corroboration of the poem’s other lines, if the reader glances at them, informs him of the poem’s pace, in this case comparatively quick; gives his mind a resting place from the possibly difficult material of the poem (again, like all line-breaks); presents a hint (possibly misleading) of the kind of poem the will follow as to style, subject matter, rhythmic nature, technique, point-of-view, and the like, in this particular case, mainly suggesting quotidianness via a commonplace diction, and the representation of a highly standard image; and, finally, setting up a rhyme by leaving “night” in an emphazied location of the poem.

.                                  Poem struggled mightily

The poem’s second line-break does most of the things its first one did but also pretty much establishes the poem as free-verse, and puts “might” near its end to rhyme with the final word of the previous line.

.                                  to sing himself a sleep

The next line-break does little new, but the extra time it gives the reader may help prevent his reading “a sleep,” a key contributor to whatever value the poem has, too hurriedly.

.                                  that melted understandings into him

Coming a little late compared to the other line-breaks, this one is responsible for giving its line a feel of magnitude, importance; I believe it will be welcomed for the pause it provides the reader to think about just what its line and the preceding one mean

.                                  as intricately deepening as April rain

The next line-break lets its line extend even more.

.                                  dislodging a woodland’s smallest wisdoms;

Then a line-break halting its line somewhat sooner than the previous line-breaks halted theirs–perhaps indicating the we’ve reached the poem’s peak and are now quieting.

.                                  but nowhere in it did

Another short line, now, stopped before it says anything–stopped also on a word a more standard line-break would not have, to “merely’ keep the reader from being completely on balance.

.                                  anything extend beyond

The penultimate line-break does little more than prevent the reader from too quickly learning where the sentence he’s reading is going.

.                                  its decimal point.

The poem’s final line-break provides it with a sharp short clear end.

Any questions?

Additional comments: when I wrote this poem, I paid little attention to the line-breaks I was making–they came pretty much naturally.  I’m sure that’s the way it wis with most composers of free verse.  The “did” I thought about before going with, though, and I think I came back to one pair of lines that sounded wrong, and change the line-break between them.

A reader, too, if experienced, ought not pay much conscious attention to the lineation of a work of free verse–but, if effective, it will have a great deal of influence on his understanding of the poem.

One last comment: in the right hands–those of E. E. Cummings, for example–line breaks can be employed to do much more of value in a poem than they do in “Another Failure.”

.

.

.

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Entry 11 — Old Man Medical News

Thursday, November 12th, 2009

This will be my first utterly blah entry–except maybe for my first, but that was not intended to do more than introduce this blog.  Anyway, just to say something, I will update you on the latest of my pharmaceutical adventures: I just ook a hydrocodone bt-ibuprofen tablet.  There’s codeine in it, so it should be pretty potent.  He prescribed it to lower the aching pain I feel in my right leg at night in bed from, we believe, sciatica.  Nothing else yet has, and it’s significantly interfered with my sleep.  I mention it mainly to stay on record as a druggie–because I don’t see why I should not be arrested for using it when those using heroin or steroids not prescribed by a doctor are not.  I’m also interested in its effect on my creativity.  I’ve always thought that the darvocept I’ve taken on and off helped it, although not so much recently.

Entry 10 — Nonsense, Etc.

Wednesday, November 11th, 2009

Okay, back to Geof Huth’s haiku and why I consider it a specimen of nearsense, and what that means:

.              the car I didn’t notice                              isn’t there

This could be temporary nonsense, or a text that at first seems not to make sense but later does.  Its speaker may simply have driven his car past another car without noticing the other car.  At that point a companion’s remarking, “Hmmm, that car must be over fifty-years-old,” might cause the speaker to look in the direction where the old car should be and seeing no car–because it has moved.  He never noticed the car but knows it was there although it has gone.

The problem with this is that no companion is mentioned.  Moreover, the incident seems too minor to form the basis of a poem.  So I take it to be a paradox: one can’t notice that one has failed to notice something.  One can’t think there is a car somewhere that one did not notice since to do so indicates one noticed it.  Or can one notice not noticing?  It’s very confusing–coming close to making sense but never quite doing so.  It’s not pure nonsense (as a form of literature meant simply to amuse) nor is it willfully and sadistically completely meaningless the way constersense is.   There is thus something about it that gives pleasure–the way an optical illusion does, or the paradox, “This sentence is a lie.”

My tentative explanation for the pleasure is that we like reminders that existence is not wholly rational, wholly predictable.  The paradox performs a variation on the theme of reason.  It makes enough sense to prevent anger, but not enough to be fully satisfying in the long run–as a paradox.  But Huth’s poem is more than a paradox: it captures a human feeling we all have of suddenly being discontinuous with Existence–lost.  The universe has gone left while we were continuing right.

The difference between nearsense of this kind and constersense is that we share the feelings of the creator of nearsense but are the victims of the creator of constersense (unless we share his contempt for those who want existence to be reasonably reasonable and enjoy thinking of the pain he is inflicting on them).