Small Press Review « POETICKS

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Entry 301 — An Excerpt from a Column-in-Progress

Wednesday, December 1st, 2010

What follows is from the column I’m working on for the January/February issue of  Small Press Review.  I knocked it out a little while ago.

Guy Beining, a frequent contributor to ZYX is represented by an intriguing poem called, “Spheres of Clouds and Skulls,” which alone puts the zine at the forefront of experioddica.  A passage to give the flavor of his “Sphere of Clouds and Skulls: “Prior to heat there is worship.//barely audible one hears- who is the guest of/ the dead bird? Who holds a hanger as grail/ upside down in water?/ the corpse in all of us moves out/ a bit & on spigot we watch a form rotate/ spawn clouds between legs and along tongue.// Direction is a hazard that makes us move.// beyond cloud cover there is the public dance.” What is most wondrous-fine to me about the poem, though, is what Beining does in it with clouds (particularly “cloud cover”), constantly, weirdfully renewingly riffing off them, under-deepening the poem with their presence even when unmentioned, and ending the poem with a moon’s view of them.

I was all set to put off work on the column until this afternoon. (It is now around ten a.m.) To pretend I was serious about working on it, though, I put what I’d so far written up on my computer screen. Then, uncharacteristically for me–at least now–I thought I’d put in a line about the importance of clouds in the poem. Once I’d done that, I kept going and got the whole paragraph done in two minutes or less. Not a great accomplishment, as I had previously typed the extract from Guy’s poem. I’d already come up with my slant on the clouds and been mulling it over, too. What was new was that I saw a way to organize my take on the whole poem around it–after staying away from the column for a week or more because I couldn’t think how to deal with the poem. I knew I didn’t have room to say much about it but wanted to at least be interestingly informative about it.

The paragraph made me Very Happy for several reasons. It got me finally back into the essay. It took care of the only part I thought it’d be difficult, so am confident I’ll finish a near-final draft of it today. It gave me something write about here. Most of all, it made me feel good about my writing skill–I’d had fun and said a few good things about something important. Two things tend to make me feel that way about something I’ve written about a poem : a solution to the poem that has been giving me trouble that I believe in, and chances to play with the language with stuff like “weirdfully renewingly” and “underdeepening.” The latter is self-indulgent, but what’s the point of doing anything if you can’t indulge yourself, at least a little? Aside from that, there have to be people around for whom such words are fun, too.

* * * * *

It’s now four in the afternoon.  I was hoping to have heard back from Poets House so I could pass it on, but I haven’t, so I’m posting this now.

Entry 188 — Small Press Review

Thursday, August 12th, 2010

Note: I just now made most of my columns for Small Press Review available in the Pages section to the right under “Bob Grumman’s  Small Press Review Columns.”  They go back to my first, published sometime in 1994, and continue up to my second-to-last for 2009.  I hope before too long to get them completely up-to-date.  Much thanks to the people at Reocities.com for making this possible.

Pluraphrase « POETICKS

Archive for the ‘Pluraphrase’ Category

Entry 569 — Sample Hand-Out for Show

Sunday, November 20th, 2011

 

Mathemaku for William Blake

This is one of my favorites of my own poems.   Blake is not a central hero of mine, but I do like some of his poems and a lot of passages from his work, particularly the wonderful:

                       To see a world in a grain of sand
                       And a heaven in a wild flower,
                       Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
                       And eternity in an hour.

In my poem the grain of sand is the dividend (that’s what you divide into, for those of you who may have forgotten the terminology—and it took me a long time to remember what was what in long division when I started making long division poems).  Most of one world that might be in it is the many-color design under it.  My (very loose) idea was to say that the right kind of eyesight can multiply a dreary day into a wonderful world.  Add ripples, or an influence spreading out from that world, to it, and you’ll get what Blake found in a grain of sand.

I thought of the “right kind of eyesight” (or, really, over-all sensitivity) as being “unlessoned” or without much formal education and therefore able to see things in an unconventional way, like Blake did.  I liked the pun the word makes with “un-lessened,” or “not reduced.”  I added “lane-loving” because I think of lanes as wandery and out in the country, sure to go to interesting, happy places. 

Poets are usually taught no avoid adjectives as much as possible, but I like them.  That’s why I have two in my quotient (the top part) and three in my divisor (what goes into the dividend).   I do try for unusual ones, though, such as “stumbled-inert,” whose meaning I hope I don’t have to spell out.

I tried to make my poem visually appealing, but carried out very few visual poetry tricks,   “stum  
bled” does stumble, and the day is kind of pinched; I think the ripples ripple, and the grain of sand is packed tight.  

Diary for 19 November 2011, 6 P.M.: another okay day.  Tennis in the morning followed by a snack and conversation with my teammates at a MacDonald’s.  Back here, tired, but able after a short nap to take care of my blog and one item for my exhibition at the same time by working up a curriculum vitae for the exhibition which I could post as the day’s blog entry.  I already had one of these but it was a little out-of-date, and in need of a bit of revision.  It took more than on hour to take care of, for I improved it quite a bit.  Still tired, I had troube getting around to my book.  I spent some time, off and on, playing Civilization or reading the Tom Clancy novel I started a few days ago, to avoid the book.  I finally got to it, although I didn’t do too much work on it, just enough to feel I’d done my duty.  I made up a little for that by writing a good longish commentary on another of the poems that will be in my exhibit, “Mathemaku in Praise of Language.”  I may get a little more work done today, but I doubt it.

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Entry 372 — Mathemaku Still in Progress

Tuesday, February 8th, 2011

If I ever come to be seen worth wide critical attention as a poet, I should be easy to write about, locked into so few flourishes as I am, such as “the the” and–now in this piece, Basho’s “old pond.”  I was wondering whether I should go with “the bookshop’s mood or “a bookshop’s mood” when Basho struck.  I love it!

Just one word and a trivial re-arrangement of words, but I consider it major.  (At times like this I truly truly don’t care that how much less the world’s opinion of my work is than mine.)

We must add another allusion to my technalysis of this poem, describing it as solidifying the poem’s unifying principal (and archetypality), Basho’s “old pond” being, for one thing, a juxtaphor for eternity.  Strengthening its haiku-tone, as well.  But mainly (I hope) making the mood presented (and the mood built) a pond.  Water, quietude, sounds of nature . . .

Oh, “old” gives the poem another euphony/assonance, too.

It also now has a bit of ornamental pond-color.  Although the letters of the sub-dividend product are a much lighter gray on my other computer than they are on this one, the one I use to view my blog.

Entry 371 — My New Mathemaku, Updated

Monday, February 7th, 2011

Updated, but probably not finished, although I consider the dividend set:

Now to my pluraphrase of this poem I have to add that the dividend is a quotation from Wallace Stevens’s “On the Dump,” one of my all-time favorite poems, so brings that poem’s concern with the nature of metaphor, (sensual) fascination with the seasons and the final essence of existence to it.  It’s another fresh expression, too, because still a shock to most minds, and certainly unexpected in this poem.  It also provides the poem, I think, with a unifying principle, the idea of language’s being on the precipice or “soon” to (“:”) bring one to the the making, at least to me, enough sense for a poem.

Incidentally, one thing a pluraphrase should do that I neglected to mention is determine a poem’s level of archetypality.   Mine seems to me, with “the the” now in it, to do that at the highest level with the search for the meaning of existence.  Stars are archetypal.  The struggle to express oneself seems to me moderately archetypal.

Entry 370 — A New Mathemaku

Sunday, February 6th, 2011

It’ll be “Mathemaku Something-or-Other” when I figure out how many mathemaku I’ve now composed.  Close to a hundred, I’m sure.

Frankly, I don’t know what to make of this.  Whether I keep it or not will depend on what others say about it.  I made it as an improvisation using “soon:,” so as not to lose the latter due to my revision of the poem it was in.  The sub-dividend product is a fragment of my standard Poem poem semi-automatic imagerying.

It is, in fact, a near-perfect candidate for a pluraphrase.  Which I’ll add later today.

* * * * *

Okay, here’s my pluraphrase (with thanks to Conrad Didiodato, whom made a comment to my entry for yesterday that I ought to “flesh out” my description of the pluraphrase by demonstrating its operation on some classical poem.  That didn’t appeal to me, classical poems having been more than sufficiently discussed, but doing it for a poem I’d just been working on did.  It ought to test as well as demonstrate the procedure–and maybe help me with my poem, which it may well have, it turns out.  Time to start it.

After a note to the fore: what follows is to be taken as an attempt, an intelligent attempt, to prove a definitive pluraphrase of the poem treated, not a claim to do so.

1. According to this poem, if you divide “nowhere” by “language,” you’ll get “soon:,” with a remainder of “stars,  eternally listened-to.”  The poem also indicates that multiplying “language” by “soon:” equals “lavender streets slowly asked further and further into the depths of the bookshop’s near-holy mood.”

2. “soon” is an adjective indicating an event that has not yet occurred, a what-will-happen in the near future.  An expectation of something interesting to come is thus connoted, a connotation emphasized by the use of the colon, a punctuation mark indicating something to follow.  “Language” is the main human means of expression, communicated expression, so the metaphor, “language” times “soon:” suggests some sort message of consequence that is on the threshold of appearing.  The arithmetic of the poem  equates this message-to-come with “lavender streets,” or a path not likely to be real because of its color so a fairyland or dream path–through a town or city because a “street,” which has urban connotations, and because entering in some way a bookshop’s mood, which places it in a center of trade.

The street does not go in the mood but is “slowly asked” into it, “asked” serving as a metaphor for “go.”  We are not told who or what is doing the asking, ever.  A feature of many of the best poems is details left to puzzle the reader into subjective but potentially intriguing never quite sure answers.  For instance, that here the draw of the books in the shop is strong enough to invite a street, and those on it, into the shop.  It’s subtle, though, or so its slowness suggests.  And a production is being made of the asking, since ordinarily to ask something takes but a moment.  It’s important.

The personification of the bookshop as a creature capable of experiencing a mood clearly makes “mood” a metaphor” for “ambiance.”  This ambiance is “near-holy” for some unspecified reason, probably having something to do with language, books, literature, the word.  Something complex since the street apparently goes quite deeply into the mood–and, as I’ve just pointed out, slowly.  With perhaps deliberation.  Not on whim.

In keeping with “soonness,” the street reaches no final point, it is in the process of going somewhere.  Something is building.

If “stars,  eternally listened-to” is added (and the addition needn’t be metaphors since additions are not confined to mathematics) to the image of the street descending into the bookshop (or bookshop’s “mood”), we somehow get “nowhere.”  Or so the arithmetic requires us to accept.  Stars are (effectually, for human beings) eternal, and ‘listened-to” must be a metaphor for attended to or the like.  Or a reference to the music of the spheres, making what’s going on a mystically experience.  It would seem to be intended to be awe- inspiring.  Hence, for it to contribute, with a perhaps questing street, perhaps questioning street, to nowhere seems a severe anticlimax, or a joke.  Nothing makes sense except that the view expressed is that our greatest efforts lead nowhere.  Which I don’t like.  If I can improve the poem, from my point of view, by changing the dividend, which I may well do, it will demonstrate the value for a poet of a close reading of his work.

My pluraphrase is far from finished, though.  We have the technalysis to get through–and, in passing, I have to say that that is a beautiful term, I must say, even if no one but I will ever use it.  Melodation?  Well, the euphony of “nowhere,” “slowly,” “holy,” “soon:,” “into,” “shop’s” “mood,” “to” and “star,” with the first two carrying off an assonance, and the long-u ones possibly assonant with each other, too.  The “uhr”-rhymes, and backward rhyme of “lang” with “lav.”  A few instances of assonance, alliteration and consonance, but no more than you’d get in a prose passage of comparable length.  I would say that the pleasant sound of the sub-dividend product’s text adds nicely to its fairy-flow, but that melodation is not important in the poem.  No visio-aesthetic effects are present, or anything else unusual except, obviously, the matheasthetic effects.

The mpoem’s being in the form of a long division example, the chief of these, allow the metaphors of multiplication and addition already described in the close reading–but also the over-all metaphor of a “long-division machine” chugging along to produce the full meaning of the poem.  This provides a tone of inevitability, of certainty, of this is the way things truly are.  The ambiance of mathematics caused by the remainder line, and what I call the dividend-shed, is in what should be a stimulating tension with the ambience of the poem’s verbal appearance–as a poem.  Extreme abstraction versus the concreteness of the poetic details, science versus art, reason versus intuition.  All of which makes an enormous contribution to the poem’s freshness, since very few poems are mathematical.

The final function of an artwork is to cause a person to experience the familiar unexpectedly, here with long division yielding an emotional image-complex some engagents of the poem will find familiar.  Too much unfamiliarity for those without some experience of poems like this one.  Which reminds me that since this poem has a standard form, at least for this poet’s work, a long-division example–and, more generally, an equation, it alludes to other poems of its kind.  No other allusions seem present.

Part of the poem’s freshification, too, are “lavender street” since few streets are lavender, the idea of a street’s being “asked” into something, the idea of stars as “listened-to,” or a bookshop’s having a mood.  The breaking up of the poem into five discrete images is easy enough to follow but different enough to be fresh.

That’s it for the pluraphrase.  I think I’ll make the dividend “the the.”  The only thing I have against that is that I’ve used that before more than once.  I’ll probably do more with the look of the thing, add colors.  I’ve had thoughts from the beginning of giving it a background, with words.

Entry 369 — A Discussion of the Pluraphrase

Saturday, February 5th, 2011

In his kind blog entry on me the other day, Geof Huth pointed out a difference between the two of us that got me thinking.  It was that I need to know the meaning of each of my poems, whereas he doesn’t mind not knowing what a particular poem of his means, and sometimes doesn’t.  As is often the case, he was half right.  Certainly, I have a greater need to know the meaning of my poems than he has to know the meaning of his.  Never do I expect fully to know the meaning of a poem of mine, however.  Indeed, if I too quickly maxolutely grasp a poem’s meaning, I feel pretty certain it isn’t very good.

If by “understanding the meaning” we mean understanding the verbal meaning.  I mean far more than that by the term, though, for one can have only a very hazy verbal understanding of some poems but a visceral understanding of them that more than makes up for it.  Which I suspect Geof needs.  Does a poem make sense as an arrangement of elements?  Does it sound or look aesthetically pleasing in some important manner?

Zogwog.  I played tennis this morning.  On the way back on my bike I thought of how I was going to soar through this entry.  I had what I was going to say all figured out.  The result would be a description of something I call “the pluraphrase,” that I came up with twenty years or so ago.  It’s basically an analysis of a poem so full that, if carried out with skill, should permanently nail a poem.  I think no poem can be considered effective if no one can come up with a pluraphrase of it a reasonable number of others agree is sound and reasonably complete.   Effective as a poem, I mean.

For some reason, I’m swigging every whose where, not sure why.  Will try to get a grip on mineself and concentrate.

First there’s the paraphrase, which is a summary of what the poem’s words and graphics, if any, mainly denote,  connote and clearly allude to via quotations, symbols or other “advertances,” as I call them.  If you can’t make one for a given poem, either you or it is defective.  But there is much more to a poem than what a paraphrase tells you about it.

One thing is what a close reading uncovers.  Which should be everything a poem’s words and graphics, if any, denote,  connote and allude to.

Finally, and in my view most important, is the pluraphrase.  That’s the close reading plus the . . . technalysis, my new-today term for an analysis of what a poem does technically.  To wit: its melodation, or everything regarding what it does with sound–rhyme, meter, auditory shaping–and anything that contributes to the poem’s connotational or allusional ability (which can be great–for instance, what the sonnet-shape does as an advertance to the history of the sonnet in the West); its visio-aesthetic effects, or what its visual elements beyond the conventional shape of its letters, punctuation marks and other textemes do for it decoratively or visiopoetically; its audio-aesthetic effects, or what its auditory elements beyond the conventional sound of its syllables do for it decoratively or beyond that to make it a sound poem, if that’s what it is; its linguitechnics or its appropriate misuse of grammar for aesthetically meaningful language poetry effects; its freshification (I know, I need a better term for this, but I’m ad hoccing at the moment), which in conventional poetry is primarily its use of fresh diction or  subject matter–particularly in the case of surrealistic and jump-cut poetry, of fresh juxtapositions of images; mathaesthetic effects, or the use of mathematical operations on non-mathematical terms as in my mathemaku; miscaesthetic (miscellaneous aesthetic) effects or the contribution of its gustatory, olfactory, tactile, or the like in some aesthetically meaningful way.

No doubt there are elements of poetry I’ve overlooked.  Let me know about them, please.  I truly want to be complete.

My view, as stated, is that no poem that cannot be given a reasonably full and coherent pluraphrase can be effective.  My only evaluative uncertainty is whether or not a poem for which no reasonably full and coherent close reading exists can be considered effective–as a poem.  Such a text may prove sufficiently audio-aesthetically or visio-aesthetically pleasing to be considered effective as music (textual music) or visimagery (textual visimagery), but not as poetry, which needs to be verbo-aesthetically compelling to qualify as an effective poem.  For instance, Gertrude Stein’s buttons, which are not poems but short pieces of evocature, would be effective as prose if they could be shown to make verbal sense.  Stephen-Paul Martin did that for one of them to my satisfaction in a book whose title escapes me, and someone else did the same for another, I vaguely recall.  Marjory Perloff failed to do it for a number of them.  As is, the most you can say for them is that they may be somewhat effective pieces of music.

Getting back to how much a poet should know about his own poems, I don’t think he ought to make a pluraphrase of everyone of them.  I haven’t of mine.  But he ought to have some feel for whether a poem of his could be pluraphrased, and whether at least some of its elements were superior.  I’m sure that most poets know these things in some way.  Sometimes intense analysis is necessary, I think.  Unless a single pleasing effect is enough for you, and you don’t care about the unifying principle I believe every poem needs to make it to the top.

My temperament is such that I enjoy analysis.  I find it almost always useful.  True, sometimes one’s analysis can lead one astry.  More often it helps, I believe.  I now believe it has with regard to the mathemaku Geof posted of mine in his little celebration of my birthday the other day.  The version he posted almost convinced me I should have “soon:” as its quotient instead of “Persephone.”  Last night, thanks to analysis, to trying to fathom the full meaning of the poem, I concluded I was wrong.  “Persephone” is definitely better.  The quotient times “mystery” is supposed to equal the springlike effect of language on the world, according to my analysis, so multiplying it by “Persephone,” the goddess of spring, will clearly allow this while multiplying it by “soon:” will not clearly do it.  The idea of soon something will follow won’t suggest it to many, I don’t think.  And although I tried hard to think of how language could be thought to have anything to do with “soonness,” I couldn’t.  Nor did mystery.  If it had, then “soon:” wouldn’t have had to.  “Persephone” may be a tick too overt, but I’d rather be too clear than unclear.  Besides, it’s “Persephone” in its sole hard copy publication.

* * *

On my bike, I imagined I’d be able to make this entry a wonderful source for students of poetry that no college could be without.  It didn’t work out that way.  I do hope to return to it sometime and improve it.

William Shakespeare « POETICKS

Archive for the ‘William Shakespeare’ Category

Entry 1405 — Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18

Thursday, March 27th, 2014

Off-the-top-of-my-head (although I’ve given the matter lots of thought on&off over the years), something I just wrote for the Shaksper Internet discussion group:

A problem I think interesting, and serious, is what should guide a  reader of a poem to his reading of a poem (or any work of art).  I claim there are four things he should consider: (1) the author’s intention; (2) how closely the poem may follow some fashion in poetry-composition of his time; (3) whether or not the poem is part of a sequence, and how, if that is the case, that affects the reading; and (4) what reading makes the poem best as a work of art for the given reader.

For me, a die-hard new critic, the author’s intention is irrelevant, except insomuch he explicitly reveals it in his work. If known, though, one should certain consult it to see if it helps one discover thing in the poem that one would have missed if not looking for them.

For me, it makes sense to investigate the compositional fashions of the time a poem was composed and use what one finds out about it that can be applied to one’s reading of the poem.

For me, a poem’s being explicitly, or even weakly implicitly, part of a sequence (as well as part of a poet’s ouevre) should also be taken in consideration.  I as a poet, for instance, am almost obsessed with celebrating the coming of spring; so it would make sense for someone finding an ever-so-slight connotation of that in a poem I recently wrote about Columbus to accept it as in that poem (if he wants to).

For me as a reader of a poem, though, what is most important is what the poem’s text by itself can plausibly be said  to say by itself that will maximize my aesthetic experience of it.  If for instance, Milton tells me his poem justifies Jehovah’s treatment of the rebellious Lucifer (or whatever the devil is called in the poem [I haven’t read it for a while and have a lousy memory for names and the like] but I go along with Blake in finding Lucifer justified, and Jehovah a tyrant, I have no trouble ignoring Milton.  I don’t find any explicit authorial intent behind Sonnet 18, so have no trouble taking the poem as what it on the surface is–a celebration of summer.  (That’s a joke, but only here; in truth, I argue just that in the book I began but left hanging a while ago on Sonnet 18; I accept that the poem is doing other things, but consider them less important in the poem than summer.)

I vaguely know that nutty Platonic allegorical sequences were in vogue when Shakespeare wrote his sonnets, but don’t find inflicting allegor on sonnet 18, which is hard to do, for the most part, without straining worth doing–because, to my taste, the sonnet works much better as a lyrical poem taken for what it is on the surface.  Similarly, church steeples work best for me not as glorifications of some god, or as avenues to Heaven–or as phallic symbols–but as celebrations of mountains or simple height and of Man’s ability to create.

I find Ian Steere’s reading of the first 126 sonnets as a sequence easy to go along with,  I don’t find it a smooth sequence.  It does near-certainly make the addressee male.  But I don’t care.  The plausibility of the sonnets as a sequence (or haphazardly organized collection) about the poet’s relationship (when it was worshipful) with a young XY-chromosome girl simply indicates authorial intention.  But when what he wanted to say conflicts with what his poem just as plausibly can say (the celebration a a poet’s female opposite for her feminine physical beauty and feminine temperance, etc.),  I grant the reader the right, again, to ignore authorial intent.

Conclusion: there’s nothing wrong with trying to determine how the poet wanted his poem read, nor with determining how fashion may have influenced it, nor with fitting it to a sequence with a view of finding the author’s intentions for the over-all sequence, or finding what one can plausibly interpret the sequence to best mean.  But these ways of involvment with Sonnet 18, or any work of art should not keep one more interested in what it can do for him aesthetically from taking it only for the pleasure its words, by themselves, can give him.

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Entry 888 — Treatise on the Nature of Mediocrity

Thursday, October 11th, 2012

I love to evaluate things.  To do it right, I have to first define extremely rigorously what it is I’m evaluating, including their evaluatable attributes.  I must also list my criteria, also meticulously defined, but also with my reasons for using them.  It was a post to HLAS, which is where I argue about who wrote the works of Shakespeare with wacks, that yesterday got me thinking about (again) evaluating the culturateurical value of those attempting to contribute to world culture.  The post, whose author calls himself “Sneaky O. Possum,” had attacked me for my response to another sub-mediocrity, who had found fault with my praise of a bunch of Shakespeare scholars for permitting “Dave Kathman write something for their book [an upcoming defense of the proposition that Will Shakespeare of Stratford wrote the works attributed to him]. But, who knows, perhaps twenty years after my book on the subject they may come close to equaling it, so far as the authorship argument is concerned.”

The sub-mediocrity bothered by what I’d said, who has often tried to shoot me down, but never with anything but assertions, had said, “Bob, today you believe Will Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare. Based on the above comment, you are as delusional as Art, Paul and the many others who believe it didn’t. You are a legend in your own mind. Your mediocrities comment is a classic example of projection.”  My retort, never-answered, needless to say, was, “Ah, Robin, nice to know you’ve read my book and therefore are competent to state that what I wrote about it in comparison to the estabniks’ book is delusional. Nonetheless, if you were a responsible critic of such as I, you really ought to show evidence in support of your contention.

“Oh, unless my delusion was in believing that such mediocrities might equal my book, so far as the authorship debate is concerned.”

Here’s what Mr. Possum said to that: “Robin showed just as much evidence of your delusional state as you showed to demonstrate that Charles Nicholl, MacDonald P. Jackson, Kate McLuskie, Alan Nelson, Carol Rutter et al. are ‘mediocrities.’ But no doubt you’ve read everything they’ve written, yes? You can cite chapter and verse of Nicholl’s work to demonstrate his mediocrity?  Please do so.”

My response, “I was expressing an opinion, a polemical opinion. No need to defend it. I suppose I should clarify, though. First off, my definition of mediocrity is not yours, I’m sure. Most of these people are competent, valuable academics. For me, though, a non-mediocrity needs to do more than add a new fact or two to the received understanding of his subject. None has, although I’m not sure how I could ‘prove’ that–except by asking others to tell me what any of them has done that does more than Nicholl does to improve what we know about Marlowe (which I’ve read and enjoyed), for example.

“Secondly, I over-generalized in calling them mediocrities when I really meant they were mediocrities in the authorship question, not one of them coming up with more than one or two very belated contributions to the subject.

“I am alarmingly admiring of my own efforts for some reason, so offer as strong evidence of these people’s mediocrity in the authorship discussion the fact that they completely ignore my contributions to it. I do have absolute evidence that Shapiro is a mediocrity regarding the authorship question: his paltry, superficial ‘theory’ for the existence of anti-Shakespeareans, that Biblical scholars were making the questioning of famous texts fashionable, and that bardolators had turned a lot of people against Shakespeare because he was less than they made him out to be.

“Am I fairly describing his view? Probably not, but I’m close enough. What’s mediocre about it? That it takes us nowhere. It doesn’t explain why some people did not turn against Shakespeare. It doesn’t explain the reasoning of the wacks–why, in particular, they are immune to evidence. Now, I get criticized for saying the anti-Shakespeareans are what they are because they are insane. If I said that, I would be doing what Shapiro does (except perhaps slightly worse). I would be saying they are wrong because they are nuts. Which is true, but takes us nowhere . . . unless we can say in detail in what way they are wrong, and what neurophysiologically sets them up to be wrong.

“I have a detailed theory about that, which makes me NOT mediocre. Even if it’s wrong. Because it indicates I’m after an answer of substance, which Shapiro isn’t (and he’s superior to all the other academics who have tried to say why the wacks are wacks).

“I would add, SOP, that you are clearly a mediocrity. Evidence? That you require me to have read everything these academics have written to be qualified to evaluate them. In other words, you have no idea of non-mediocre thinking, which uses a minimum of empirical academic dwarfery to build large understandings. A key is the ability to generalize, which none of these people these people show much of.”

 Eventually, Tom Reedy defended my bok as follows: “Actually Bob’s book, although it has a few holes, is quite good.”

 I thanked him for the defense, but  said I’d have preferred”an attack that said what the ‘few holes’ were.”

Tom went on to aver that I “could have used the services of a good copy editor (and if he had done so it would have been publishable by a mainstream press).”  He was right about the copy editor but absurdly wrong that my book would ever have been publishable by a mainstream press since I’m not an academic, nor a mediocrity repeating standard views.

“That his criticism of mainstream scholars is juvenile,” Tom went on to say, “and obviously motivated by a good deal of resentment and jealousy does nothing to besmirch his work at all–I look at it as the authorship version of Ezra Pound’s idiotic views. . .”

 My criticism is certainly not juvenile but no doubt motivated by a good deal of resentment and jealousy; it is much more motivated by the art&science crippling way establishments come about and stay in power.

 According to Tom, ” There is nothing mediocre about the work of any of those named above.”  And we’re back to the alleged subject of this entry, mediocrity.

I replied to Tom that according to my definition of “mediocre,” my statement wasn’t isn’t all that foolish.  I asked him if he could “tell me how any of these people have stepped a significant step away from the received understandings of their field?  Can you tell me how any non-mediocrity can be satisfied to write about someone hundreds of books have been written about rather than about someone no books have been written about?  Nay, rather than about a school of authors no books have been written about?”

Tom ended by praising my willingness “to call insane thinking what it is”–but added that I “could have left out is his idiosyncratic general theory of human psychology.”  He correctly suspected, however, that without that I wouldn’t have written it.  Without that, in fact, my book would have been mediocre, at best.

Let me add here that I’ve read several of Stanley Wells’s books with great enjoyment (and he’s one of the crew involved with the upcoming Shakespeare defense); Charles Nicholl has written good books, too, that I’ve read.  They and others, but not all, I called mediocrities are not.  My problem, and what most got me to start writing this entryis that I’m not sure what to call them.  Like I believe many others are, I tend to believe in there being many mediocrities out there, and a few geniuses, and no one in-between.  Certainly, there’s no standard name for someone like Wells, who is doing admirable work, but not truly culturateurical work (i.e., work that significantly redefines some important cultural field).  I use the terms, “major genius” and “minor genius”–Yeats and Housman, say, and speaked of the “talented,” whom I consider superior to mediocrities.  But “talent” isn’t a common term for near-geniuses.  Is “adept?”  It doesn’t work, for me, nor does “expert” or “master.”  For one thing, many mediocrities are experts or masters, or even adepts.

Without the right term, I can’t continue.  Maybe one will hit me before tomorrow.

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Entry 656 — A Clone of Shakespeare

Wednesday, February 15th, 2012

To continue my argument that the arts progress just like verosophy does (and take care of this entry with minimal effort), here’s a question: if a clone of Shakespeare had been created in 1980 and he was now a professional actor writing plays for the stage and screen, would they not be better than the ones he wrote four hundred years ago?  Would he not be able to improve on what he composed then?

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Entry 206 — Shakespeare’s Sonnet 97

Monday, August 30th, 2010

Over at the Forest of Arden, I had a lot of trouble figuring out Shakespeare’s Sonnet 97, then suddenly put together an explication of it I liked so much, I’m posting it here.

Sonnet 97

How like a Winter hath my absence beene
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting yeare?
What freezings haue I felt, what darke daies seene?
What old Decembers barenesse euery where?
And yet this time remou’d was sommers time,
The teeming Autumne big with ritch increase,
Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime,
Like widdowed wombes after their Lords decease:
Yet this aboundant issue seem’d to me,
But hope of Orphans, and vn-fathered fruite,
For Sommer and his pleasures waite on thee,
And thou away, the very birds are mute.
Or if they sing, tis with so dull a cheere,
That leaues looke pale, dreading the Winters neere.

* * * * *

Okay, here beginnith my explication:

How like a Winter hath my absence beene
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting yeare?
What freezings haue I felt, what darke daies seene?

What old Decembers barenesse euery where?
the quickly passing year, is like being in winter.
Coldness, darkness, December’s bareness seem
everywhere to me, as everyone agrees. Vendler
adds that Shakespeare is picturing an “imaginary
winter.”  He isn’t.  He’s just making a simile.

And yet this time remou’d was sommers time,

The time we’ve been apart was summer.
Still straightforward and undebatable.

The teeming Autumne big with ritch increase,
Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime,
Like widdowed wombes after their Lords decease:
NoSweatShakespeare, a website with sonnet analyses, put
an “and” at the beginning of this.  I wouldn’t, but the
“and,” which I’d previously thought of, too, then discarded
helped me accept this as just a continuation of the previous line:

I missed, Joe, Sally .  .  .  The speaker was gone during the
end of summer and much of autumn. . .   So, to backtrack:

And yet this time remou’d was sommers time,
The teeming Autumne big with ritch increase,
Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime,
Like widdowed wombes after their Lords decease:

The time I have been away from you was
summer followed by autumn, which was
bearing a good crop like women bearing dead
husbands’ offspring.

Yet this aboundant issue seem’d to me,
But hope of Orphans, and vn-fathered fruite,

However fine the autumn, abundant and promising
seemed to me a dreary place for orphans and fruit
no love-making had produced
, which is about
as nearly everyone would have it, I’m sure.

For Sommer and his pleasures waite on thee,

For, imaginatively, it’s still summer, because the realest
summer although it wasn’t exactly hers) is still waiting for
the addressee’s to continue.

Confession: I got the contrast of what’s imagined, what real,
from Vendler.

And thou away, the very birds are mute.
Or if they sing, tis with so dull a cheere,
That leaues looke pale, dreading the Winters neere.

Back in the real world, where it’s autumn, the birdies
and the leafies are sad, thinking about the nearness
of winter.

Have I more or less finally gotten it?  Regardless, I feel
quite buoyed to have come up with what I did.  Later I
discovered Robert Stonehouse had much the same
interpretation as mine, but I think I did better on
“summer/ Autumn” and “summer waits” than he,
so remain happy about my achievement.

Entry 74 — Poetic Densities, Continued

Thursday, January 14th, 2010

.

.        Sonnet 18
.
.       Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
.       Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
.       Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May
.       And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
.
.       Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines
.       And often is his gold complexion dimmed.
.       And every fair from fair sometime declines
.       By chance or Nature’s changing course untrimmed.
.
.       But thy eternal summer shall not fade
.       Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st.
.       Nor shall Death brag thou wandr’st in his shade
.       When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st.
.
.       So long as men have breath and eyes to see,
.       So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
.

Shakespeare, 140 syllables,  116 words (because I count “sometime’ as two words) to give a semantic density of .83.  That’s lower than I estimated yesterday because when I forgot that not all its words of more than one syllable had only one more than one.  So Frost’s poem is quite a bit higher than Shakespeare’s.

The sonnet has a surprisingly low euphonic density: .09.  It makes up for that in repenemic density.  I have the figures somewhere to measure that with but am not up to finding them just now.

Entry 73 — “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”

Wednesday, January 13th, 2010

As long-term readers of my blog will know, one of my projects is an in-depth study of Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 18.”  I’ve also been interested in Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.”  While thinking about it recently, I realized how few polysyllabic words it had.  Always ready to formulaize something if I can, I soon came up with a (possibly) new characteristic of poems, semantic density.  It is equal to  the number of syllables in a poem divided into the number of words in the poem.  It turns out the Frost poem’s semantic density is .86, Shakespeare’s about the same.   I suspect few other poems have as high a semantic density, but I haven’t investigated the matter.

.                 Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

.                 Whose woods these are I think I know.
.                 His house is in the village though;
.                 He will not see me stopping here
.                 To watch his woods fill up with snow.

.                 My little horse must think it queer
.                 To stop without a farmhouse near
.                 Between the woods and frozen lake
.                 The darkest evening of the year.

.                 He gives his harness bells a shake
.                 To ask if there is some mistake.
.                 The only other sound’s the sweep
.                 Of easy wind and downy flake.

.                 The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
.                 But I have promises to keep,
.                 And miles to go before I sleep,
.                 And miles to go before I sleep.

Technically speaking, there are seventeen polysyllabic words in this poem, one of them three syllables in length, all the others just two in length.  I do not count “farmhouse” as a single word, though, since each of its two syllables has a clear separate meaning, “farm” really being an adjective pushed into a noun, “house.”  And I count “”sound’s” as two words, because it is: “sound” plus “is.”  Yet is is only one syllable in length.  So, to get the semantic density of the poem, we divide 110, not 109, by 128

Once become mathematically irreverent toward about the ratio of words in a poem to its syllables, I thought of other density ratios applicable to poems: e.g., euphonic density or the ratio of euphonies (long-o‘s, long-u‘s and “ah”-sounds) to number of syllables in a poem, repenemic density (repenemes to syllables, a repeneme being a repeated melodation such as alliterationor rhyme, the latter counting as two repenemes) and–this one I especially like–oddword density.  This would be the ratio of unusual words to syllable-count, with “unusual” being what a word is that comes up only a certain low number of times in s large sample of contemporary writing.

The euphonic denisty of Frost’s poem is just under .20.  I’d be surprised if many other poems have a euphonic denisty that high.  I’ll check Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 18″ tomorrow.

Entry 569 — Sample Hand-Out for Show « POETICKS

Entry 569 — Sample Hand-Out for Show

 

Mathemaku for William Blake

This is one of my favorites of my own poems.   Blake is not a central hero of mine, but I do like some of his poems and a lot of passages from his work, particularly the wonderful:

                       To see a world in a grain of sand
                       And a heaven in a wild flower,
                       Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
                       And eternity in an hour.

In my poem the grain of sand is the dividend (that’s what you divide into, for those of you who may have forgotten the terminology—and it took me a long time to remember what was what in long division when I started making long division poems).  Most of one world that might be in it is the many-color design under it.  My (very loose) idea was to say that the right kind of eyesight can multiply a dreary day into a wonderful world.  Add ripples, or an influence spreading out from that world, to it, and you’ll get what Blake found in a grain of sand.

I thought of the “right kind of eyesight” (or, really, over-all sensitivity) as being “unlessoned” or without much formal education and therefore able to see things in an unconventional way, like Blake did.  I liked the pun the word makes with “un-lessened,” or “not reduced.”  I added “lane-loving” because I think of lanes as wandery and out in the country, sure to go to interesting, happy places. 

Poets are usually taught no avoid adjectives as much as possible, but I like them.  That’s why I have two in my quotient (the top part) and three in my divisor (what goes into the dividend).   I do try for unusual ones, though, such as “stumbled-inert,” whose meaning I hope I don’t have to spell out.

I tried to make my poem visually appealing, but carried out very few visual poetry tricks,   “stum  
bled” does stumble, and the day is kind of pinched; I think the ripples ripple, and the grain of sand is packed tight.  

Diary for 19 November 2011, 6 P.M.: another okay day.  Tennis in the morning followed by a snack and conversation with my teammates at a MacDonald’s.  Back here, tired, but able after a short nap to take care of my blog and one item for my exhibition at the same time by working up a curriculum vitae for the exhibition which I could post as the day’s blog entry.  I already had one of these but it was a little out-of-date, and in need of a bit of revision.  It took more than on hour to take care of, for I improved it quite a bit.  Still tired, I had troube getting around to my book.  I spent some time, off and on, playing Civilization or reading the Tom Clancy novel I started a few days ago, to avoid the book.  I finally got to it, although I didn’t do too much work on it, just enough to feel I’d done my duty.  I made up a little for that by writing a good longish commentary on another of the poems that will be in my exhibit, “Mathemaku in Praise of Language.”  I may get a little more work done today, but I doubt it.

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Entry 537 — Notes Re: “The Before” « POETICKS

Entry 537 — Notes Re: “The Before”

I think it near-universal an instinct of human beings to want to share knowledge–to find it before anyone else, of course, but then to share it.  Not merely to feel superior but to give others the pleasure of it.  I think I may have this instinct to any extreme.  It is certainly why, unlike most poets, I’m rarely satisfied to present a poem with no comment.  Perhaps I would if I believed anyone would catch on to what the poem was doing without help, but I don’t think so, for I don’t merely want to explain the poem, but hold forth on the creative process; my own quirks as a poet, and person; whose work I’ve stolen from; why the poem I’m discussing is great–or not great; and almost anything else I can think of. 

Here, I want to gab about the work I posted yesterday–mainly about why I consider it a failure.  I believe it began with my thinking of its dividend, “the before/ the best colors quiet/ (permanently) into.”  Probably in slightly different words that I played with.  I still liike this expression although it only means “one’s happiest memories.”  But poetry basically consists of trite comments gussied up.

The graphic at the top is a negative image of a detail from one of my cursive mathmaku.  The blue fragment of text in it is most of “any preposition whatever,” a locution I feel will work anywhere.  The poem, incidentally, was to be part of a set of four inter-related poems, one or two of the others also using details from prior mathemaku of mine. 

Around the time I came up with the dividend’s text, I scribbled “mapling into a full moon.” This enchanted me, I think because L delight in using nouns as verbs.  But I was also thinking of the color of the moon (a favorite image of mine) abd iof maple syrup.  And the latter’s taste.  I added “evening” because of some vague thought of a (printed) evening somehow turning into a (cursive) moon in some maple-like manner.  That is, the sap of evening was being collected by the form of the moon.  Many of my mathamuical terms are touched with this kind of weird rationality, or pseudo rationality.  Sometimes I believe it works, sometimes not.  In this case, not.  In spite of how nice the cursive part of it looks.

The divisor was forced.  I just couldn come up with an appropriate image, so grabbed “pond,” because I like ponds almost as much as I like the moon.  I made the image “poetic” with “breeze-trilled.”  It’s a kind of silly hyphenated adjective that I’m prone to.  Some of them work, at least for those not biased against heightened rhetoric, but I don’t think this one does.  Actually, I believe I may have taken the pond from another mathemaku in my quartet, having found something better for the poem I took it from.  It was more political there than here, the “certification” having to do with the need for places to get away from totalitarianism to.  (I’m semi-obsessed with the BigWorld’s extreme preference for credentials over abilities.)  I think the liquidity of the pond works nicely with mapling, and the darkness of the quotient works with “evening.”  This is important since the term under the dividend is supposed to result from themultiplication of the divisor by the quotient.  But both still seem off to me.  At this stage, I’m not sure whether to change them or replacethem.  So far, I have no ideas for doing either.

My remainder I threw in because I couldn’t think of anything else.  An ampersand can work anywhere, in my opinion, but I use it too often, and should not have here. 

Sometimes when I write out an analysis of a poem I’m dissatisfied with, I write my way to solutions.  That didn’t happen this time.  Oh, well, I found it fun to do!

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Entry 301 — An Excerpt from a Column-in-Progress « POETICKS

Entry 301 — An Excerpt from a Column-in-Progress

What follows is from the column I’m working on for the January/February issue of  Small Press Review.  I knocked it out a little while ago.

Guy Beining, a frequent contributor to ZYX is represented by an intriguing poem called, “Spheres of Clouds and Skulls,” which alone puts the zine at the forefront of experioddica.  A passage to give the flavor of his “Sphere of Clouds and Skulls: “Prior to heat there is worship.//barely audible one hears- who is the guest of/ the dead bird? Who holds a hanger as grail/ upside down in water?/ the corpse in all of us moves out/ a bit & on spigot we watch a form rotate/ spawn clouds between legs and along tongue.// Direction is a hazard that makes us move.// beyond cloud cover there is the public dance.” What is most wondrous-fine to me about the poem, though, is what Beining does in it with clouds (particularly “cloud cover”), constantly, weirdfully renewingly riffing off them, under-deepening the poem with their presence even when unmentioned, and ending the poem with a moon’s view of them.

I was all set to put off work on the column until this afternoon. (It is now around ten a.m.) To pretend I was serious about working on it, though, I put what I’d so far written up on my computer screen. Then, uncharacteristically for me–at least now–I thought I’d put in a line about the importance of clouds in the poem. Once I’d done that, I kept going and got the whole paragraph done in two minutes or less. Not a great accomplishment, as I had previously typed the extract from Guy’s poem. I’d already come up with my slant on the clouds and been mulling it over, too. What was new was that I saw a way to organize my take on the whole poem around it–after staying away from the column for a week or more because I couldn’t think how to deal with the poem. I knew I didn’t have room to say much about it but wanted to at least be interestingly informative about it.

The paragraph made me Very Happy for several reasons. It got me finally back into the essay. It took care of the only part I thought it’d be difficult, so am confident I’ll finish a near-final draft of it today. It gave me something write about here. Most of all, it made me feel good about my writing skill–I’d had fun and said a few good things about something important. Two things tend to make me feel that way about something I’ve written about a poem : a solution to the poem that has been giving me trouble that I believe in, and chances to play with the language with stuff like “weirdfully renewingly” and “underdeepening.” The latter is self-indulgent, but what’s the point of doing anything if you can’t indulge yourself, at least a little? Aside from that, there have to be people around for whom such words are fun, too.

* * * * *

It’s now four in the afternoon.  I was hoping to have heard back from Poets House so I could pass it on, but I haven’t, so I’m posting this now.

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