B. H. Fairchild « POETICKS

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Entry 650 — Some Anti-Philogushy

Thursday, February 9th, 2012

Me Versus B. H. Fairchild and Others He quotes

Language can be a way of rescuing the hidden life, and that way is poetry.  You can’t rescue any hidden life, whatever that is, with prose?  Or some other art?  Or science?  Why wouldn’t using language to drown certain aspects of unhidden life be equally or more valuable? 

Glenn Gould: “The purpose of art is the gradual, lifelong construction of a state of wonder and serenity.” And wonder is everything to a poet.   It sure isn’t everything to me.  It and serenity are only two of many pleasures it is the function of art to provide.   Its manner of providing them is what sets it apart from verosophy and other endeavors which can, and try, to lead to wonder and serenity, and other pleasures.

Mandelstam: “We will remember in Lethe’s cold waters / That earth for us has been worth a thousand heavens.”  Nice thought–but unattainable heavens to dream toward are a high good, too.

Seven propositions:

1. By way of Wittgenstein and Heidegger: A poem is a verbal construction which, through an array of rhetorical and prosodic devices of embodiment, achieves an order of being, an ontological status, radically different from that of other forms of discourse (with the exception of certain kinds of descriptive and fictional prose).  I agree: a poem is a verbal construction different from almost all other verbal constructions.

2. Poetry occurs at a considerable distance from the ego.  As does almost anything else I can think of, when it isn’t nothing but ego.

3. There exists an infinity of nonverbal meaning.  Which the infinity of possible verbal meaning can express.

4. Science is progressive, but Art is not. It doesn’t get better; it just gets different. (The relevance and utility of all poetic forms.) See Mandestam.  All the arts, like all the sciences, have become vastly superior to what they were hundreds or thousands of years ago, but anti-progressives mistake the sentimentality that becomes more and more attached to the old because of their age for aesthetic rather than nostalgiacal value.  Compare the clumsy “novel” in the Bible about David with almost any competent commercial novel of today, for instance.  Consider how much more of existence the best art of today is about compared with earlier art.  For just one thing, today’s art has a vastly larger tradition to make allusions to than previous art had.  There have been artists in the past as great as our best, but what our best have produced is significantly better than what they did in part because of the what the artists of the past did.  (Note, this is a subject requiring a book.)

5. Rules are made to be broken; techniques are made to be used. (They were never rules anyway; they were techniques. The freedom of the artist, like that of the lathe machinist, is the freedom to choose those techniques, those tools, that he deems necessary for the task at hand. The refusal to use technique–and, obviously, to learn it–is the refusal to be an artist, or at least a free one.)  I more or less agree with all this, but I wonder how one can avoid using some technique.

6. Form is an extension of subject matter rather than of ideology or religious belief.  Every work of art requires a container; I call that container form; one calling it “an extension of subject matter,” if I understand him, needs to tell me what, then, is containing it and the subject matter it is an extension of.  I don’t know what ideology and religious belief have to do with it; how would they be not subject matter?

7. Meter is not the reins to keep the horse of the poem in check; it’s the heartbeat of the horse. Drop the reins. (Clearly this is an argument for meter rather than against it.) It is almost impossible to convince poets who never bothered to learn prosody that meter is something that emerges from within the language rather than something that is imposed externally upon the language. Even conversational English is very loosely iambic.  I think meter is both natural and imposed–necessarily imposed to add predictability to balance the difficult-to-accept unpredictability of horses going beyond prose that poetry at its best is. 

A poet is always limited by the fact that he has to write for other human beings.  Just to be argumentative, I would say that a poet’s having to write for others (and he needn’t) greatly increases his field of play.  (Note that our Wilshberian’s poet writes rather than composes.  It never occurs to any Wilshberian that a poem might be more than words.)

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Entry 649 — Some Philogushy from B.H. Fairchild

Wednesday, February 8th, 2012

“Philogushy” is my term for “love of gush.”  It’s practiced a good deal by poets.  Once again I could think of nothing to post here, so I stole the excerpt below from 25 pages of journal entries by poet B.H. Fairchild that are in the latest issue of New Letters, a magazine I’m reviewing for Small Press Review.  I knew nothing about Fairchild but apparently he’s very well-known, and a grant-winner.   

Language can be a way of rescuing the hidden life, and that way is poetry.

Glenn Gould: “The purpose of art is the gradual, lifelong construction of a state of wonder and serenity.” And wonder is everything to a poet.

Mandelstam: “We will remember in Lethe’s cold waters / That earth for us has been worth a thousand heavens.”

Seven propositions:

1. By way of Wittgenstein and Heidegger: A poem is a verbal construction which, through an array of rhetorical and prosodic devices of embodiment, achieves an order of being, an ontological status, radically different from that of other forms of discourse (with the exception of certain kinds of descriptive and fictional prose).

2. Poetry occurs at a considerable distance from the ego.

3. There exists an infinity of nonverbal meaning.

4. Science is progressive, but Art is not. It doesn’t get better; it just gets different. (The relevance and utility of all poetic forms.) See Mandestam.

5. Rules are made to be broken; techniques are made to be used. (They were never rules anyway; they were techniques. The freedom of the artist, like that of the lathe machinist, is the freedom to choose those techniques, those tools, that he deems necessary for the task at hand. The refusal to use technique-and, obviously, to learn it-is the refusal to be an artist, or at least a free one.)

6. Form is an extension of subject matter rather than of ideology or religious belief.

7. Meter is not the reins to keep the horse of the poem in check; it’s the heartbeat of the horse. Drop the reins. (Clearly this is an argument for meter rather than against it.) It is almost impossible to convince poets who never bothered to learn prosody that meter is something that emerges from within the language rather than something that is imposed externally upon the language. Even conversational English is very loosely iambic.

A poet is always limited by the fact that he has to write for other human beings.

* * * * *

Most of the other entries are at this level. some stupid, some interesting, none what I’d call a serious attempt to understand what poetry is, rather than what the effect of poetry the definer admires is.  Subjective philogushy rather than objective verosophy.  I’m not going to discuss any individual entries now so as to leave myself something to write about tomorrow.

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Entry 386 — 4 Mathemaku from c. 2005 « POETICKS

Entry 386 — 4 Mathemaku from c. 2005

As of part of my continuing neurotic habit of adding small projects to my over-extendedness, I began going through my old blog entries to find out when I made various mathemaku of mine, for I posted all of them at my blog, I think, as I finished them (and even when sketching some of them, as well as when revising them).  I’m now up to my 600th entry.   I was happily reminded of the many frames I’ve done for my Long Division of Poetry sequence: around thirty, I’m pretty sure.  I found one sub-sequence that I quite like and don’t think I’ve ever posted as a sequence:

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I’m not sure whether or not the following frame should be considered at extension of this little sequence.  Originally, I added it simply because I thought it nice, but not worth an entry to itself.  Now I begin to see how it may connect to the other two. . . .

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Not that any woman ever drove me to drink.  Wait, women were the reason I drank: I only went to bars for the strippers, except the few times I wanted to watch Lakers’ games before I had a television.  I drank more beers (always beers though I never liked the taste of beer) than needed to cover the cost of being there mainly to make the strippers look good.

3 Responses to “Entry 386 — 4 Mathemaku from c. 2005”

  1. Kevin Kelly says:

    You’re going to upset the feminists with that last comment, mister. By the way, the copy editor in me tells me there is some grammatical hell going on in your opening graph for this entry — i.e. “now” disguised as “not,” and read the first sentence out loud to yourself. Regarding the mathemaku, I think the first one is perfect already, and the others are unnecessary.

  2. Bob Grumman says:

    Well, thanks for the copy editing, Kevin. As for your literary criticism, I’m afraid I have over 30 other divisions of “poetry” logic would require you to say were unnecessary. But no problem: now that you’re a Californian, your literary opinions don’t count no more.

    Note, despite your comment, I have approved you as a commenter here. Just shows what kind of person I am, right?

    –Robbit

  3. Kevin Kelly says:

    You seem to be implying that you can outperfect perfection. That’s so Grummanly of you.

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Entry 580 — “Poem Becomes Another Person” « POETICKS

Entry 580 — “Poem Becomes Another Person”

 

                                 Poem Becomes Another Person                 

                                 One day Poem spontaneously
                                 became another person, Problem.
                                 He shrugged it off.  His author no doubt
                                 no longer had any more chores for
                                 him as a combination poem/alter ego.
                                 He assumed he was still an alter ego–
                                 his author had never shown any ability to create
                                 a human being of any complexity at all
                                 that wasn’t 97% himself.

                                 Problem wandered around for several lines
                                 without being or encountering anything
                                 problematic. 

                                 Was that a problem?  He quickly
                                 spiffled a gumshoe, rhinestones
                                 being out of fashion. 

   

* * *

 

Wednesday, 30 November 2011, 4 P.M.  A pleasant-enough day.  I ran around seven this morning, planning to cover a mile but only was able to run half that.  I blame it on going too fast to begin with–after not having run for two or more weeks.  Not that I start all that fast.  After walking a little, I ran a little, and felt good.  I ran a hundred yards or so after that, feeling almost like I was really running.  After breakfast, I got another exhibition hand-out done, and worked some on my Hardy Boys mathemaku.  It’s not framed, so I’m replacing a framed one with it–mainly because I want to get the framed one unframed so I can scan it into my computer.  I have to have a computer copy of it somewhere but haven’t been able to find it.  Its framing was professionally done, so I don’t want to mess with it.  I’ll take it to the frame shop I’ve done business with and have the guy there switch poems.  Along the way, I had two short naps.  I feel pretty okay now.  I’ve done all my chores, getting a short blog entry out of the way a little while ago, and not having work on the book to do for a few more days.  Reading–another Clancy (mainly)–and A new game of Civilization, with my Civilization winning streak up to 3.

Later note: I wrote a second exhibition hand-out for the day, a little commentary on my Hardy Boys mathemaku.

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Entry 1759 — A Possibly Finished Poem « POETICKS

Entry 1759 — A Possibly Finished Poem

HomageToGomringer21March2015FinalOoops, the above is not my final version, this is:

HomageToGomringer21March2015

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AmazingCounters.com

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Jody Offer « POETICKS

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Entry 83 — MATO2, Chapter 1.05

Saturday, January 23rd, 2010

About a week later I heard from one of my California writer friends, Moya Sinclair, who called me a little after eight in the evening sounding very cheerful and energetic.  She, Annie Stanton, quite a good linguexpressive poet, Diane Walker, well-known as a television actress under her maiden name, Brewster, who had literary ambitions and was quite bright but never to my knowledge broke beyond the talented dabbler stage, and I had been a few years earlier the main members of a little writers’ group at Valley Junior College in the San Fernando Valley presided over by Les Boston, a professor there.   Technically, we were doing independent studies with Dr. Boston, but in reality we friends who met weekly to discuss one another’s writing, mine at the time plays.  Annie and Diane were about ten years older than I, Moya close to eighty by the time of her phone call, and she was in a convalescent home.  Her circulatory system had slowly been wearing out.  I fear she died there, for I never heard from her again.  Both Annie and Diane died around then in their early sixties, huge unexpected losses for me.

Moya reported that Annie had been over for a visit and had left my book with her.  Moya said she’d been reading parts of it and found it beautifully written, etc.  She had a few adverse comments on it, too–on Geof’s word for one-word poem (“pwoermd”), for instance, but that was to be expected.  Moya, for years working on an autobiographical novel, was pretty wedded to the old standards.  We had a fine chat that boosted my spirits a good deal.  She represented one of the main kinds of readers I hoped would like my book.

A day later I got a very positive letter from Jack Moskovitz about my book, and a lukewarm one about it from Geof.  Geof, as I remember, felt I should have lightened up on the Grummaniacal coinages.  I think he was right.  I believe one of the things I tried to do in my two revisions of the book was to cut down on them.

The next day, according to my diary, I got lots of letters, mostly from people I sent my book to, and for the most part complimentary though Jody Offer, a California poet/playwright friend of mine, felt I got too advanced in parts–I’m sure in part because of my terminology.  I was finding out, though, that my book was not as geared for non-experts as I’d hoped.

Cor van den Heuvel « POETICKS

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Entry 48 — Full Effectiveness in Poetry

Saturday, December 19th, 2009

I’m skipping ahead to old blog entry #796 today to make a point about my recent cryptographiku. #796 has Cor van den Heuvel’s poem:

.                                               tundra

I go on in the entry to say I believe Eugen Gomringer’s “Silencio,” of 1954, was the first poem to make consequential  visiophorically expressive use of blank space:

.                      silencio silencio silencio  .                      silencio silencio silencio  .                      silencio          silencio  .                      silencio silencio silencio  .                      silencio silencio silencio

I finish my brief commentary but then opining that van den Heuvel’s poem was the first to make an entire page expressive, the first to make full-scale negative space its most important element. Rather than surround a meaningful parcel of negative space like Gomringer’s masterpiece, it is surrounded by meaningful negative space. I’m certainly not saying it thus surpasses Gomringer’s poem; what it does is equal it in a new way.

I consider it historically important also for being, so far as I know, the first single word to succeed entirely by itself in being a poem of the first level.

Then there’s my poem from 1966:

.                 at his desk
.                         the boy,

.                                writing his way into b wjwje tfdsfu xpsme

This claim to be the first poem in the world to use coding to significant metaphorical effect. Anyone who has followed what I’ve said about “The Four Seasons” should have no trouble deciphering this. I consider it successful as a poem because I believe anyone reasonably skillful at cyrptographical games will be able (at some point if not on a first reading) to emotionally (and sensually) understand/appreciate the main things it’s doing and saying during one reading of it–i.e., read it normally to the coded part, then translate that while at the same time being aware of it as coded material and understanding and appreciating the metaphor its being coded allows.

I’ve decided “The Four Seasons” can’t work like that. It is a clever gadget but not an effective poem because I can’t see anyone being able to make a flowing reading through it and emotionally (and sensually) understanding/appreciating everything that’s going on in it and what all its meanings add up to, even after study and several readings. Being able to understand it the way I do in my explanation of it not enough. This is a lesson from the traditional haiku, which must be felt as experience, known reducticeptually (intellectually), too, but only unconsciously–at the time of reading it as a poem rather than as an object of critical scrutiny, which is just as valid a way to read it but different.

Conrad Didiodato « POETICKS

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Entry 862 — What’s A Literary Critic?

Saturday, September 15th, 2012

There’s a discussion at leafepress.com the title of which is, “What is Literary Criticism? What is a Literary Critic?” It’s mainly between Conrad DiDiodato and John Bloomberg-Rissman, but Ed Baker takes a few potshots at the others, basically reiterating the standard belief of the romantic poet that criticism is irrelevant to poets.

The discussion annoyed me because it made no references to my criticism. Of course, I didn’t really expect it to, although Conrad knows a little of my work, but I have trouble listening to people taking tenth-rate critics seriously when my work is available. Yes, I am that arrogantly convinced of the value of my criticism. Not that I’m all that sure it’s any good, but that I am positive that it’s many orders of magnitude better than Derrida’s, say, or DeMan’s, or that moron Foucault, which these guys seem to admire (although they do seem to be familiar with a wide range of critics, some of whom I don’t take as tenth-rate, like Cleanth Brooks.

The discussion annoyed me more because, like so many such discussions, it starts nowhere, really, and splathers inconclusively severalwhere. Its central defect is absence of defined axiom-setting terms—due to the standard belief of its participants that “artworks . . . can NEVER be fully unpacked.” The truth is that any artwork can be unpacked sufficiently to satisfy any sane person. Just as the distance from my house to yours can be measured sufficiently to satisfy any sane person although it can never be measure perfectly.

This absence of defined terms allows them to say sometimes interesting things, and not worry about contradiction. And it satisfies the political need of the naïve to feel certain all beliefs are equally true/false, just as all persons are equally good/bad. The only problem with it is that it’s nonsense. This is a problem, because false beliefs are much more likely to lead to grief than true beliefs—as every knows intuitively but intellectuals keep out of their verbal awarenesses. For example, an intellectual won’t make a fifty-foot swan dive into a pool whose water he knows is frozen because his reptile brain will give him nausea at the thought of doing so. But the nausea will never work its way up into his verbal awareness and bother him with the possibility that a belief that a fifty-foot dive into a pool of solid ice is harmful is true whereas a belief that it is not harmful is false.

I know. Simplistic. But in the final analysis, true.

I began this expecting simply to answer the questions in the title of the leafepress.com discussion. No, not answer them, just scatter a few thoughts concerning them. I’ve elsewhere answered the questions pretty well, I believe, although I’m not sure when or where. Right now, however, I have one new thought (for me) about the subject: that there is an important difference between a literary critic and a literary appreciator. A literary critic tells you—make that, “tries to tell you”—everything important to know about a particular literary work based on its expressive elements alone. Which will include what is denoted, what connoted and what is explicitly alluded to. It will, I believe, also include what is implicitly alluded strongly enough for most knowledgeable engagents of the work under analysis to connect to. “Fourscore and ten years ago,” for instance, with “Lincoln’s “fourscore and ten years ago” being an explicit reference.

Hmm, I see that I’ve defined a literary critic, except that I left “literary work” undefined. So be it, for now, although it’s easy to define; it’d take too many words for me to bother doing that here (and I’ve done it elsewhere). Oh, one other minor omission: I didn’t say what it is important to know about a literary work. I’ve defined that, too. It wouldn’t take all that many words, but too many for me to bother with here.

Let me turn to what a literary appreciator is. I decided I needed the term because it seems to me my definition of the literary critic is almost identical to any new critic’s. But new critics opposed going beyond the artifact on the page or pages in analyzing it. I believe them correct to dos, but only strictly speaking. I want someone telling me about a poem, say, to tell me things about its maker, including things having little or nothing to do with the poem. Like, Wow, a guy like Ezra Pound could believe in a totally loony economics theory yet write “In a Station of the Metro!” A literary appreciator is a literary critic who also is willing to discuss all kinds of things about a poem beyond what it is as literature. He is not someone who slights literary analysis to do this. He must also avoid finding implicit allusions that aren’t there for any normal person and building wacky psychiatric interpretations out of them the way Freud did and has followers have. As basically all the French critics and their allies have in diverse ways.

Not that there isn’t a place for, say, someone who focuses on what forces in society may have influenced the final form of a poem. Such a person is neither a literary critic nor a literary appreciator; he is a sociological critic of literature.

Before I end I want to mention that I would divide literary critics into two kinds: the practical literary critic and the theoretical literary critic (unless I think of a better name). The first deals with works of literature, each mostly by itself, although he may (and usually should) connect a work to other works of its author, and to like works by others; the second does this also, but presents some kind of theory for the nature and value of a literary work—not just that rhyme is pleasurable, for instance, but why it is. Along the way he will provide a taxonomy of the kinds of literary works he deals with, and a continuing list of the techniques used in them with detailed descriptions of them, and why they are effective.

Above the two kinds of literary critics is the literary philosopher. Such a person is a serious seeker of significant final truths about literature. He will probably also be a philosopher of aesthetics, one seriously seeking significant final truths about all the arts, not just literature. My taxonomy continues upward, finally arriving at the neurophysiological theorist—who is one step below the Total Verospher, who seriously seeks significant final truths about everything!

Urp.

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Entry 153 — A Second Announcement

Tuesday, June 22nd, 2010

An interesting discussion of “vispo” and visual poetry that includes careful discussions of my poetic practice by Conrad Didiodato is now among this blog’s “Pages” under the category of “Discussions Of Bob Grumman’s Poetry.

Entry 35 — Thoughts on Scatteredness « POETICKS

Entry 35 — Thoughts on Scatteredness

On Sundays, I turn off my computer at eleven in the morning and leave it off till five so people who want to talk to me on the phone can do so (which they can’t when I’m connected to the Internet because I have dial-up, and also like to stay connected to the Internet even when not using my computer so as to block junk phone calls).  Ergo, since it’s quarter to eleven as I type this, I’ll soon be off the computer.  I could still do a Major Entry offline, but it’s more difficult than doing it online and I’m lazy.  In any case, I’m going to do a quickie today, just this, quoted in its entirety with no changes from #671:

3 December 2005:

Someone I argue with on the Internet about who wrote Shakespeare asserted that “those who achieve greatness go about their work in a markedly different way than those who achieve only mediocrity. A scattershot approach to writing, wherein one works on several ‘major projects’ (forgive me for refusing to equate the composition of King Lear with the cleaning of your house, Bob, but I don’t think I’ll even bother to come up with support for this assertion) is an indication, not that we are dealing with a major talent, but rather that we are dealing with procrastination and mediocrity.” We were arguing about a recent Biography of Shakespeare that hypothesized that he finished four different plays in one year. My opponent claimed it wasn’t possible; I that it most certainly was. I used myself as an example of a writer who had a lot of major projects going at a time. Hence, my opponent’s distinguishing “mediocrities” from Shakespeare-level artists. I mentioned getting my house organized as one of the major projects I was involved in, which accounts for his reference to “the cleaning of (my) house.”

It seems to me many culturateurs (people whose contribution to world culture was major) worked on four or more major cultural projects (a major project needn’t be cultural) during a year, and some of them worked on two or more of them simultaneously, especially composers and painters. A blurriness of recall prevents me from thinking of any particular such culturateurs except for Leonardo–who was definitely handicapped by his approach to his endeavors; I wouldn’t say it was a “scattershot approach,” but it leaned that way, for sure.

I’ve always alternated between pride in my scattershot approach and worry about it. Certainly, it’s kept me from finishing much. But, I claim, only so far. Next year, will be different. Actually, this year hasn’t been so bad, for I finished one long-in-progress play during it (and two such plays near the end of the year before). At the moment, I am at work on (1) my book on the Shakespeare authorship debate (which is more an introduction to my theory of psychology, (2) a central life’s work of mine); (3) and (4) two new plays, (5) my essay on E. E. Cummings’s Influence (which I hope will become book-length at some point), (6) these blog entries (and improvements to my blog), (7) my mathemaku sequence,The Long Division of Poetry, (8) a large mathemaku I’m tentatively calling “Mathemaku in Homage to Modern Technology,” (9) my mathemaku, in general, (10) my Poem poem sequence, (11) getting mine house in order, (12) various anthologies or zines I’ve agreed to send poems or essays to and/or guest-edit. Impressive-sounding, but I do procrastinate, and play Civilization too much. I won’t finish any of these this year, and may not ever. Nonetheless, I’ll be severely unhappy if I don’t take care of most of them next year–as well as get the next volume of Writing To Be Seen, the anthology Crag Hill and I have co-edited, into print, another major project. It remains to be seen whether or not the results will make it above mediocrity, but I’m betting on myself.

Just changed my mind–got curious as to what happened with the projects I was working on almost exactly four years ago.  So, here’s the list again with my comments: At the moment, I am at work on (1) my book on the Shakespeare authorship debate (which is more an introduction to my theory of psychology (Whee, finished and self-published in two editions!);(2) a central life’s work of mine) (not sure what this was but probably finishing a complete version of my knowlecular psychology theory, which I am no closer to having done than I was four years ago); (3) and (4) two new plays (unfinished, one of them possibly lost in a computer crash, but the other at least half done): (5) my essay on E. E. Cummings’s Influence (which I hope will become book-length at some point) (I finished this as a long essay but haven’t made a book of it, which I still hope to do); (6) these blog entries (and improvements to my blog) (I have kept the blog going); (7) my mathemaku sequence,The Long Division of Poetry (I have extended this significantly since then and improved it, I believe), (8) a large mathemaku I’m tentatively calling “Mathemaku in Homage to Modern Technology” (I finished this); (9) my mathemaku, in general (I’ve continue producing mathemaku, although not as rapidly as I hoped I would back then); (10) my Poem poem sequence (It’s ongoing); (11) getting mine house in order (I think I half-did this, but it’s as disorganized as ever right now);(12) various anthologies or zines I’ve agreed to send poems or essays to and/or guest-edit (A few of these done possibly, but most not).

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Visual Poetry Specimen « POETICKS

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Entry 621 — Evolution of Style

Wednesday, January 11th, 2012

One of my works that I was particularly pleased with when I came across it while backing up blog entries was the following:

 

 

I have one problem with this: my only version of  it is a low-resolution jpg, which I don’t know how to convert to high-resolution tif, except by simply redoing it.  Any suggestions from anybody out there who knows more than I do about this kind of thing?

I didn’t re-post it only to ask for help, or because of how much I like it, but as an example of how my work as a poet has evolved.  Actually, I want to show that it has evolved.  That’s because Paul Crowley, the nut I most argue with on the Internet about who wrote the works of Shakespeare, seems not to believe that a poet’s style, or way of making art, evolved once he’s past his apprenticeship.  Of course, he will claim I’m not a poet, and that the evidence I’m about to produce to show my evolution indicates only trivial changes, not anything like genuine evolution.  I enjoy talking about my work, and analyzing any poem, so will go ahead with my demonstration, anyway.

First of all, I should state my claim: it is that over the past couple of years, my style as a poet has evolved appreciably, and that this poem illustrates it.

(1) I only began using cursive ten or fewer years ago, and never for more than a word or two.  This poem and two others have all or most of their texts in cursive.  Because the difference in expressiveness between print and cursive is visiopoetically meaningful to those who appreciate visual poetry, this wholesale use of cursive script counts as a significant evolution of style.

(2) My use of cursive is more elegant here than it is in mt other two recent poems making extensive use of cursive.  Note, for instance, the large O, and the increased gracefulness of all the letters compared with the letters in my other two cursive poems.

(3) Twenty years ago, I didn’t bother giving my poems backgrounds.  Since then I have, and have slowly been improving (but have plenty of room for further improvement).  Note the harmony of the background’s shape and colors with the text, especially the O. 

(4) The background has another important value–the connotations it picks up as a result of its being a variation (mostly through color changes) of the background in another poem of mine.  Connecting poems of mine with others’ poems and others of my own poems is another way I’ve evolved as an artist, not doing it until perhaps twenty years ago, then only very slowly doing it to a greater and greater extent.  This poem may be the first to re-use an entire background from another poem.  This is not trivial, for it allows this poem to suggest “dictionary-as-temple,” the main part of the foreburden of the poem its background is from.  It also should make this poem easier to enjoy, the same way the repetition in a new musical work of an old theme is usually pleasant to hear.  I believe the happiness of the colors of this version of the background gains from the reminder of the different, lower-key mood evoked by the other version.

(5) The use of color in tension with greyscale is another trick new to me twenty years ago that I exploit more and more in my present works, as here (though I’ve done more with it elsewhere).

(6) I think my language has evolved over the years, too–from fairly literal to metaphorical and/or surreal.  The “logic” of this piece and most of my recent pieces is not so easy to guess, which may be an unfortunate evolution, but an evolution nonetheless.

(7) You can’t tell from this image, which has been reduced in size to fit the normal computer screen, but the hard copy is larger than anything I did ten or more years ago, which is another result of evolution. 

Here’s my first or second mathemaku, done thirty or more years ago, to make the profound evolution of my style more inescapable. Yet I maintain this piece is at the level of later pieces; it is simply more condensed. For one thing, it is only linguistic and mathematical. Nothing visioaesthetic happens in it. The eye is used only to recognize the symbols it contains, not to enjoy colors or shapes the way my faereality poem compels it to–i.e., not a visual poem (except inthe mindlessnesses of those for whom just about everything is a visual poem). It is short, and printed. Its words are simple to an extreme.

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Entry 620 — Getting Enough Sleep

Tuesday, January 10th, 2012

A little while ago (it is now around 9 P.M., 9 January)  I was feeling good.  I attributed this to my having gotten two naps today, one of an hour, the other of one or two hours.  And I had gotten six hours of sleep last night, which is about as much as I generally get.  I had just about finished backing up my blog entries and was very pleased at how good many of my poems seemed to me when I noticed them during the process.  Unfortunately, I got the dates up my upcoming entries wrong, and in correcting them, lost what I had written for this entry.  That pretty much wiped out my mood.  I can’t stand screwing up like that, but I do it all the time!

 

 

This is a pwoermd I stole from Geof Huth’s blog–because it has become too sophisticated to accept comments from dial-ups like my computer, and I wanted to comment on it.  It’s by Jonathan Jones, lately of Brussels, but a citizen himself of the United Kingdom.  What I like most about it is that it’s lyrical–as too many pwoermds are not.  It wouldn’t be a visual poem for me, but an illustrated poem, except that I subjectively feel “apri’ll” is producing the wonderful colors of spring it is slanted into a portion of (through sheer will-power).  Hence, in my taxonomy it is an infra-verbal visual poem.

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Entry 618 — “Hungarian Vispo No. 2″

Sunday, January 8th, 2012

Marton Koppany’s latest visual poem may be the gentlest satire on a country’s government ever, if I’m interpreting it correctly. Note the boot on the head of one of the country’s citizens, for instance–and the complete insanity of the country the cloud with an umbrella suggests. Much more is going on that I’ll let you discover without help.

Hungarian Vispo No. 2

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Entry 613 — Vispo SpamAd

Tuesday, January 3rd, 2012

The following is a detail from a Spam ad that I got yesterday.   It’s a good example of a commercialized visual poem.  Effective as an eye-catcher, but not very good as a visual poem.

 

 Below is my improved version.  Certainly not yet a great work but better than the original.  If you can’t see why, I’m afraid you aren’t too perceptive about the art.  If you can’t see how the basic idea could be used in a far better piece, you probably aren’t an effective visual poet, or are tired.

 

Diary Entry

Monday, 2 January 2012, Noon.  I got up late because I stayed up late last night watching my Giants fall apart, but win anyway because Dallas fell apart just in time to keep from winning.  I don’t think the Giants have much hope of going far in the play-offs, but I’ll be rooting for them.  And the other teams are pretty inconsistent, too, except for San Francisco and Green Bay.

I began the day by forcing myself to run.  Actually, I slowly ran, then ran fast albeit not really fast, then walked.  Rrrrrruuuuunnnnnn, rruunn, walk over and over until I’d gone around the middle school field four times (two miles).  My stamina is still amazingly poor, but I actually genuinely sprinted when I went all out.  Which is to say, I was able to pump my legs all the way up and stretch out, the way one does when sprinting.  I didn’t do it fast enough to really sprint, but I did it.  I was worried that I no longer could.  Now it’s just a matter, I think, of getting enough stamina to push myself harder, and for longer periods.  My “sprints” were only for around twenty yards or so–but maybe a whole forty once or twice.  Since getting back, I posted my blog entry for today, which was easy because already done.  I corrected my latest Page, “How to Appreciate a Mathemaku,” after getting a list or errors I very much appreciated from John Jeffrey.  I have a lot more chores to do, but I’m already worn out.  Maybe after lunch and a nap I’ll be able to get more done.

5 P.M.  One more chore out of the way: filling in the size and price of my works on the exhibition contract and tags.  I’m asking $200 for most of them.  Highest price is $600.  Two I’ll accept $100 for.  I don’t expect to sell anything.

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Entry 598 — “Fifty”

Monday, December 19th, 2011

This is from Geof Huth’s blog:

 I liked this when I first saw it although I didn’t find it saying anything verbally.  When I finally realized it said, “fifty,” I thought it accidental because I couldn’t see why it would say that.  My slow mind eventually remember that Geof is now fifty-years-old, which makes this image a particularly effective representation of his present strange combination of freedom and awkward incompleteness . . . straining, yearning for something.  With his ego (“I,” as Karl Kempton would be sure to notice) lost or transcended.

Diary Entry

Sunday 18 December 2011, 6 P.M.  Another unproductive day.  Tennis in the morning, a fine meal at Linda’s in the afternoon.  A blog entry for today just taken care of a little while ago.  A little work done on my “Mathemaku for Scott Helmes” to count as “work on preparation for the A&H exhibition.”  And now I’d like to go to bed, but will probably read instead.

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Entry 597 — Chumpy Leg

Sunday, December 18th, 2011

John M. Bennett has another major collection of poetry out.  This one is called The Gnat’s Window.  78 poems.  Bilingual.  Closely inter-associating sequence.  Amazing.  I told John I’d try to do a critique of it, and I still hope to once my year-end chaos of chores is behind me, but–gah–John is one of the few poets I feel may be beyond my abilities as a critic, and he’s at his best–and therefore beyondest–in this book.  Part of one of the poems, which Diane Keys has found a way to, uh, fatten, in all the best senses, with color, a piece of cloth and some cursive annotations–and the circling of “crumpy leg, is below.  It’s from the back cover of John’s book.

 

Diary Entry

Saturday, 17 December 2011, Noon.  Wow, since getting back at eleven from tennis and a McDonald’s snack, I’ve already gotten the day’s blog entry posted, which was easy because it was already done, and made a finished copy of  the new version of “Mathemaku for Scott Helmes” at Paint Shop.  It’s not the official copy: it’s too small, and the official version will include the original cut-out fragments of magazine ads.  There will also be the A&H framed version which will be in between the one I just made and the official version in size. 

8 P.M.  Since noon I haven’t done much.  I printed out two copies of “Mathemaku for Scott Helmes” and scribbled annotations explaining the terms I will put on one that will be on display atthe exhibition.  Otherwise, I continued reading started yesterday of the magazines and books I will be reviewing for Small Press Review

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Entry 587 — “The Bells”

Thursday, December 8th, 2011

My friend, Richard Kostelanetz is writing (actually, revising) an essay dealing with, among other things, appropriated art.  When he asked something about Tom Phillips’s A Humument, I remembered other superior examples of appropriation art such as the work on a dictionary of Doris Cross, and the following appropriation of Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Bells” by Michael Basinski, which I thought worth posting here:

   

Here’s the original:

Hear the sledges with the bells–
Silver bells–
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,–
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

Hear the mellow wedding-bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight
From the molten-golden notes!
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gust of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! how it tells
Of rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells–
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells–
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

In the essay I quoted Mike’s poem in, I called it “an amazingly loud-though-silent jangle of . . . Poe’s famous poem.”  I’d add here that Basinski’s version gave me the thrill that Poe’s version, I’m sure, gave many of its first readers.

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Wednesday, 7 December 2011, Noon.  I’ve partly recovered from having accidentally deleted my blog entry for Monday.  A semblance of it is back up.  I also posted an entry for today.  I’ve done nothing else yet, but hope soon to go out to buy some frames and a pad of good-quality large paper.

Later note: I succeeded in finding two reasonably-priced frames of the kind I wanted (able to be stood up on a counter) that I bought.  That took care of my pledge to do something of value for my exhibition every day, barely.  Meanwhile, I sketched a new mathemaku.  Then took care of this entry.

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Entry 584 — An & & My Full Triptych

Monday, December 5th, 2011

It seems that almost every time I seem to be getting productive, something knocks me down.  This time it’s only a lost entry–this one, that I was trying to correct some detail of and lost in the process–without realizing it, so was not able to try to find the lost material by backing up until it was too late.  So now I have to spend an hour or so, restoring what I can recall of what was here two days ago. 

 One item was this by Moribund Face:
 
 

And all three of my frames of “Triptych for Tom Phillips”:

About the ampersand, I commented something about how it expressed the essence of “andness.”  I loved the way its bird regurgitated what looked like all of itself, while looking to continue “anding” forever.  I said little about my full triptych except that if you click on them, you’ll see a larger image of them which may be helpful although still very small–and in black&white.  The original frames are each eleven by seventeen.  Oh, one thing I did point out was that the frames are about, “departure,” “journey” and “arrival,” and are intended to be about them in the largest sense, but particularly about them with regard to arriving–for either an engagent of it or its author.

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Sunday, 4 October 2011.  Sunday is hazy to me now, three days in the past as it is.  I played tennis early in the morning–badly.  I didn’t return to my Shakespeare book, but evidentally got a blog entry posted, and probably wrote an exhibition hand-out or two.

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Entry 551 — John M. Bennett’s “Cardboard”

Wednesday, November 2nd, 2011

There’s a Penguin anthology of twentieth-century out. It’s edited by Rita Dove.  Here’s a list of the poets represented in it, with thanks to John Jeffrey for having alphabetized it:

Ai
Elizabeth Alexander
Sherman Alexie
Paula Gunn Allen
A.R. Ammons
John Ashbery
W. H. Auden
Amiri Baraka (LeRoi Jones)
Ted Berrigan
John Berryman
Frank Bidart
Elizabeth Bishop
Robert Bly
Louise Bogan
Gwendolyn Brooks
Olga Broumas
Hayden Carruth
Lorna Dee Cervantes
Marilyn Chin
Sandra Cisneros
Lucille Clifton
Judith Ortiz Cofer
Billy Collins
Gregory Corso
Hart Crane
Robert Creeley
Victor Hernandez Cruz
Countee Cullen
E. E. Cummings
Carl Dennis
Toi Derricotte
James Dickey
Stephen Dobyns
Hilda Doolittle (H.D.)
Mark Doty
Rita Dove
Norman Dubie
Alan Dugan
Paul Lawrence Dunbar
Alice Moore Dunbar-Nelson
Robert Duncan
Stephen Dunn
Cornelius Eady
Russell Edson
T. S. Eliot
Louis Erdrich
B.H. Fairchild
Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Annie Finch
Nick Flynn
Carolyn Forche
Robert Francis
Robert Frost
Alice Fulton
Tess Gallagher
Albert Goldbarth
Jorie Graham
Angelina Weld Grimke
Donald Hall
Barbara Hamby
Joy Harjo
Michael S. Harper
Robert Hass
Robert Hayden
Terrance Hayes
Anthony Hecht
Lyn Hejinian
Garrett Hongo
Marie Howe
Andrew Hudgins
Langston Hughes
Richard Hugo
Mark Jarman
Randall Jarrell
Robinson Jeffers
James Weldon Johnson
June Jordan
Weldon Kees
Brigit Pegeen Kelly
Galway Kinnell
Carolyn Kizer
Joanna Klink
Etheridge Knight
Kenneth Koch
Yusef Komunyakaa
Maxine Kumin
Stanley Kunitz
Li-Young Lee
Denise Levertove
Philip Levine
Larry Levis
Audre Lorde
Adrian C. Louis
Amy Lowell
Robert Lowell
Thomas Lux
Nathaniel Mackey
Archibald MacLeish
Haki R. Madhubuti (Don L. Lee)
David Mason
Edgar Lee Masters
William Matthews
Heather McHugh
Claude McKay
William Meredith
James Merrill
W. S. Merwin
Jane Miller
Marianne Moore
Paul Muldoon
Harryette Mullen
Carol Muske-Dukes
Marilyn Nelson
Howard Nemerov
Naomi Shihab Nye
Frank O’Hara
Sharon Olds
Mary Oliver
Charles Olson
Gregory Orr
Michael Palmer
Carl Phillips
Robert Pinsky
Ezra Pound
Dudley Randell
Adrienne Rich
Alberto Rios
Edwin Arlington Robinson
Theodore Roethke
Muriel Rukeyser
Kay Ryan
Sonia Sanchez
Carl Sandburg
Delmore Schwartz
Frederick Seidel
Anne Sexton
Brenda Shaughnessy
Laurie Sheck
Leslie Marmon Silko
Charles Simic
Louis Simpson
Gary Snyder
Cathy Song
Gary Soto
David St. John
William Stafford
A.E. Stallings
Gertrude Stein
Gerald Stern
Wallace Stevens
Susan Stewart
Ron Stilliman
Ruth Stone
Mark Strand
James Tate
Henry Taylor
Sara Teasdale
Melvin B. Tolson
Jean Toomer
Natasha Trethewey
Reetika Vazirani
Diane Wakoski
Derek Walcott
Margaret Walker
James Welch
Roberta HIll Whiteman
Richard Wilbur
C. K. Williams
Miller Williams
William Carlos Williams
C. D. Wright
Charles Wright
Franz Wright
James Wright
Kevin Young

After seeing this list, I said what I knew I’d be saying before seeing it in a comment at a blog where it had been given an “A”: “Close to worthless. The good poets in it are already amply anthologized. Whole schools of the best American poets of the last forty years of American Poetry are entirely ignored. The one with Robert Lax in it (minimalism) for just one example. The editors of POETRY will find little in it, or not in it, to complain about-–which is proof of how bad it is.” 

Another ignored school, needless to say, is visual poetry, as represented by much of the work of John M. Bennett, such as this duo, “Cardboard,” that he posted just today (and he’s done scores as good):

 

 

 

I doubt anyone has more completely captured the essence of carboardedness–or the shuddery feel of decaying tenement rooms–than John has with these.  But with strangely joyful coloring in sharp contradiction of shuddering and tenements, but somehow absolutely right.  As with the poem by Gregory I seem to have abandoned, I find I need time before I’ll be able fully to appreciate these.

The Penguin anthology annoyed me, but after reflecting only briefly, it cheered me up: a comparison of its poets coming into their prime after 1950 to the poets in my crowd such as John M. Bennett could not more perfectly exemplify  academic art (including, I was amused to see, the least innovative portion of what’s being called “language poetry”) versus living art.  I may be deceived about the value of my work, but I know I’m not about that of my fellow visual poets.  We’re the Monets, Renoirs, van Goghs, Cezannes, they the French academics.

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Enter 550 — Marton’s “Cursive” Again

Tuesday, November 1st, 2011

Marton  got back to me about his “cursive” yesterday, giving me enough material for a full entry.

 
He pointed out the direction of the leaves is not consistent.  I had not noticed it.  Which is a good lead-in to one of my much-repeated dogmas: there’s more to every good poem, however seemingly simple, than even a good critic will find on his own.  Marton believes that “the first and the second leaf are connected in a way which is not possible in nature.”  Hence, for him, the poem is displaying “the surmounting (or appeasing) of that impossibility.”  This is a reading in addition tomine, not a counter-reading since it is does not contradict my reading.  (Dogma #2: there is more than one good reading of any good poem-but there is only one main reading–to which all the other readings must conform.  That said, I read the change of the direction of the ellipsis to suggest oneleaf’s rebelliousness.  It doesn’t want to be part of an ellipsis.  Or, in my main reading, it it is eager for winter, and the other two leaves are not?  as for the linkage of the leaves being impossible in Nature, I’m confused: I view their stems as touching.  But is the image of a vine?  These leaves don’t look like a vine’s leaves to me. 
 
They don’t look like autumn leaves, as my main reading of the poem has it, either.  But they are detached leaves, so can’t be summer or spring leaves.
 
Marton also reminded me that he had dedicated the poem to me.  That, he added, “is an important piece of information. :-) ”  I was being modest, but I see that the dedication actually is important, for it connects the poem to my series, “Cursive Mathemaku.”  Thinking about that connection, I thought of something else to mention about the poem–the fact that cursive writing is personal.  The Nature in the poem is not a machine typing out falling leaves but an individual writing a poem with her leaves.
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