Entry 401 — Experimental Poetry « POETICKS

Entry 401 — Experimental Poetry

Thinking about the poem I wrote yesterday:

.            Poem in last the Where Yellow

.            When sky Poem club over
.            sundry conniving. chain Last; exceptions.
.            Witheringly so so so, so example for
.            doesn’t? It. instants and below.
.            shifted candy bellowing bulge ‘s, s,o
.            with her wristle
.            exceeds which whistley love.
.            Parties never part am he.

I realized that it was a genuine experimental poem–as many poems called “experimental” are not.  That, unsurprisingly, put me into my defining mode.   My first reason for deeming my poem experimental was that in composing it I had devoted myself seriously to doing something significant as a poet that I’d never done when composing a poem before.  Or at least couldn’t remember having seriously done.  First simple insight–that, for me, a poem I made could be experimental even if what I did as a poet was something others had done.  Such was the case with this poem, for I’m sure language poets have made poems with the intention of avoiding any suggestion of sentences.  Conclusion: there are two kinds of experimental poems, endo-experimental poems and exo-experimental poems. Poems experimental for their composers and poems that are experimental for the world.

There are also–those in which a p0et does something as a poet new for him that he claims is therefore experimental.  Like trying out a new rhyme-scheme.  But if it would seem to almost every knowledgeable person that a poet’s endo-experiment is at the level of the “experiment” almost any poet must carry out when composing a poem, since he must make a poem different in some way from any previous poem of his, his poem is pseudo-experimental.  Else all poems are experimental, and the term has no meaning.

As I’ve opined before many times, in one way or another: a genuine experimental poem can easily, mostly likely will, be a failure as a poem, but it will never be a failure because one must learn from it.  So an experimental poem that fails as a poem is as worth making as a non-experimental poem that succeeds as a poem, unless that latter succeeds majorly.

The main thing a poet might learn from an experimental poem of his that fails as a poem is that whatever it was that he did differently was unproductive, and not worth repeating.  Better, he might see variations of his experiment he could try.  There would remain the possibility that some variation of the experiment would yield a valuable new kind of poem.  If not, he will have learned of a path not worth following.  He might also end not only in learning in detail why that path was not worth following, but with a raised understanding of the non-experimental things he could do as a poet, and be able to appreciate and employ them better than he had.

So, what Have I learned from my poem?  I’m not sure.  Nothing definite, for sure.  Just a few inklings that certain details may have potential.  I like “instants and below,” who knows why.  Ditto, “”example for doesn’t.”  The “‘s” is outside the avoid-sentences experiment but makes me think an apostrophe in front of a single letter or maybe two letters might be artfully mysterious, if the letter or letters were not arbitrarily chosen.  Something to let the under-conscious bat around.  A word like “so” repeated for no apparent reason (except here I thought of “so-so,” and the fact that “so so-so” did make sense).  “To part am,” somewhere in my head doing is something.

Another thought: that doing everything in a poem purposely wrong can help shake one out of the habit of doing everything purposely right, which I feel will almost never lead to a good poem.

A question: if I make a variation of the endo-experimental poem above will the result be an endo-experimental poem?  By my definition, no.  My first experiment will have to have been my only significant experiment.  I wouldn’t be doing more than changing a rhyme-scheme.   That, however, would make experimental poems too rare to bother naming, and no poet would qualify to be an experimental poet.  So I would extend my definition to include as experimental poems in which the poet devotes himself seriously to doing variations of something significant he has never before tried as a poet.

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Entry 1699 — More Scraps

Wednesday, January 21st, 2015

Scrap #1: Yesterday’s mail included another chapbook from Mark Sonnenfeld, Check Check Done and Done, half of it devoted to poems by Mark and half to poems by Dory L. Williams.  Good reading but one thing in it by Dory L. Williams really knocked me out: to me, it’s an epigram, because a statement of an opinion, so according to my taxonomy a work of informrature.  Be that as it may, it’s as good an epigram as I’ve come across in years, if ever:

Covetness

If you want fame and money without real
achievement behind it, you’re not greedy enough.

Scrap #2:  After I posted yesterday’s entry, I remembered a central feature of Iowa Workshop Poetry I’d intended to mention before any other, but then forgot: it’s the recognition of the potential of ordinary subject matter for tranfiguringly successful poetry–as in Williams’s “The Red Wheelbarrow,” and in all the best haiku.   I am all for ordinary subject matter . . . but it can’t do much unless connected to archetypal matter one needs to be in one’s magniceptual awareness to be able to employ.  Williams’s poem is, finally, not about a wheelbarrow anywhere near as much as it is about Beauty.

Lesson for poets: keep explicit abstracts and generalities out of your poems as Ezra tells you to, but build you poems on them as I tell you to.  This, incidentally, you don’t necessarily have to consciously strive for, but you must be able to recognize when something worthily archetypal begins to show under your poem’s words so as to strengthen those words’ connection to it–and/or weaken the visibility of their path to it.  The archetypal foundation of the best poems is much more often understood in their engagents’ marrow long before it’s dealt with the reasoning parts of their higher faculties, if it ever is.  (Few poets have very large reducticeptual awarenesses or scienceptual awareness, which are where analysis is carried out.)

Possibly more important than the connection to the archetypal is the technique, the freshness of the technique employed to make that connection, which is usually metaphorical.

I’m just repeating old thoughts of mine, disorganizedly.   Jus’ tryin’ to make it through another blog entry.
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Entry 407 — “The Red Wheelbarrow,” Visited Yet Again

Friday, March 25th, 2011

I’m not sure how regular a blogger I’ll be for a while, but here’s another entry.

A number of years back, I did what I thought was a superior examination of William Carlos Williams’s “The Red Wheelbarrow.”  Yesterday, thinking again about it–because I had the sudden idea that maybe I’d written enough little essays like it for a book-length collection of essays (later finding out I was wrong)–a simple explication of it occurred to  me: “so much depends upon (the fact that the everyday world can contain such beauty as) a (simple) red wheel barrow, glazed with rain water, beside white chickens.”  After writing that, I wonder if I didn’t already have it in my original essay.  I certainly said that’s what the poem most simply said, but I don’t think I then so concisely got its meaning (for me–always remember that, kids; but also remember that some engagents’ meanings are much better than everyone else’s).

Yes, it has many further meanings.  But that’s its core meaning.

In any case, after coming up with the explication just given, I thought a while about how much I enjoy explicating and otherwise critically dealing with poems, and–for the millionth time–about my belief that a good critique is as valuable as the poem it critiques.  Is, in fact, a conceptual variation on the poem it critiques, almost as enrichingly like/unlike it as a musical composition like Scheherazade is enrichingly like/unlike the literary work that inspired it.  It “spoils” the poem only the way scientific knowledge of the moon robs nullosophers of its magic.

* * * * *

What’s better: to know a lot of poems by others reasonably well, or know just a few extremely well?  Probably neither, but I certainly hope that the few poems by others I know, I know extremely well.  Some of them, I’m sure I do.  And by “extremely well,” I mean as well as anyone.   It bothers me that I keep returning to them so often.  But every once in a while, I tackle a new poem or two.

Poetics « POETICKS

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Entry 1733 — A Limited Entry

Monday, February 23rd, 2015

Okay, maybe I shouldda said “more limited than usual.”  I’ve had a busy day away from the computer–with nothing I was sufficiently burning to say to inspire a good entry, anyway.  So, just a minor thought followed by Knowlecular Psychology stuff I’ve written about before but want to repeat to get my brain a little more well-fastened to it.

* * *

Thinking about my tendency to try too hard to make sure my readers had all the information they needed fully to understand what I was writing, it occurred to me technology could come to my aid: I’m sure Kindles could be fixed to allow me to avoid boring any reader with information he doesn’t need could but also provide him with a text he could click to at any time which would have all the extra information. Right now footnotes can do this, but what I’m speaking of would not be intrusive the way footnotes are.

Indeed, a reader could be given a choice of texts–one with the math explained, one without that, for example; or any other appropriate specialized version.

* * *

Re: my knowlecular psychology, I was thinking again about what most poems are about, and went through my list again: (1) people; (2) imagery sans people; (3) concepts . . .  Is that all?  Doesn’t sound right, but I’m too out of it right now to think of any others.

What knowlecular psychology has to do with this, is that the first category could be described (as I’m sure I’ve more than once already described it) as “anthroceptual poetry.”  Or as “sagaceptual poetry,” which is poetry in which what happens to one or more people is more important than the people–for the reader, the joy of vicariously experiencing a human triumph is more important than the joy of empathetically merging with another human being.  Two kinds of people poems.

By imagery poetry, I mean poetry that is more concerned with conveying the beauty of the sound and/or the visual appearance (primarily or usually) of what is denoted by a poem’s words–or protoceptual poetry.  As for concept poetry, I’m not sure any kind of genuine poetry is more conceptual than either of the other two (and almost all poems contain both anthroceptual and protoceptual matter).  If it existed, I would call it “reducticeptual poetry.”  A good example would be “lighght”: it is aesthetically dependent on its conceptual element–the conceptual datum about its orthography; but that element’s only use is to metaphorically lift the image the poem is about into, well, poetry, so I consider the poem more protoceptual than reducticeptual.

It may be that certain conceptual poems do use conceptual elements to lift a content that is ideational rather than sensual into poetry.  Indeed, perhaps one of my mathematical poems may provide some reader more with a feeling of the poetry of asensual mathematics than with anything sensual image that may be an element of the poem.

Something requiring more thought.

Note: what I wanted primarily to glue into my memory was the term “protoceptual.”  I’ve had trouble with it because I for a while was using “fundaceptual” in place of it.  Eventually I needed “funda” elsewhere in my psychology and felt it too confusing to have it there and with “ceptual,” so went back to “protoceptual,” which I used before for the term.

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Entry 1701 — The Elements of Free Verse

Friday, January 23rd, 2015

“Imagery, the only prevailing poetic element in modern free verse,” quoth Sarah Ruden, a skilled translator of classical literature in “Back to Tragedy,” an article in the January 2015 issue of The New Criterion.  Others may have said things about poetry more ignorant, but none come to mind.  Ruden is an amiable, knowledgeable writer, so I have to think she just stopped thinking for a moment.  I doubt her editors knew any better.

Imagery is of course one of the many poetic elements in modern free verse (if we consider my own free verse “modern,” as I do), but much more important that imagery is the metaphoric use to which the best poets put it, figurative language being an element of free verse.  As are all the melodational devices of formal verse except regimented rhythm (meter).  Freshness of language and syntactical expression are also elements of all poetry, including free verse.  Infraverbal devices are central to many of the best free verse poems, and–it seems to me–can play a role in formal verse, too.  Then there is the defining poetic element of free verse, expressive lineation, or line-breaks placed where they work best aesthetically rather than where a metrical form requires them to be.  I doubt if Ruden, or David Yezzi, the poetry editor of The New Criterion, are even aware of such things–or of the wide-spread addition of purely visual or purely auditory matter to free verse poems.

Amusingly, these people have almost as much trouble with the American Poetry Establishment as my crowd does, but because the certified poetry of today is beyond them rather than beneath them.

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Entry 1699 — More Scraps

Wednesday, January 21st, 2015

Scrap #1: Yesterday’s mail included another chapbook from Mark Sonnenfeld, Check Check Done and Done, half of it devoted to poems by Mark and half to poems by Dory L. Williams.  Good reading but one thing in it by Dory L. Williams really knocked me out: to me, it’s an epigram, because a statement of an opinion, so according to my taxonomy a work of informrature.  Be that as it may, it’s as good an epigram as I’ve come across in years, if ever:

Covetness

If you want fame and money without real
achievement behind it, you’re not greedy enough.

Scrap #2:  After I posted yesterday’s entry, I remembered a central feature of Iowa Workshop Poetry I’d intended to mention before any other, but then forgot: it’s the recognition of the potential of ordinary subject matter for tranfiguringly successful poetry–as in Williams’s “The Red Wheelbarrow,” and in all the best haiku.   I am all for ordinary subject matter . . . but it can’t do much unless connected to archetypal matter one needs to be in one’s magniceptual awareness to be able to employ.  Williams’s poem is, finally, not about a wheelbarrow anywhere near as much as it is about Beauty.

Lesson for poets: keep explicit abstracts and generalities out of your poems as Ezra tells you to, but build you poems on them as I tell you to.  This, incidentally, you don’t necessarily have to consciously strive for, but you must be able to recognize when something worthily archetypal begins to show under your poem’s words so as to strengthen those words’ connection to it–and/or weaken the visibility of their path to it.  The archetypal foundation of the best poems is much more often understood in their engagents’ marrow long before it’s dealt with the reasoning parts of their higher faculties, if it ever is.  (Few poets have very large reducticeptual awarenesses or scienceptual awareness, which are where analysis is carried out.)

Possibly more important than the connection to the archetypal is the technique, the freshness of the technique employed to make that connection, which is usually metaphorical.

I’m just repeating old thoughts of mine, disorganizedly.   Jus’ tryin’ to make it through another blog entry.
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Entry 1678 — A Specimen of My Poetry Criticism

Wednesday, December 31st, 2014

I’m trying to catch up with my collection of Small Press Review columns in this blog’s “Pages” and am about to post the one that follows.  I liked it so well (after making some small improvements to it), that I’m taking care of this entry with it:

EXPERIODDICA

September/October 2014

Richard Kostelanetz’s Latest Infra-Verbal Adventure

Ouroboros
Richard Kostelanetz
NYQ Books, Box 2015, Old Chelsea Station,
New York NY 10113. $16.95. 2014. Pa; 188 pp.

An ouroboros is a mythological serpent swallowing its tail, so an excellent title for Richard Kostelanetz’s collection of 188 words swallowing their tails, most of the time adding at least one interesting word to what they’re saying, as “ouroboros” itself does on the cover (when its s joins its “our”).  Those that do not use their first letter as their last to finish a word: “extrapolat,” for example, has only one e but spells “extrapolate” when made into a circle.  It’s fun to find smaller words inside them in Kostelanetz’s collection: “tea” and “eat,” for example, in “appetite,” which not knowing at first where the word begins forces one to discover rather than automatically read without thinking about it.  But can such objects be considered poems—rather than “curiosities?”  To use the term my Internet friend Chris Lott thought might be more appropriate for works like them than “poems”–and which turned out to be a term I’ve needed for my over-all taxonomy of verbal expression for a long time but never thought of!

The term seems right for some of Kostelanetz’s words, but only some of them–like “ouroboros.”  The addition to it of “sour” is amusing but, for me, not poetically enlarging enough to be a poem rather than a verbal curiosity—which I now define for use in my Official Taxonomy of Verbal Expression as “a text that states an amusing or interesting fact.”  That makes it (write this down!) “informrature” (i.e., texts primarily intended to inform) rather than one of the other two kinds of verbal expression in my taxonomy, “advocature” (i.e., texts whose primary intent is to persuade, or verbal propaganda) and “literature” (i.e., verbal art, or texts intended primarily to give aesthetic pleasure).  In effect, “ouroboros” as a circular word that “disconceals” the word “sour” states the fact that its letters can be used to spell “sour” following a certain rule, that being to connect the word’s end to its beginning by means of a circular spelling.

Not that such a word doesn’t veer near poetry (which can be succinctly if roughly defined as not-prose) due to its visual difference from conventional prose, its making a reader go slow (a major aim of poetry) and delivering more connotations than prose generally does.  But, for me, it is visually-enhanced the way calligraphy is, and infraverbally-enhanced the way “ouroboros” spelled “ouROBoros” to reveal one of its inner words, would be.  Yes, it looks good on the page, and makes us think about it more than it would conventionally printed, but it leaves us primarily with only the fact that “sour” can be produced by it (and “our” and “rob” are in it.

Take on the other hand, “appetite,” which swallows its tail to deliver not only “tea,” and “eat” but leads us into and around to “pet” and “petite” to go along with “appetite” itself, to present a little tea party, with a strong suggestion of little girls.  Then put “incandescent” swallowing its tail on the page opposite it to form “tin” while making us also aware of its “descent” and “scent”—due to its compelling us to read it letter by letter.  “Scent” is particularly significant because of the metaphoric jolt of the3 suggestion of something incandescent as a material scent, or of a scent as something immaterially incandescent.  The contrast of “tin” notwithstanding, the result is a fascinating scene occurring somewhere down Alice’s rabbit hole which, for me, makes the word a poem.

At this point I must contradict myself.  I now believe all of Richard’s circular words are poems.  I say this because I now feel that they do enlarge a reader’s experience of them significantly more than prose does, although some, like “ouroboros” do so to much less of an extent than others.  More importantly, this collection as a whole, I’ve come to perceive, is a single poem, whose ssspinning wheelsss free connotations whose interaction with each other disconceal sometimes fairly complex image complexes—as I’ve shown “appetite” and “incandescent” do.  The result is a loose collection of themes and counter-themes, occasionally next to each other, as with “appetite” and “incandescent,” but sometimes far apart—like “state, which amusingly becomes “estate,” where the tea party will take place, many pages from “incandescent.”

Kostelanetz’s sequence begins with “insurgent,” and as we go along, the presence of an insurgent, mainly, it comes to seem to me, a language insurgent miswriting words into circular revolts against monosemy establishes one of the sequence’s major themes (with the little girls’ tea party in feminine contrast to it).  For example, “Esperanto,” representing a language in revolt against the Tower of Babylon our world has become, supports this “linguicentric” reading.  Its disconcealment of “rant” backs up the tone of insurgence (in spite of “toes”—although that suggests “toe to toe,” for one really caught up with the sequence).  On the page facing “esperanto” we have “astonish,” which is indicative, I think, of what artistic insurgence’s aim in this story will turn out to be.  That the font Kostelanetz has chosen for his words, the highly dramatic “Wide Latin,” which is jabbingly pointed at all extremities, underscores this.

The book’s fourth word underscores this: “another,” or something other than.  But then the narrative runs into “hesitant,” which contains “Sita,” the name of the central female character, a sort of Virgin Mary, in the Hindu epic, Ramayana, and the narrative goes strange among “the,” “he” “sit”, “it,” “tan,” “an,” “ant.”  After the turn caused by “hesitant,” comes “entomb,” with its “bent” against something.  By the “men” of the later “enthusiasm?” The first peak of this insurgent flow is reached with “outlawing,” which causes “gout,” making the act of outlawing things unhealthy, and the insurgence begins to have the feel of anarchism.
I agree with you if you’re thinking one must have quite an accommodating mind to make the kind of connections I’ve so far made—but a main function of poetry is to relax one into doing just that.  I have to admit a lot of my interpretations are influenced by my knowledge of Kostelanetz as a long-time personal friend consumed (like me) with innovative insurgency in the arts and anarchistic distaste for political laws.

To get back to his sequence, it’s no surprise that “esoteric” forms the next spinning wheel with its esoteric lawless confusion of “ice,” “rice,” “sot.”  Some kind of drunken wedding?  Where are we going?  The point is that we are going somewhere, or more than one where.  And word-lovers who join us will be sure to enjoy the trip!

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Entry 1628 — The Lyricule

Tuesday, November 11th, 2014

The “lyricule” is my term for the peak moment I claim every poem, to be effective, must cause one engaged with it to experience.  The haiku moment would be one, but only one, example of a lyricule.  I think it deserves a fairly large-scale essay but haven’t worked out my understanding of it well enough to write very much intelligent about it here, or anything at all organized.

The lyricule is produced by a poem’s “lyricular center.”

I would consider Basho’s entire old pond haiku to be a lyricular center.  To be coldly accurate about it, the words of the poem activate memories that combine to form the lyricule.  It produces no perceptual data.  It is thus entirely cerebral.  That does not mean it will contain no visual or auditory data.  It will almost certainly contain sounds, but they will be the sounds of the poem’s syllables seeing the poem’s text will cause the poem’s engagent to remember (assuming he reads it the way it ought to be read, pronouncing what he reads to himself).  The engagent may also “see” visual images certain words denote, and certain images those words connote, if they do so strongly enough.

I habitually claim that when reading a poem, and I’m solely concerned here with poems as read, the poem’s engagent will not “see” the words.  By this I mean that the engagent’s eyes will take in the words but send the sight of them into the engagent’s lexiceptual sub-awareness (or reading center) not his visioceptual sub-awareness.  In the former, he will read the words, not see them; in the latter, he will see them but not read them.  (In normal reading, most of the time.)  This is not important.  I mention it merely to be complete.  But also because visual poetry exploits the visual appearance of textual elements to cause an engagent to read and see at the same time, which can produce lyricules traditional poetry cannot.

Visual poetry can also add direct perceptions of shapes and colors to a lyricule.  So, I suppose I should add, can visually-enhanced poetry, which is traditional poetry using calligraphy or the like as ornamentation.

The lyricule can be considered a moment but really isn’t.  I conceive it as more a unified . . .  knowlecule, to use the term its name comes from that will take more than a unit of consciousness (which I term an “instacon” in my theory of psychology) to experience.  A knowlecule is some datum or combination of data that a person takes as a thing—a flower, or the petal of a flower, or a garden.

I think of a lyricule as seeming like a lengthily-arrested moment.

For me, the best lyricule must produce Manywhere-at-Once, as all effective metaphors do.  Manywhere-at-Once, which I discussed in my first book about poetry, is what one experiences when two or more separate loci in the brain are activated simultaneously (or more or less simultaneously)—and fuse.  For instance, when Romeo speaks of the rising sun as being Juliet, it should cause an engagent to experience some image of the rising sun and, incongruously, an image of a beautiful young woman at the same time, followed immediately by those connotations of each that are the same, such as “beauty,” “dominance,” “bringer of life” or “source of meaningfulness,” “cynosure,” and suffice to fuse the disparate denotations.

Needless to say, the Shakespearean lyricular center is more complex than here discussed—the whole of the plot preceding Romeo’s utterance, for just one element.  There are also other ways of producing Manywhere-at-Once, like simple rhyme, one of the two cerebral sites it activates being one concerned with the sound of the rhymenants, the other with their denotations.

How effective a lyricule is depends on many things.  A consequential one is the intensity of its elements.  The number of its elements is another consequential one.  Not surprisingly, the aesthetic strength of its elements is hugely important (and inordinately difficult to determine).  The freshness of its elements and/or the freshness of their interinvolvment will be signally important in determining the aesthetic strength of its elements.

I’ve already discussed the various levels a poem can have, although I probably didn’t call them levels.  In fact, I’ve probably discussed them more than once, each time with a different name.  Anyway, the levels, or whatever they are, pertain to lyricules as well as poems.  I believe that (in theory) a lyricule might be able to participate in all the ten (or eleven) awarenesses my theory (at this time) hypothesizes are in each healthy human brain.

And there is where I’ll leave my thoughts on this for now.

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Entry 1627 — Norman Friedman, RIP

Monday, November 10th, 2014

A day or two ago I got the sad news that Norman Friedman died on the 6th of November.  He for many years was probably the foremost critic of E. E. Cummings, one of my three favorite pre-1960 American poets.  Certainly I learned more than a little about Cummings (and poetics) from his writings over the years.  He was also a very nice man, as I found out when I met him at a literary conference where I presented a paper on Cummings several years ago.

This  morning curiosity about him sent me to Wikipedia where, to my shock, I was unable to find an entry on him.  Along the way, though, I found an essay of his on Cummings at jstor.org, a site you can read academic writings at for a fee. The fees are way more than I can afford but I took advantage of an offer allowing me to read three essays for free, so am now midway through Friedman’s “E. E. Cummings and His Critics,” (1962).

In his essay, Friedman is making an excellent case for Cummings as what academics should consider a serious poet–i.e., one with a serious outlook on life that he expresses in his poetry.  I suppose he is right but for me, “all” Cummings did was celebrate existence, using all the verbal means he could think of in order to able to do that maximally.

Oh, sure, he was diverted from this central concern to take on collectivism (which I applaud) and science (which I don’t applaud) but at his best he did the only thing I believe poets should do, which is use the whole of their language to celebrate existence–which I think requires them at the same time to show by contrast what’s wrong with it.  I think what I mean is that a poet should side with, and celebrate, beauty in his poetry, which he can’t do without opposing, and condemning, ugliness (at least implicitly) as when Basho celebrates the beauty of the many moments existence’s best moments combine in his old pond haiku while at the same time implicitly rejects–and I should have used “rejecting: instead of “condemning” earlier in this sentence–existence’s lesser moments, the one’s with only the present in them, or–worse–only some solely intellectual or solely unintellectual present in them.  Or nothing at all, unless the nothing that includes all isn’t what many of the greatest minimalist poems are about.  (Yeah, I’m going a little over-mystical there.)

You’re in luck.  I don’t have time right now to knock out several thousand words on the poetic moment I’m talking about.  The traditional haiku moment is an instance of it, but only one instance, whatever the wacked-out anti-Western idolizers of the Far East maintain.
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Entry 1611 — Interpretation of Poems, Part 2

Saturday, October 25th, 2014

I came up with a few more possible layers:

13.    The ethical layer.  I at first thought ethics would be in the ideational layer, but am now not sure.

14.    The anthroceptual, or the human relations layer: character, as opposed to plot.  At this point it occurs to me that maybe I ought to link each layer to an awareness or sub-awareness in the cerebrum as I have here.  I could also rename the ideational layer the “scienceptual layer.”  Will think it over.

15.     The allegorical layer, or the only layer those questioning the authorship of Shakepeare’s sonnets are really interested in, the one—if it exists—that arbitrarily attaches real people and places to objects in a poem.  Perhaps I should make two layers out of this, the sane allegorical layer, for poems like Spenser’s Faery Queene that use straight-forward allegory, and the psitchotic allegorical layer for poems a lunatic has found to be allegorical.

Actually, this layer should be called the allegorical paraphrasable layer, because it is everything a poem is thought to be under its surface.

Because I have it readily at hand, here’s a rough full paraphrase of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18 I did to show Paul Crowley how sane interpretations of poems are made.  Needless to say, I found no allegorically paraphrasable layer.

> 1.   Shall I compare thee to a Summers day?

“Would it be a good idea to make a comparison of you to a day in the most pleasant of the four seasons?”

Note that my explication is a paraphrase of the line that takes the DENOTATION of every word into consideration and tries to make linguistic sense.  It is concerned primarily with what the surface of the poem means.  It ought to deal, too, with any clear-cut connotations of the text it concerns, as well as any secondary meanings, if any.  In this case, I find no connotations worth mention, and there is nothing in the line (or, to my knowledge, outside the line–that is, in the background layer, which should be consulted by one making a paraphrase of a poem) to indicate it means anything more than it says.

> 2.   Thou art more louely and more temperate:

“You are superior to the summer’s day mentioned in both beauty and temperament.”  Ergo, In other words, there’s really no comparison between you and a summer’s day: you’re much the better of the two.
Again, there is nothing in the text to indicate it means anything more than it directly says.

> 3.   Rough windes do shake the darling buds of May,
“Unruly, harmful movements of air upset the delicate early blossoms of summer flowers.”  Note: May may have been thought a part of summer in Shakespeare’s time.  Or May’s buds may still be present by the true beginning of summer.

> 4.   And Sommers lease hath all too short a date:

“And that season does not remain in charge of nature for very long: its “contract” to do so is short-term.”
This line and the previous one point out in some detail the defects of a summer’s day, but, implicitly, not of the addressee.  There is nothing in them to suggest they mean anything else.

> 5.   Sometime too hot the eye of heauen shines,

“There are times when the sun is unpleasantly too high in temperature,”

> 6.   And often is his gold complexion dimm’d,

There are also frequent times when the sun is overcast.”

Again, two lines providing further details of what makes the summer’s day inferior to the addressess, who–we are led to believe–has no equivalent of temperatures that are either too hot or not warm enough.  And who is never “grey” in disposition.

> 7.   And euery faire from faire some-time declines,

“Every good thing is subject to decay, and therefore must lose some of its best qualities.  “In summation, each good thing in a summer’s day must eventually retreat from its peak, or lose its best qualities,”

> 8.   By chance, or natures changing course vntrim’d:

“the victim of some random event (like being trodden on by some animal) or of the normal way the natural world behaves (turning stormy, for instance).

Ergo, we have two more lines finishing up telling the reader what is wrong with summer–and, it is strongly implied, NOT with the addressee.  So far, not a hint that anything other than the surface meaning of the words (beautifully) used is intended.

> 9.   But thy eternall Sommer shall not fade,

“Your never-dying prime season, however, won’t ever decline”

> 10.  Nor lose possession of that faire thou ow’st,

“or surrender the beauty of appearance and disposition, and other excellences you are in possession of”

Two more straight-forward lines, these ones claiming the addressee will not fade in any manner the way a summer’s day inevitably will.

> 11.  Nor shall death brag thou wandr’st in his shade,

“Nor will the ruler of the realm those who die be able to boast that you have entered his realm”

> 12.  When in eternall lines to time thou grow’st,

“when in ever-living lines of verse you continue to flourish and perhaps even improve,”

Again, a straight-forward set of lines, these bringing in the speaker of the poem’s second main thought, which is that poetry can make one who is its subject immortal.  I admit to not yet knowing exactly what “to time” means, but I believe I have given the most plausible meaning to every one of the other words in the poem.

> 13.      So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

“Until such time as human beings are unable to keep alive by taking in air or there are organs sensitive to light,”

> 14.      So long liues this, and this giues life to thee,

“the poem you have been reading or listening to will endure, and it will grant you immortality.”

That does it.  My explication accounts for every word in the poem except “to” and “time,” and even those can be accounted for as having something to do with resisting what time does to all things.  It is also completely plausible AND sufficient, for those with any ability at all to appreciate poetry.  (Of course, there’s much more to any poem than an explication of its sanely paraphrasable layer.) To show it has an allegorically paraphrasable layer (or or any other layer containing further meanings of the kind just revealed) requires external evidence of it like the notes of the poet saying such meanings are there, or poems by other poets that seem on the surface like this one but have some significant hidden under-meaning, or permit a second explication that comes up with such a hidden under-meaning that is as smooth, coherent, and reasonably interesting as the primary meaning I’ve just shown the poem indubitably to have.

The third course is the only one you have available, Paul–because we have no notes or anything else relevant from the author or from anyone else to indicate any hidden meanings, nor are there any poems in the language (or any language, so far as I know) that are like the kind of poem you claim this is.  I am absolutely sure that you cannot provide an explication that reveals a smooth, coherent, reasonable hidden meaning.  In fact, I’m pretty sure you will claim it’s not necessary to–the poet was too complex for any academic or even you fully to explicate.

That would be nonsense, and clear evidence that your interpretation is defective.  But not to you.  Nor will you ever accept my claim that it is an argument against your interpretation
.

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Entry 1610 — The Interpretation of Poems

Friday, October 24th, 2014

Essay on the Interpretation of Poems
(First Draft)

One way of dividing verosophers, it seems to me, is into those who are able to construct permanent understandings of a given subject, and those who constantly construct understandings that they immediately forget.  Well, they don’t wholly forget them, but fail to remember any of them well enough to grasp it.  That’s me.  I continually re-construct my various theories, only to make them pretty much all over again six months, a year . . . or five years later.  My incredible defectiveness as an organizer helps.  More often than not, I can’t find previous versions of understandings.  That seems the case right now.

There is an advantage to this, I believe: it is that I, at least, do remember a sort of underunderstanding that returns each time I build a new version of a given understanding.  This, I claim, makes me superior to those whose first construction of an understanding is more or less permanent in the long run due to my not being able to restrain myself from wobbling often into substantial improvements of my understandings they are locked out of.  I would not call them rigidniks, just perhaps too close to being that.  Meanwhile, I doubtlessly am too far from being that, at least some of the time.

The freewending verospher versus the academic verosopher.  Then there is the psitchotic verosopher.  Such a character can be either excessively prone to freewendry or to academicality.  The one I’ll be introducing here is one who is amusingly anti-academic—but nevertheless himself the victim of an academicality of almost unbelievable magnitude.  One thing I’m sure of is that if I am psitchotic (and I will never rule out the possibility), it is due to my being excessively freewendrical.

Note: I am here speaking of the “sane insane.”  Both I and the psitchotic you’ll be meeting are sane enough to stay out of mental institutions, and seem rational enough to others.  Both of us are normal—but possibly normal to an excess.  That is, according to my theory of psychology, everyone is a mixture of three normal character-types, the rigidnik, the milyoop and the free-wender, and becomes a neurotic or psitchotic due to being too entirely one of these types but does not become psychotic, or nuts across the board.  To put it simply, psitchosis results from a single gland’s being under- or over-active; psychosis from greater defects spread throughout the brain.

There.  400 words and I haven’t gotten to my topic, the interpretation of poems.  I will now, with a list of what I’m calling the layers of a poem until I can come up with a better name for them.  For now, I’ll stick them on my list as they occur to me.  I hope in my return to my understanding

I may at least be able to find this list and better organize it.  Anyway, here goes:

1.    The background layer.  This consists mainly of what the person analyzing a given poem knows of its author, the poem’s form and . . . the poem’s title, if it has one.  Its presentation—as an inscription on a monument rather than on a page in a book, for instance—may be part of this layer, too.  (Oops, before I forget, I must tell you that this essay will be concerned with poems one encounters in a book, not oral poems.  What I say can be readily applied to oral poems, I believe, but I am not up to showing how over and over again.)

2.    The sensory surface of a poem: what it looks like to the eye, sounds like to ear, and perhaps feels to the tactile sense, or even smells—meta-verbally.   I distinguish the sound and visual appearance of words acting as words from their sensory effect beyond that, which I call their meta-verbal appearance.  For instance, the word, “oh,” is heard verbally as a long o, but may be heard meta-verbally as a shriek, grown, mumble or any of numerous other enunciations; similarly it may seem visually just an o or, in a visual poem, be (meta-verbally) ten times larger than the rest of the poem’s letters, and orange instead of black.

3.    The melodational layer, or how a poem sounds verbally.  The sound of “oh” as “oh” spoken normally.  Alliteration, rhyme, assonance, euphony, etc.

4.    The narrative layer, or what story the poem tells, and I believe every poem must tell some story.

5.    The symbosensual layer, or the sensual imagery the poem’s words denote (symbolically), generally the visual images they represent, but also at times sounds (“the clang of a bell”) or even smells, the taste of food, the feel of satin.  I coined my awkward term for this because I feel it important to distinguish verbal images from actual images like the graphic ones that may turn up in visual poems.

6.    The ideational layer, or all the ideas that may be in a poem.

7.    The unificational layer, or everything in a poem that, en masse, acts  as the poem’s unifying principal (if it has one).

8.    The metaphorical layer, or what I call its metaphormations.

9.    The archetypal layer, or everything in a poem that gives it archetypal depth.

10.     The paraphrasable layer, or what a poem is, on the surface, about.  It can be a repetition of the narrative layer, but will often be quite a lot more.

11.    The allusional layer, or the sum of a poem’s allusions to other poems, or cultural material of any kind, and to parts of itself.  Some of this will have been in the background layer, but some not . . . I think, but won’t be sure until I’ve worked entirely through a poem using this list.

12.    The twelfth layer, which is the layer containing everything in a poem not in the other layers.

A proper full explication of a poem, or what I call a “pluraphrase,” will identify each of these layers in a poem, or a particular layer’s absence, and evaluate it.

TO BE CONTINUED
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Entry 1586 — “Moonlight Equation”

Tuesday, September 30th, 2014

intuition + reason = moonlight + pond

I’m bringing the poem above back from an earlier but recent entry because when I just happened to see it Sunday night, it made me realize a virtue of mathematical poetry I hadn’t thought of before: that an simple equation in the form a + b = c + d  strongly suggests each of the terms has a different value than the others; hence a must be part c and part d, which means the reader has an extra meaning to muse about: in my poem, just how much moonlight, for instance, is intuition, and how much reason.  Ditto for each of the others.  In other words, “intuition + reason = pond” would be a nice poem, but not nearly as loaded as “intuition + reason = moonlight + pond.”  To over-argue my point, the three-term poem consists of one mathematical idea, the other of five mathematical ideas.

No more for this entry.  I’m having another tired of my tired days, but just got through another chapter of my book, one I don’t think I made more than two or three changes to.

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Entry 1541 — Thoughts Concerning Entry 1540

Sunday, August 17th, 2014

Nice to see that more people are visiting my Journal of Mathematics and the Arts article than just the forty or fifty to whom I sent free links to it–75 yesterday morning.  I’m hoping for a hundred!

A few follow-ups to yesterday’s entry.  First about the poem.  As some of you will realize, the quotient is one of my “poemns”–i.e., one of  the haiku in my 1966 collection, poemns.  Two questions occurred to me as I used it: (1) how does the poem’s existence now in two rendering affect its cultural value? and (2) should I make more long divisions using various poemns, perhaps all of them?

I hope having two versions of my poem is a plus.  The first is still important as a stand-alone because a simplification toward intensification at the expense of complexity; the second manywheres far beyond but with, I believe, the loss of maximal intensification.  In its relocation in a long division, the poemn’s connotative value is diminished, but certain of its specific connotative possibilities are strengthened.  I think I would like them read far apart from each other, the poemn first, most happily without the reader’s being aware of its use elsewhere.

I just laughed a bit to myself at the thought that I might now make a third version.

Further note: I consider poemns a collection of visual haiku, but my little boy (me at Harbor View, age 11) is not in a visual poem, but a cryptographiku (my very first one), that being a kind of infra-verbal poem that makes significant aesthetic use of an encrypted text, and infra-verbal poem being (as you all know) a poem in which what counts is what happens inside words.

I also want to say a bit about my declaration that my poem is a major one (as is my poemn–a major poem within a major poem, by gum).  That I need all the encouragement I can get, including self-encouragement is one reason for it.  Another is the hope mentioned yesterday that some one would challenge, intelligently challenge, me on it.   That would have the value of publicizing it, and perhaps educating some people about it.  But–most important for me, I swear–I might find out something that helps me as a poet.  (I almost never fail to learn something that helps me as a poet from thoughtful feedback, even very mistaken feedback, and am always surprised when that happens.)  I would also get a better sense of how my poems are coming across to others, and I truly want to know that because while simply the satisfaction I when I make a poem I like is enough for me, I also want others to enjoy it–which is the main reason by far that I make my poems public.  Benefiting materially from a poem would be very nice (I assume, from what little I know of it) but, as I often say, I’d a billion times prefer to make a poem and two or three others like without getting a cent for it than a poem I think tenth-rate but others like enough to give me–well, a Nobel prize for (the money that comes with it being about all that I’d be interested in).

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Entry 362 — My Defixation Continues « POETICKS

Entry 362 — My Defixation Continues

First, another definition:

Visiomathematical Poetry: mathematical poetry containing a strong visioaesthetic component.  I’m posting this as an example of my belief that a variety of poetry should be named on the basis of what it most is, not automatically called “visual poetry,” for instance, because it is partially visioaesthetic, as many of my mathemaku are, and as linguexclusive poems that calligraphy has prettified are.

Next, the contents of a post sent to New-poetry:

First off, this is a test to see if an attachment will show up when this e.mail is posted.  If not, one can see what it contains at http://tipoftheknife.blogspot.com/2011/01/tip-of-knife-issue-3.html?showComment=1296227493737#c7300633740752662346.  Scroll down to my “EE-Winter.”

Secondly, to those who believe non-Wilshberian works like this piece are the equivalent of someone kicking an elk skull and calling what they’re doing “poetry,” what such a work should be called.  Not “visual art,” by the way, since everything in it is textual–the verbal text of words and the mathematical text of mathematical symbols (to wit, the absolute signs [the verticals], the minus signs, and the remainder and what I call the “dividend shed”).

Thirdly, I’d love to hear what anyone makes of the poem.  Everything in it can be paraphrased–if one knows how to read math and solve simple cryptograms.  I call it a cryptographic mathematical poem, by the way.

Third, something with nothing to do with poetics definitions, a comment to Bill DiMichele’s blog I just made in response to a brief comment of someone who found Bill’s latest entry “wonderful”:

As one with work in the post, I thank you, Caio. As one with work in the post, however, I have a request: couldjah say why you think the post wonderful? Partly because of my work, for instance? Partly in spite of my work? Sorry for this slightly annoyed comment, but I find way too many comments to blogs and discussion groups to be nothing but close to useless thumbs up or down. On the other hand, it is nice to know when anyone cares enough about something on the net to actually comment! Hardly nobody done does that. So a sincere thanks, anyway. (And the stuff Bill has gathered, aside from mine, is wonderful, isn’t it!

persnickedly yours, Elderly Bob

Now a comment about my mathemaku about “winter,” or–more accurately–about what some might call my analytical perfectionism.  In the original version of the poem, the remainder was simply “little lame balloonman,” a quotation from E. E. Cummings’s “In just-spring.”  Thinking about it yesterday, I can’t remember now why, I realized that the remainder should not be positive, because what it was being added to to get the (negative) dividend was negative.  That meant that any positive remainder could not be added to it to make it equal the negative dividend (negative because a negative value was chosen to multiply a positive value to try to get it).  This bothered me greatly because I need my mathematical poems to be mathematically accurate, however little many others believe they can’t be.  I couldn’t quickly figure out how to remedy the poem.  At length, though, the obvious answer occurred.  It was to make “little lame balloonman” negative.  (I had to keep “little lame balloonman” as my remainder because that’s what the remainder in each of the other three poems in the set this poem is part of are.)

To make the arithmetic more clear simply divide 2 into -3.  If you make the quotient -1, then your remainder will be -3 minus -2 or -1.  Which makes sense because if you turn the -1 into a fraction to get the quotient 100% accurate, you’ll get negative one-and-one-half.

Next, another thought inspired by the nullinguists: if a visual poem is not poetry, why need it be visual?  Adjectives count more than nouns?

Last, a Comment on “Cleave”: the reason “cleave” is famous among aesthlinguists is that it has two official definitions that are exactly opp0sed to each other, “to separate” and “to cling to.”  I mention it here because its fame is due to its nature’s being so extremely rare.  Even the masses prefer a word not to contradict itself.  I feel sure that even some certified lingusts do also.

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Entry 606 — The Other Day at Spidertangle « POETICKS

Entry 606 — The Other Day at Spidertangle

The other day at Spidertangle, Nico Vassilakis asked, “Is this acceptable as one of the many definitions of ‘vispo?’”

When art and text convene, the resulting blur is “vispo,” a portmanteau of “visual” and “poetry.” It’s where alphabet morphs into image and language is reinvented into visual experience.

My reply:
Seems to me we need a term meaning something like “partial loose definition.” That’s what the above seems to me—which does make it acceptable as one of many such definitions. Hyperlogical as I am, though, I believe there is only one acceptable verosophical definition of vispo (if we take it as a nickname for “visual poetry,” as I do, because is unproductively confusing to consider vispo different from visual poetry)—although I wouldn’t disagree with anyone who said we haven’t yet expressed it. Substitute “scientific” for “verosophical,” if the latter bothers you. A verosophical definition would be a rigorous definition as near complete as it is possible to be. Not an exploratory definition however useful that can be, but a final definition. Not something blurred, but something distinct one can go to the blurred from. I rather like the idea of vispo as a locus where visimagery (not “art” since music and other non-visual things are art) and language (because text alone is not language and language has always been considered necessary for poetry, and if we decide it isn’t, then what isn’t poetry) fuse (rather than merely convene) and increase the expressive potency of the other without any loss of whatever expressive potency each would have by itself.
Maybe a good distinction would be between a conversational, and a verosophical, definition of a term.

NICO: Bob, you are probably right – that distinction can be made, but I sometimes wonder if the uninitiated wouldn’t end up confused with somewhat exacting neologist definitions. I’m not inferring that what I said captures the true nature of vispo, but think simplicity, be it conversational or not, is useful. I should also say i do appreciate your work in mapping out the verbo-visual permutations that exist and the time and effort you put into it.

Thanks, Nico. I tried my best to show that what I call conversational definitions are definitely useful. Verosophical ones are, too, but probably only to verosophers—i.e., the very few seriously concerned with the search for truth.

Karl Kempton then chimed in with:

perhaps first usage or the coining of the term vispo / vizpo can add to this discussion. as far as i know, if i was not the first i was among the first in the 1970′s to use this term as a short hand in my correspondence with national and international visual poets. at that time we were freeing ourselves from the term concrete poetry to define our works. also at that time, my spelling was phonetically inclined. some have said i was texting before texting. it was an automatic follow through.

vispo / vispo was a short hand for visual poetry, the first usage of which was of european origin. “visual poetry” there, as a term, was used to free themselves from the restricted and discredited field of concrete poetry, a minimalist fission poetics blowing up language to create new patterns. this process paralleled minimalist painting and minimalist and electronic music. visual poetry was a fusion process taking these new and then newer patterns and textures wedding them with another art form or other forms.

in my opinion, demanding “recognizable” language word(s), part or parts erases, or worse censors, the possibility(ies) of wordless poetic gesture(s) and poetic aesthetic(s), rhythms, lines, pictorial metaphor(s) and countless other poetic terms that can be made visual without words. this part of the arena is border blur or the soft membrane or tissue between rigid classically drawn demarcation “scientific” lines separating classifications in the assumption each defined field is as if a dead noun and hence incapable of fluid movement or evolution.

I replied to parts of this as follows:

K: in my opinion, demanding “recognizable” language word(s),

B: As no one I know of does. I, for instance, simply ask for something called “poetry” to consist of words, as poetry always has. All this “demands” is that one not call something with no recognizable words in it “poetry.” And here we meet the bizarre belief of many that if “visual poetry” requires recognizable words, one cannot make a work of art without recognizable words. But I’m here with the good news that one can do that. One need only call what one creates something other than visual poetry!

K: part or parts erases, or worse censors, the possibility(ies) of wordless poetic gesture(s) and poetic aesthetic(s), rhythms, lines, pictorial metaphor(s) and countless other poetic terms that can be made visual without words.

B: They can be made musical without notes, too, so let’s call them vismoo.

K: this part of the arena is border blur or the soft membrane or tissue between rigid classically drawn demarcation “scientific” lines separating classifications in the assumption each defined field is as if a dead noun and hence incapable of fluid movement or evolution.

B: Right, Karl. You live in the ocean because there’s no exact way to tell where the ocean ends and land begins.

I’m afraid it comes down to an unending struggle between Snow’s two cultures.

Karl’s response:

not wanting to get into a long history as i have just been hit with a nasty cold, the long and short of it has to do in part with a generational difference as well as o so many single glance, so what concrete works and cliches, some even winding up on greeting cards.  the generation difference is building upon what was done and taking it to the fusion process. there was a possibility of a real jump in multimedia but concrete in general turned off lexical poets, calligraphers, book artists, etc., a ready made audience if there ever was one. there was no embrace because the works failed to match the quality of the painters, musicians, sculptors, calligraphers, book artists, etc. not that there were exceptions such as finlay. phillips, dencker, xenakis and others made the jump to aid in the formation along with the lettrists of visual poetry.

for japan, see karl young’s intro on kitasono . having already run his run of concrete many years before concrete was coined, he did not participate in concrete be rehashing his previous concrete before concrete, but submitted his plastic poems. then the rerun story of mine and others re patchen having composed concrete before concrete then being stiff armed. others as well.

i think dencker edited the first or one of the first visual poetry anthologies, 1972. techen was published in 1978 a year before i switched kaldron from a lexical and visual poetry mix to visual poetry only. concrete works were not excluded from any of this but concrete excluded visual poets, esp the lettrists.

the ocean has no fixed line. where the chumash lived 15,000 to 20,000 years ago now under water. soon homes and cites adjacent to the ocean will receive the same fate because fools thought boundaries fixed. boundaries change. worse than building in flood plains. the wise remain on high ground. we are at 70 feet on what is an old sand dune soon to be an island. but my body will have been turned to ash by then.

out of energy,

karl

What Cathy Bennett then said, and I replied to, was:

1- “increase the expressive potency of the other without any loss of
whatever expressive potency each would have by itself. ”
Bob,
The above section*** is where you are completely wrong… and by saying
it is a “scientific” approach, still doesn’t make it right.

Can’t my (very tentative) definition be okay as a scientific one, Cathy? Do you not agree that a scientific one might have some use? In any case, I was just giving a different take on the long-difficult struggle of our language to produce a definition of vispo.

2- “because text alone is not language and language has always been
considered necessary for poetry, and if we decide it isn’t, then what
isn’t poetry”
is a problem when it comes to “asemic” vispo. “Visual Poetry” is not so self-limiting.

You lost me here. If something consisting of textual elements but no words is called visual poetry, how does that not raise the question of what is not visual poetry? Or not poetry. Or do you agree that something consisting of textual elements but not words should not be called “visual poetry?” Which, by the way, is the one thing I am far from alone in believing.

So you want to limit “text” to “language” and you also want to limit “art” to one media/ I say “NO” to both ideas.

It just seems to me that all poetry, including visual poetry (or vispo) should be limited to language, and that text is not language until it becomes words. I’ll never understand the problem so many have with this simple idea. As for “art” as both visual art and all forms of art, no one agrees with me that that can be confusing, or that it’s demeaning to visual art not to have a name of its own. It’s not at all important, though.

3- The “search for truth” is fine, except when approached in your
narcissistic manner…

Well, you have to admit that at least I don’t think we should call the search for truth “Bobgrummanism” although I have to admit that sometimes I think I’m the only one pursuing it.

you have created your mathemaku and now your definition to define it, but “in truth”-that definition*** can only be applied to your mathemaku, which you have decided to limit to your “balanced two elements”.

So, as far as your posited questions: “Is this acceptable as “one” of the many definitions”– Yes… for Bob Grumman’s mathemaku perhaps, but your mathemaku should not be held up as the highest scientific principle of “visual poetry” towards which we all must strive.

Next, Cathy’s husband, John, said, “ANY ‘definition’ of a phenomenon is necessary a definition or description of that phenom. in the past. As soon as it is made, someone comes along and does something that requires the definition be changed, in order to include it.”

But the new thing done need not be included. It may, in fact, not be a new thing: for instance, Klee and many other painters included text but not words in their paintings; their paintings are still considered paintings the subject matter of which is letters—The Villa R, for instance. No one saw, or even now sees, any need to call Klee a visual poet. The word, “chariot,” still means what it did to the Romans even though we now have the automobile. In the arts, even when definitions change, they keep some main part—e.g., the term “music” is now used for works people a hundred years ago called “noise,” but it retains its main part, which is “an art concerned with sound.” Similarly, “poetry” has come to include free verse—but hasn’t, except among certain visiotextual artists—stopped being consider an art of words. I simply don’t see why it should be. Think what mathematics would be if it were decided that numbers no longer had to be part of its definition.  –Bob

In this particular case, and I believe Karl referred to this issue, is that large body of work called “visual poetry” that has NO explicitly linguistic or lettristic elements in it at all. There is a lot of work being done in this mode in Spain now. It seems to use images as concepts, or “words”; it’s a kind of picture writing.  –John

If the pictures do something explicitly verbal—do more than make a gesture some consider linguistic, that is—then it would seem reasonable to call the works involved “visual poetry.” The big problem is a definition so broad or subjective as to be meaningless. Why, for instance, should ballet not be considered visual poetry? (Except metaphorically, which is completely something else.)  –Bob

Joel Lipman added:

To stir & nurture, not resolve, this periodic thread, here’s Willard Bohn’s definition, suitably the opening couple sentences of his Modern Visual Poetry, Chapter 1:

“For all intents and purposes visual poetry can be defined as poetry that is meant to be seen — poetry that presupposes a viewer as well as a reader. Combining visual and verbal elements, it not only appeals to the reader’s intellect but arrests his or her gaze.”

Bohn’s second paragraph particularizes further distinctions: “Where visual poetry differs from ordinary poetry is in the extent of its iconic dimension, which is much more pronounced, and in the degree of its self-awareness. Visual poems are immediately recognizable by their refusal to adhere to a rectilinear grid and by their tendency to flout their plasticity.”

I find this definition grounding and useful, informed about the suggestions and nuances of its language. Its application enables Bohn to write a fine book on the subject, one which is pretty up-to-date, closing a chapter that discusses Perloff’s observations and compositions that explore digitalization’s “multidimensional realm of their own making.”

At some point, Bobbi Lurie and John had the following exchange:

On Tue, Dec 27, 2011 at 1:49 PM, bobbi luriewrote:

Do you consider a piece of visual art, any piece of visual art, visual poetry?
No
Or are there limitations to the definition?
Doubtless, yes. But definitions really don;t interest me very much; I never have anything I can use them for.

If I’m writing an intro to or selecting material for an anthology of something, I’ll use some kind of rule-of-thumb “definition” of what it is I’m selecting, tho it’s often pretty ad hoc, a matter of practicality or limited resources, not something I find very interesting.

Re some of what Bob & Cathy were talking about, I don;t think a “scientific” definition of art is possible or makes any sense. Science is a method, not a matter of absolute categories. A scientific study of the process of artistic creation, however, is quite possible, and could be very interesting indeed.

I couldn’t let that go by unshot at:

As an artist, I care very little about definitions; as a critic, I find them essential, and I need them to be what I consider “scientific”—i.e., objective, logical and reasonably complete (only “reasonably complete” because no definition can be absolutely complete, although the best definitions will be complete enough to satisfy any sane person).

Nico returned with:

you’ll find several responses to THAT question – and others who wont care at all. i think it’s about how you define language and poetry and looking. i wonder about my recent work sometimes, if it’s even vispo anymore. ive done past work where i imbue a piece or series with a kind of rosetta stone inorder to convey how the word can transform into parts of parts of letters. even snippets of letters, thus eliminating traditional MEANING by focusing on letters alone. then my interest shifted into staring my way through a word and into a letter – and that basically annihilated MEANING, and lead to the mere visual aspect of language. is there poetry there? is there meaning there? is it elements or the ingredients of language sitting there like a recipe waiting to be cooked? i think in some sense, yes. but there are other times that i am certain it’s vispo. as language is not only words. though i do relentlessly stare at letters – is a letter a poem? this gets into bob grumman territory. he’d say no. but i think every thing looked at is, why? because our brain does nothing but process what comes across our eyes-in-the-front face. or maybe it’s 2 letters that is the ultimate denominator of poetry. as to me, a letter is an atom and a word is a molecule – and letters are constantly in search of each other to create molecules. my interest in the past few years has been to stop the letter from huddling with other letters to form a word and focus on the letter itself. is that vispo? i dont know. im sure there will be a response. but JMB is right about the spaniards – picture writing – theyre pretty stunning, but is that vispo. does it matter. like hiessenberg – the more you try pinning it down the further down the road you find it.

That stumbled me into this:

I think ultimately it will be easy to categorize these different combinations of graphics and text. Possibly even now there are brain-scanning devices that can tell what part of the brain a person most experiences a work of art. I contend (and—I believe, the certified experts in the field would agree) that so far as visiotextual art is concerned, there are two brain areas involved, the visual and the verbal. I believe conventional poetry will light up the verbal area, conventional painting and sculpture will light up the visual area, visual poetry by my definition will light up both areas about equally, and the works Nico is talking about will do weird things that we need to break the verbal area of the brain into sub-areas to talk about; I think it will mainly light up the visual area but also light up a pre-verbal part of the verbal area. I think the brain (and probably part of the nervous system prior to the brain) subject stimuli to a long sorting procedure, first identifying letters, then words, then grammatical structuring, then the connections of the words to what they denote. The sorting procedure will break down after identifying Nico’s letters BUT certainly give them an aesthetic charge that will make them different from a conventional painting—but, I believe, not enough different to make them a form of poetry, or not painting. The subject matter of lots of paintings will also activate small areas of the brain besides the visual area. Perhaps most paintings do. Needless to say, it’s all a lot more complex than this. For instance, the presence or absence of people concerns in an artwork has a huge importance.

Which is where the discussion was today t around 3 in the afternoon here in Port Charlotte, Florida.

Diary Entry

Monday, 26 December 2011, 2 P.M.  About the first thing I did today was run a mile.  My time was again, over eleven minutes, which is horrible.  I can’t understand why I’m not getting better, although my not having run much for months, and not having run since last Friday (or was it Thursday?) may well have something to do with it.  Later in the morning I gave my latest SPR column a once-over and put in into an envelope with the reviews I had on hand.  That is now in my mailbox, awaiting delivery.  Just now I also wrote a new Poem poem.  I spent less than five minutes on it, but its central idea was one I’ve been thinking about for over a week.  It’s nothing much, at all, but probably worth keeping.  I used it to take care of my blog entry for today.  I haven’t gotten going on what I think of as my final major chore of the year, the response to Jake’s essay.  I think all I need to do is find a way to arrange what I’ve already have from what I wrote over a month ago, and several blog entries that seem relevant, and the little next matter I’ve written, and polish it, but . . .  I keep waiting for the surge I used to feel whenever I was really ready to tackle a writing project, but it’s no more anywhere in me than my ability to run a bad mile instead of a horrendous mile is.   

 

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Poetics « POETICKS

Archive for the ‘Poetics’ Category

Entry 409 — Thoughts on Poetics

Sunday, March 27th, 2011

The following is from Geof Huth’s ongoing “Poetics”:

84. Lie

Does the voice make a lie of the poem? Because a good voice can make a weak poem seem strong and a poor voice can ruin a great poem. Is the poem isolated on the page (the screen) the most accurate version of the poem, true to itself, or does the voice we use to read it in our heads also ruin great poems and resurrect the dead ones?

It comprised his blog entry for Friday.  Here’s my reply:

Interesting question.  I lean toward considering any poem on paper to its completion as the printed score of a musical composition is to its completion.

I can’t see a bad reading spoiling a good poem or good reading rescuing a bad poem, for me, but that’s because the conceptual area of my brain is much stronger than its auditory area.  So, for me, what a poem is on paper is something like 95% of what it is, completed.  For others the percentage will be lower or higher.

Since I can’t read music very well, a musical composition on paper is likely less than 15% of what it is, completed, for me.  For Beethoven, in his final years, it would have been 100%.

Similar thinking applies to the font-shape and color of a poem’s print, and the color and texture of the paper.

All this is out the window for sound poetry and visual poetry–well, not all of it for those of us for whom poetry is a verbal art requiring completion by being spoken, whether internally by the poem’s engagent or externally by either the engagent or someone else.  No more than half out the window, I would say.  For me, a verbally effective visual or sound poem can be neither completely spoiled nor completely rescued by its extra-verbal visual or auditory components–but it could be one or the other by its verbal content–as a poem.

Hey, thanks, Geof.  I’ve just written my blog entry for Sunday.

–Bob

Still later comment: I wonder if it’s possible for a bad poem to be read so well it becomes, or seems, a good poem. It seems to me that if it can be read in such a way that its sounds good, it must be good–it had whatever is needed to be beautifully voiced.

Entry 401 — Experimental Poetry

Wednesday, March 9th, 2011

Thinking about the poem I wrote yesterday:

.            Poem in last the Where Yellow

.            When sky Poem club over
.            sundry conniving. chain Last; exceptions.
.            Witheringly so so so, so example for
.            doesn’t? It. instants and below.
.            shifted candy bellowing bulge ‘s, s,o
.            with her wristle
.            exceeds which whistley love.
.            Parties never part am he.

I realized that it was a genuine experimental poem–as many poems called “experimental” are not.  That, unsurprisingly, put me into my defining mode.   My first reason for deeming my poem experimental was that in composing it I had devoted myself seriously to doing something significant as a poet that I’d never done when composing a poem before.  Or at least couldn’t remember having seriously done.  First simple insight–that, for me, a poem I made could be experimental even if what I did as a poet was something others had done.  Such was the case with this poem, for I’m sure language poets have made poems with the intention of avoiding any suggestion of sentences.  Conclusion: there are two kinds of experimental poems, endo-experimental poems and exo-experimental poems. Poems experimental for their composers and poems that are experimental for the world.

There are also–those in which a p0et does something as a poet new for him that he claims is therefore experimental.  Like trying out a new rhyme-scheme.  But if it would seem to almost every knowledgeable person that a poet’s endo-experiment is at the level of the “experiment” almost any poet must carry out when composing a poem, since he must make a poem different in some way from any previous poem of his, his poem is pseudo-experimental.  Else all poems are experimental, and the term has no meaning.

As I’ve opined before many times, in one way or another: a genuine experimental poem can easily, mostly likely will, be a failure as a poem, but it will never be a failure because one must learn from it.  So an experimental poem that fails as a poem is as worth making as a non-experimental poem that succeeds as a poem, unless that latter succeeds majorly.

The main thing a poet might learn from an experimental poem of his that fails as a poem is that whatever it was that he did differently was unproductive, and not worth repeating.  Better, he might see variations of his experiment he could try.  There would remain the possibility that some variation of the experiment would yield a valuable new kind of poem.  If not, he will have learned of a path not worth following.  He might also end not only in learning in detail why that path was not worth following, but with a raised understanding of the non-experimental things he could do as a poet, and be able to appreciate and employ them better than he had.

So, what Have I learned from my poem?  I’m not sure.  Nothing definite, for sure.  Just a few inklings that certain details may have potential.  I like “instants and below,” who knows why.  Ditto, “”example for doesn’t.”  The “‘s” is outside the avoid-sentences experiment but makes me think an apostrophe in front of a single letter or maybe two letters might be artfully mysterious, if the letter or letters were not arbitrarily chosen.  Something to let the under-conscious bat around.  A word like “so” repeated for no apparent reason (except here I thought of “so-so,” and the fact that “so so-so” did make sense).  “To part am,” somewhere in my head doing is something.

Another thought: that doing everything in a poem purposely wrong can help shake one out of the habit of doing everything purposely right, which I feel will almost never lead to a good poem.

A question: if I make a variation of the endo-experimental poem above will the result be an endo-experimental poem?  By my definition, no.  My first experiment will have to have been my only significant experiment.  I wouldn’t be doing more than changing a rhyme-scheme.   That, however, would make experimental poems too rare to bother naming, and no poet would qualify to be an experimental poet.  So I would extend my definition to include as experimental poems in which the poet devotes himself seriously to doing variations of something significant he has never before tried as a poet.

Entry 383 — Another Throw-Away Entry

Saturday, February 19th, 2011

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The most important element in a poem is its subject matter, but the most important determinant of a poem’s value is the effectiveness of its author’s use of poetic techniques (for non-Philistines).

It’s sort of like the difference for a play between the stage or other performance area it is performed on and its words.  Can’t have a play without the first, but other than making a play possible it’s near irrelevant.  Granted, a poem’s subject matter is more important for a poem than a stage is for a play, but the comparison isn’t that far off

* * * * *

The above has already drawn a moron-response at New-Poetry, where I posted it earlier (except for the third sentence).  I replied to the author of the moron-post, then posted the following:

An Idea for the Release of Anger at a forum not allowing candid remarks: a folder labeled ‘Morons’ to which you can move posts that make you angry–for those few here who are politically incorrect enough to experience such a base emotion, even as briefly as I sometimes do.”

Trivial and childish, yes, but people like me need trivial, childish outlets when dealing with the number of  mediocrities and sub-mediocrities there are in poetry.

Entry 376 — An Ultimate Definition of Poetry

Saturday, February 12th, 2011

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First, to get my latest coinage out of the way before I forget it: “urentity.”  I’m not keen on it but need something for more or less fundamental things like photons and electrons–both larger like atoms, and smaller like quarks; for light, too, and maybe gravity.  There may be  good term for this already out there; if so, I’m not aware of one, and I’ve often wanted one.  “Bit of matter” would be good enough if there weren’t some things not considered material, like light.

Maybe “fundent.”  “Urentity” is pissy my ear now tells me.

What follows are notes written yesterday toward a discussion of how to define poetry.

Last night I felt I was putting together a terrific monograph on the subject but now, around 3 in the afternoon, I’ve found I haven’t gotten anywhere much, and am out of gas, so will add a few thoughts to what I’ve said so far, without keeping it very well organized.

The best simple definition of poetry has for thousands of years been “literary artworks whose words are employed for substantially more than their ability to denote.”  With “literary artworks” being defined as having to have words making some kind of sense whose purpose is to provide aesthetic pleasure to a greater degree than indoctrination or information, the other two things words can provide.

A more sophisticated definition would list in detail exactly what beyond denotation poetry’s words are employed for, mainly kinds of melodation (or word-music), figurative heightening, linguistic heightening (by means of fresh language, for instance) and connotation.  Arguments have always risen about what details a poem should have to qualify as a poem–end-alliteration, the right number of syllables, meter, end-rhyme, etc., with philogushers almost always  sowing confusion by requiring subjective characteristics such as beauty, high moral content, or whatever.

Propagandists work to make salient words ambiguous.  They never provide objective, coherent definitions of their terms.  Diana Price, the anti-Shakespearean, for instance, attacks the belief that Shakespeare wrote the works attributed to him but saying there’s no contemporary personal literary evidence for him, but in her few attempts to define what she means in her book against Shakespeare does so partially, and inconsistently.  I bring this up because I hope someday to use her book in a book of my own on the nature and function of propaganda.

I’m not bothering with that right now.  I’m intent only on establishing that poetry has always been, basically, heightened language used to entertain in some way and/or another, with different poetic devices being required by poets of different schools of the art.  At present a main controversy (although now over a century old)  is whether verbal texts using only the device of lineation (or the equivalent) can qualify as poetry, but it would appear that for the great majority of poets and critics, the answer is yes.  The most recent controversy has to do with whether poetry making in which non-verbal elements are as important as verbal elements can be considered poetry.  the outcome is uncertain but it would seem that another yes will result.  Amazingly enough–to me, at any rate–is the belief of many visual artists who make letters and other linguistic symbols the subject of painting that such . . . “textual designs,” I call them . . . are poetry, “visual poetry.”  The question has not reached enough people in poetry to be considered controversial yet, I don’t believe–however controversial in my circles.

My newest and best definition of visual poetry is: “poetry (therefore verbal) containing visual elements whose contribution to its central aesthetic effect is more or less equally to the contribution to that of the poem’s words.”

It is constantly claimed how blurry and ever-changing language is, but I’m not sure it is.  It seems to me that most of our language is quite stable, and that only language about ideas, which are forever changing, is to any great extent capricious.  Sure, lots of terms come and go, but only because what they describe comes and goes.  “Poetry,” was reasonably set for millennia, and uncertain only now because for the first time  a significant number of artists are fusing arts, thus requiring new terms like “visual poetry,” and amendments to definitions like “poetry.”

A precise, widely agreed-on definition of “poetry” is essential not only for critics but for poets themselves, no mater how little many of them realize it.  They want to use it freely, and should if you believe with me that “poetry is the appropriate misuse of language.”  A metaphor is a misuse of language, a lie.  Calling me a tiger when it comes to defending the rational use of language is an example.  I’m not a tiger.  But I act in some ways like a tiger.  A metaphor actually could be considered an ellipsis–words left out because understood, in this case saying “Bob is a tiger” rather than “Bob is like a tiger.”  In any case, if we don’t accept the definition of tiger as a big dangerous cat, the metaphor will not work.

To say a word can have many meanings according to its context does not make it polysemous, although if provides the word with connotational potential the poet can take advantage of.

James Joyce’s “cropse’ is a neat misspelling but useless if one does not accept the precise meanings of “crops” and “corpse.”

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 366 — An Extra Value of Long Division Poem

Tuesday, February 1st, 2011

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I just realized something I should have realized long ago but didn’t: a huge virtue of the long division poem is that one can use it to indicate the value of its images to each other.  In a long division poem I was working on last night, I suddenly saw how important the size of the remainder was.  I’ve done other long division poems in which in which I consciously exploited the remainder’s small size, and I’ve often worried that my dividend might be smaller than my divisor or sub-dividend product or quotient, or even remainder.  But I’ve never thought of the abstract aesthetic value of the characteristic.  It’s something no other poem than a math poem can have, and that few math poems can have as clearly as a long division poem.  So: hurray for me.

That’s all for today.  I had hoped to post a new mathemaku, the one I sketched last night, and was very proud of.  But a day of tennis then a long dental procedure–a tooth implant–did me in, and I started the day sluggish.  And no longer think much of the poem.

Entry 364 — The Flow-Break

Monday, January 31st, 2011

Why Jump-Cuts Are Not Flow-Breaks (In My Poetics)

Jump-cuts are not generally instances of flow-breaks because they usually occur at the end of a thought or image.  One goes immediately into them from what preceded them, too.   A line-break, on the other hand, requires one often to stop in the middle of a thought–and return all the way to the other side of the page one is reading.  Or it&&&clogs one’s reading path, as here, or i t breaks in a manner much less common than a change of subject matter, as here.

More exactly, a flow-break is explicit, concrete,  physical–an unusually large space or string of strange symbols or a space where it never is in prose–something objectively present.  A jump-cut occurs usually after a normal space.  When it occurs in the middle of a sentence, it’s not so much a physical break as a break in the thought conveyed.  On the other hand, all flow-breaks cause a break in some thought.

I think I have to accept that here I’m not sure of my definition.  Any literary text with persistent lineation (at either end or anywhere else  in                   a line is poetry, that I will never change my mind about.  The problem is, what else is poetry?

On reflection, I think I was right to begin with.  I just need to emphasize that lineation is a significantly large physical stoppage of a line (before it begins in the case of right-margin lineation), which is usually performed by spaces but can be performed by anything else.  “Thi s” would not be a specimen of lineation (as I previously held), and hence not a flow-break but a poetic device, an intra-syllabic word-break.

Entry 362 — My Defixation Continues

Saturday, January 29th, 2011

First, another definition:

Visiomathematical Poetry: mathematical poetry containing a strong visioaesthetic component.  I’m posting this as an example of my belief that a variety of poetry should be named on the basis of what it most is, not automatically called “visual poetry,” for instance, because it is partially visioaesthetic, as many of my mathemaku are, and as linguexclusive poems that calligraphy has prettified are.

Next, the contents of a post sent to New-poetry:

First off, this is a test to see if an attachment will show up when this e.mail is posted.  If not, one can see what it contains at http://tipoftheknife.blogspot.com/2011/01/tip-of-knife-issue-3.html?showComment=1296227493737#c7300633740752662346.  Scroll down to my “EE-Winter.”

Secondly, to those who believe non-Wilshberian works like this piece are the equivalent of someone kicking an elk skull and calling what they’re doing “poetry,” what such a work should be called.  Not “visual art,” by the way, since everything in it is textual–the verbal text of words and the mathematical text of mathematical symbols (to wit, the absolute signs [the verticals], the minus signs, and the remainder and what I call the “dividend shed”).

Thirdly, I’d love to hear what anyone makes of the poem.  Everything in it can be paraphrased–if one knows how to read math and solve simple cryptograms.  I call it a cryptographic mathematical poem, by the way.

Third, something with nothing to do with poetics definitions, a comment to Bill DiMichele’s blog I just made in response to a brief comment of someone who found Bill’s latest entry “wonderful”:

As one with work in the post, I thank you, Caio. As one with work in the post, however, I have a request: couldjah say why you think the post wonderful? Partly because of my work, for instance? Partly in spite of my work? Sorry for this slightly annoyed comment, but I find way too many comments to blogs and discussion groups to be nothing but close to useless thumbs up or down. On the other hand, it is nice to know when anyone cares enough about something on the net to actually comment! Hardly nobody done does that. So a sincere thanks, anyway. (And the stuff Bill has gathered, aside from mine, is wonderful, isn’t it!

persnickedly yours, Elderly Bob

Now a comment about my mathemaku about “winter,” or–more accurately–about what some might call my analytical perfectionism.  In the original version of the poem, the remainder was simply “little lame balloonman,” a quotation from E. E. Cummings’s “In just-spring.”  Thinking about it yesterday, I can’t remember now why, I realized that the remainder should not be positive, because what it was being added to to get the (negative) dividend was negative.  That meant that any positive remainder could not be added to it to make it equal the negative dividend (negative because a negative value was chosen to multiply a positive value to try to get it).  This bothered me greatly because I need my mathematical poems to be mathematically accurate, however little many others believe they can’t be.  I couldn’t quickly figure out how to remedy the poem.  At length, though, the obvious answer occurred.  It was to make “little lame balloonman” negative.  (I had to keep “little lame balloonman” as my remainder because that’s what the remainder in each of the other three poems in the set this poem is part of are.)

To make the arithmetic more clear simply divide 2 into -3.  If you make the quotient -1, then your remainder will be -3 minus -2 or -1.  Which makes sense because if you turn the -1 into a fraction to get the quotient 100% accurate, you’ll get negative one-and-one-half.

Next, another thought inspired by the nullinguists: if a visual poem is not poetry, why need it be visual?  Adjectives count more than nouns?

Last, a Comment on “Cleave”: the reason “cleave” is famous among aesthlinguists is that it has two official definitions that are exactly opp0sed to each other, “to separate” and “to cling to.”  I mention it here because its fame is due to its nature’s being so extremely rare.  Even the masses prefer a word not to contradict itself.  I feel sure that even some certified lingusts do also.

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Archive for the ‘Claude Monet’ Category

Entry 1078 — An Analysis of a Mathexpressive Poem

Friday, April 19th, 2013

A few people have told me (I don’t know how seriously) that they have not been able to figure out all the pieces I have in my latest entry in my Scientific American blog, and a few of mine colleagues even claim I can’t multiply.  Ergo, I have an excuse to blither about one of my poems.  I’ve chosen one I think the easiest to defend.  First, though, here’s Monet’s The Regatta at Argenteuil.  It’s important for one trying to understand my poem to know of it because it is central to the poem (as the third poem in my triptych makes clear with a full reproduction of it).

TheRegattaAtArgenteuil

Okay, to begin with the simplicities of the poem below, a person encountering it must be aware that it is a long division example.  That is indicated by two symbols: the one with the word, “poem,” inside it, and the line   under the sailboat.  The first, so far as I’m aware, has no formal name, so I call it a dividend shed.  The line is a remainder line.  The two together, along with the placement of the other elements of the poem, one where a long division’s quotient would be, one where its divisor would be, one where the product of the two would be, and one under the remainder line where a remainder would be, clinch the poem’s definition as long division.

MonetBoats1-FinalCopy
Now, then, anyone remembering his long division from grade school, should understand that the poem is claiming five things:

(1) that the text the painter who is unsleeping a day long ago multiplied times the scribbled sketch, or whatever it is to the left of the dividend shed equals the sailboat shown;

(2) that the sailboat is larger in value that either the painter or the sketch;

(3) that the addition of the letter fragments under the remainder line to the sailboat image makes the sailboat equal the poem referred to above it;

(4) that the the sailboat should be considered almost equal to the poem;

(5) that the letter fragments, or whatever it is that they represent must be less in value than any of the other elements of the poem with the possible exception of the quotient.

(2) and (5) are decidedly less important than the other three, but can still be important.

I could easily claim that the poem is wholly accurate mathematically by giving the painter a value of 2, the sketch a value of 7, the sailboat a value of 14, the fragmented letters a value of 3 and the poem a value of 17.  Arbitrary?  Sure–but by definition as Grummanomical values of the elements mathematically correct however silly.  (And I would contend that if I had time, I could given them Grummanomical poetic values most people would find acceptable, and–in fact–I believe one of the virtues of such a poem is that it will compel some to consider such things–at least to the extent of wondering how much value to give a painter’s activity, how much to a sketch, and whether a poem is genuinely better than either, or the like.)

7into17

I am including the above in my entry to help those a little fuzzy about long division (and I was definitely not unfuzzy about it when I began making long division poems, and still sometimes have to stop and think for more than a few minutes at times to figure out just what one of my creations is doing).   My poem imitates it in every respect except that it does what it does with non-numerical terms rather than with numbers.  I hope, however, that someone encountering it without knowing much or anything about such poems will at least find things to like in it such as the little poem about the painter, or the idea of the childish sketch as perhaps the basis of what would become a Grand Painting.  Some, I believe, would enjoy recognizing the sailboat as the one in Monet’s masterpiece, too.  But what is most important aesthetically about the work is what it does as a mathematical operation.  That operation must make poetic sense if the work is to be effective.  Needles to say, I claim it does.

To consider the question, we must break down the long division operation the poem depicts into its components.  First of all, there is the multiplication of the sketch by what the painter is doing to get the sailboat–the painting of the sailboat, that is, sketch times something done by a painter almost having to yield a picture of some sort.  Does this make sense?  Clearly, a painter must carry out an operation on some initial sketch or idea or equivalent thereof to get into a painting, so I don’t see how one can wholly reject painter operating on sketch yields portion of painting as analogous to . . . 2 operating on 7 to yield 14.  But there is more to it than that, if only to those of us who think of multiplication as magic, and are still in touch with the way we felt when the idea that 2 times 7 could make 14 was new to us.  That is, just after we had internalized the remarkable mechanism for carrying out multiplication.  For us, the poem’s painter is using his painting mechanism to hugely enlarge a sketch the way the operation of multiplication (usually) hugely enlarges a number.  Doing so in a kind of concealed magical way unlike mere addition does.  A three-dimensional way.

At this point, the question arises as to whether the sailboat nearly equal to a poem.  That’s obviously a subjective matter.  Those who like sailboats (and poems) will tend to say yes.  Note, by the way, that “poem” here does not mean what I say it mean verosophically, but as what one of my dictionaries has it: “something suggesting a poem.”  Here the context–a work of art–makes it impossible to take the word literally,–and moreover, of taking it to mean not just something suggesting a poem, but something suggestion a master-poem.

Well, not quite here: the penciled informality of the word, “poem,” counters the idea that a super-poem is being referred to, and the sailboat is only a black and white portion of a great painting, not a great painting by itself.  We know it’s on its way to being that, but the multiplication is only telling us of it as a pleasant step, not anywhere close to being a realized goal.

The remainder, fragmented words, add very little to it, but we will later see that they are fragments of the phrase, “the faint sound of the unarrestable steps of Time.”  Again, it’s a subjective matter as to whether these words could deepen anything sufficiently to enable it to suggest a poem.  I say it does.  But even if not, I think it would be hard to claim that the addition of such words to a visual image could not be called a plausible attempt to mathematically increase the image’s value.

In conclusion, I claim that the poem carries out the operation of long division in two steps, one multiplicative, the other additive, to valuable aesthetic effect.  Elsewhere I have shown how, according to my thinking, it will put someone one appreciative of it into a Manywhere-at-Once partly in the verbal section of his brain and partly in the mathematical section of it.  The next poem in the triptych goes somewhat further; the sequence’s final poem brings everything to a climax–I hope.

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Entry 931 — Continuing the Monet Sequence

Friday, November 23rd, 2012

Finally into my creative-flow zone this morning after thinking I never again would be, I produced the following, which is the fourth frame in a sequence devoted to Monet I hope to continue:

Here’s the frame just before the above one, to provide context:

I’ve had it here before, I’m pretty sure, but if you look carefully, you’ll see a few small changes I’ve made to it since then.  I still think it’s stupendously fine.  Urp.

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Taxonomy « POETICKS

Archive for the ‘Taxonomy’ Category

Entry 1733 — A Limited Entry

Monday, February 23rd, 2015

Okay, maybe I shouldda said “more limited than usual.”  I’ve had a busy day away from the computer–with nothing I was sufficiently burning to say to inspire a good entry, anyway.  So, just a minor thought followed by Knowlecular Psychology stuff I’ve written about before but want to repeat to get my brain a little more well-fastened to it.

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Thinking about my tendency to try too hard to make sure my readers had all the information they needed fully to understand what I was writing, it occurred to me technology could come to my aid: I’m sure Kindles could be fixed to allow me to avoid boring any reader with information he doesn’t need could but also provide him with a text he could click to at any time which would have all the extra information. Right now footnotes can do this, but what I’m speaking of would not be intrusive the way footnotes are.

Indeed, a reader could be given a choice of texts–one with the math explained, one without that, for example; or any other appropriate specialized version.

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Re: my knowlecular psychology, I was thinking again about what most poems are about, and went through my list again: (1) people; (2) imagery sans people; (3) concepts . . .  Is that all?  Doesn’t sound right, but I’m too out of it right now to think of any others.

What knowlecular psychology has to do with this, is that the first category could be described (as I’m sure I’ve more than once already described it) as “anthroceptual poetry.”  Or as “sagaceptual poetry,” which is poetry in which what happens to one or more people is more important than the people–for the reader, the joy of vicariously experiencing a human triumph is more important than the joy of empathetically merging with another human being.  Two kinds of people poems.

By imagery poetry, I mean poetry that is more concerned with conveying the beauty of the sound and/or the visual appearance (primarily or usually) of what is denoted by a poem’s words–or protoceptual poetry.  As for concept poetry, I’m not sure any kind of genuine poetry is more conceptual than either of the other two (and almost all poems contain both anthroceptual and protoceptual matter).  If it existed, I would call it “reducticeptual poetry.”  A good example would be “lighght”: it is aesthetically dependent on its conceptual element–the conceptual datum about its orthography; but that element’s only use is to metaphorically lift the image the poem is about into, well, poetry, so I consider the poem more protoceptual than reducticeptual.

It may be that certain conceptual poems do use conceptual elements to lift a content that is ideational rather than sensual into poetry.  Indeed, perhaps one of my mathematical poems may provide some reader more with a feeling of the poetry of asensual mathematics than with anything sensual image that may be an element of the poem.

Something requiring more thought.

Note: what I wanted primarily to glue into my memory was the term “protoceptual.”  I’ve had trouble with it because I for a while was using “fundaceptual” in place of it.  Eventually I needed “funda” elsewhere in my psychology and felt it too confusing to have it there and with “ceptual,” so went back to “protoceptual,” which I used before for the term.

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Entry 1402 — Something From The Eighties

Monday, March 24th, 2014

Note: hold down your control button and punch + to be able to read the following more easily.

PseudoLangHeading

PseudoLang

PseudoLang2

PseudoLangData

Once again I needed something to post here and grabbed this from 25 years or so ago.  It didn’t get me into the BigTime.  Note: “vizlation” was my word then for “visimagery,” which is my word now for “visual art.

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Entry 1347 — Another Late Entry

Tuesday, January 21st, 2014

My absentmindedness is getting worse, it would seem, although it was pretty bad to begin with.  Anyway, here is yesterday’s entry, just thrown together a day late.  It’s some pages from Of Manywhere-at-Once that I don’t have time to comment on:

MatOpage146

MatOpage147

MatOpage148

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Entry 1290 — AudioTextual Art, Part 1

Thursday, December 5th, 2013

One of my many problems as a would-be culturateur is biting off more than I can chew. Today, for instance, I needed something for this entry. My laziness struck first, telling me to just use the graphic immediately below:

ForEmileBerliner

It’s from Mark Sutherand’s Sonotexts, a 2-DVD set he recently sent me–with a copy of Julian Cowley’s user’s guide to sound poetry from Wire.  As soon as I saw what Mark had sent me, I went into one of my yowie-fits, perceiving it, as I wrote Mark, as a sort of class in sound poetry, something I’d been wanting to come to terms with for years.  I had visions of taking a fifteen-minute class in the subject based on Mark’s package–something I’ve followed through on for four or five days now, except my requirement isn’t fifteen minutes daily of immersion, just a significant immersion that might last only a few minutes–like the amount of time it took me to read the text and above and study the graphics.

I had a second yowie-fit concerning my use of the above here, which I suddenly saw as the first step in a Great Adventure, Bob Grumman’s Quest to Assimilate Audio-Texual Art.  (Not “sound poetry” because I had already realized my subject would cover more than sound poetry.)   I would write a book here, one Major Thought per daily entry that would not just describe my attempt to learn about sound poetry and advance the World’s understanding of  the whole range of audio-textual art, but expose the World to my theory of aesthetics–down to its Knowlecular foundation.  All while working on three or four other not insignificant projects daily.  But I was not wholly unrealistic: my aim was “merely” a good rough draft, not a perfect final draft.

Well, maybe I’ll keep going for more than a few days.  Perhaps I’ll even write something of value.  For .  .  . ?   One of the reasons I probably won’t get far is my belief, strengthening daily–if not hourly–that there are not more than a dozen people in the world able to follow me at this time, nor will there ever be, so I’ll be wasting my time.   Yes, I do recognize that the reason for this may not be how advanced my thoughts are but how badly expressed and/or obtuse they are.   No matter, I myself will enjoy writing about my adventure, and having it to write about may be enough to keep me in it until I’ve actually accomplished my main aim, an understanding of audio-textual at that makes sense to me.

Ergo, here’s lesson one, which an enlargement of the text above from the booklet that comes with Mark’s set will facilitate: ForEmileBerlinerText

Its words, of course, are Mark’s.

Student Assignment: two words or more concerning “Sound Poem for Emile Berliner”–prior to listening to it.   Not much to say except for taxonomical remarks unsurprising to anyone who knows me.  First off, since there can be nothing in the composition anyone will be able to recognize as verbal, as far as I can now see, I would term it “linguiconceptual music,” “linguiconceptual” being my term for asemic textual matter in an artwork that conceptuphorically (or provides a concept that metaphorically) adds appreciably to the work’s aesthetic effect.  I will say more about this after hearing the composition.  Right now I don’t see how its textual content can be evident without a listener’s simply being told that it is there.Unless the tracing is exhibited as the composition is being played, as it seems to me it ought to be, and maybe is!  The tracing IS a visual poem, albeit a simple one that serves the work as a whole as its caption.

No, it’s more than that–the textual music is metaphorically its voice, which makes it an integral part of the composition that is secondarily a caption for it.

So much for lesson 1.  (I think I passed.)

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Entry 1264 — A Quasi-Haiku

Saturday, November 9th, 2013

The very first poem in the Bridges 2013 Poetry Anthology (Tesselations Publishing, Phoenix, 2013), Michael Bartholemew-Biggs’s, “Taylor’s Theorem,” which I’ve been invited to review, bothered me because I thought he was calling it a haiku.  Here it is:

If we knew it all
for just a single moment
we’d hold the future

I was going make my standard point about 5/7/5 not being required for a haiku, and not being enough to make a text a haiku when I reread Bartholomew-Biggs’s title for the sequence of which “Taylor’s Theorem” was just one of seven poems and saw he was calling those poems “quasi-haiku.”  In any event, I liked it and the rest of his sequence, particularly a sort of quasi-haiku diptych, “Ill Conditioning”:

Catastophists say
one butterfly’s wingbeats can
switch drought to monsoon.
Catastrophe spreads
through some computations from
one decimal’s doubt.

I’m quoting these partly because I like them, but also because they and many of the other poems in the anthology strike me as what I’m calling “idea-poems” as opposed to “image-poems,” which I consider an interesting division to ponder, and will, with results to show you eventually, I hope.

 

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Entry 1248 — What a Poem Is

Thursday, October 24th, 2013

I can’t seem to get into this value-of-poetry topic so for now will simply deal with the terminology I came up with several days ago and thought would get me going deeper. I’ve pretty much junked all of my previous related terminology. The new terminology should cover everything it did.

First of all I have ordained that a poem hath:

Fundamental Constituents:

1. words as words, and punctuation marks and verbal symbols like the ampersand and mathematical symbols like the square root sign, or the verbal constituents of poetry;

2. words as sounds, or the auditory constituents of poetry–which can, in the case of sound poetry, include averbal sounds;

3. words as printed objects, or the visual constituents of poetry–which can, in the case of visual poetry, include averbal graphics.

I tentatively would also include negative space, by which I mean not only the blank page words are printed on but the silence their sounds can be said to be printed on, as fundamental constituents of poetry.

Every poem contains all four of these constituents. Taken together, they form the poem’s denotative layer, which expresses what the poem explicitly means. That layer in turn generates the poem’s connotative layer, which expresses what most people would find it implicitly to mean. Note: if the poem is plurexpressive–a visual or sound poem, for instance–its graphics or sounds would contribute to both layers: a drawing of a house would denote a house, for example, and the sound of a gunshot would denote a gunshot. (“Gunshout,” I mistyped that as, at first. Aren’t words fun?!)

The two layers together make up what I’m now calling a poem’s expressifice. (“Boulder”–“bolder” with a u added. Sorry, I began wondering if I could–oops, that’s “cold” with a u added–make a Kostelanetzian list of words like “gunshout.” I didn’t intend for the longer word to be a regular wourd. . . .)

Back to “expressifice.” It is responsible for what a poem says. Okay, nothing new except the Grummanisms so far. Recently, and this is an area I must but probably won’t research, there has been some grappling with the idea of “conceptual poetry” that I have found important and interesting, but confusing. My next “poetifice” is the conceptifice. My Merriam Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary provides a definition of “concept” that I find satisfactory for my purposes: “an abstract or generic idea generalized from particular instances.” In a poem, it would be close to what I’ve used the term, “unifying principal,” for. A poem’s “meaning” seems to me a near-synonym for it, too.

I can’t see that it’s any less “expressed” by a poem than connotations are, and I mention that because my impression is that those discussing conceptual poetry generally oppose it to “expressive poetry,” by which they basically mean “what a poem says” rather than the meaning of what a poem manifests.

It now occurs to me that what the conceptual poets are doing is minimalizing what I call their poems’ expressifices to magnify their conceptifices. If so, my term should be more useful than I at first thought it would be. I feel it of value anyway because of the great difference between what it can be said to express and what the expressifice can.

As I wrote that, I realized that the entire conceptifice of many poems, particularly the most popular ones is not very ideational–is, in fact, just a large connotation. Basho’s famous frogpond (“frogpound?”) can help here, I think (and I’m a bit foggy about where I’m going, but think I’m getting to someplace worth getting to). Here’s my translation of it:

                old pond  .  .  .  .  .  .                     the sound of a frog                         splashing in

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This poem may have more valid, interactive unifying principals per word-count than any other poem ever made. So its conceptifice includes the idea of “the contentment the quiet portions of the natural world can provide one.” Or is that an image? In any case, it seems different in kind to a seond idea it clearly presents: “the wide range in magnitude (in all meanings of the word) of the universe’s moments.” We feel the first, we . . . ideate? the second–while feeling it, yes, but in a another way, in another place in our brains, than we do the serenity the first component of the poem’s conceptifice is about. Poetry, and poetry-become-philosophy.

I will have to come back to this.

The final three poetifices are the aesthifice, the anthrofice and the utilifice. These have to do the meaningfulness of a poem’s initial meanings. Every poem has all three of these, but usually one is emphasized at the expense of the other two.

The aesthifice has no meaning, it just is. (See MacLeish.) It is meaningful for its expression of sensual beauty. It can’t help but express other things, but they are trivial compared with the beauty of its sounds and/or sensual imagery and/or feelings it is most concerned with. In my notes about it I mention “beauty of constituents,” “imagery” (and “deep imagery,” possibly. “freshness of expression,” “archetypality,”display of skill” and “patterning.” There are more, probably many more.

The anthrofice has no meaning, either, but is primarily concerned with human beings, their actions and emotions. It expresses what I call “anthroceptual beauty,” the beauty of human love, for instance. Narrative poetry aims for anthrofices, lyric for aesthifices. Then there’s the utilifice. It does mean. A rhymed text you value because of what you learned from it will feature a utilifice. Beauty of any significance is besides the point, what counts is that what one gets goes beyond what the poem is–the poem is a helpful step toward attaining something more valuable than it whereas a lyric or narrative poem is art for art’s sake. In short, I categorize a “poem” whose utilifice is dominant as a form of utilitry–either informrature if conveying information, or advocature if telling people what to do. Lyric and narrative poems are forms of art.

If I weren’t such a lump, I’d now apply the above to actual poems. As a matter of fact, that’s what I want to do in my November Scientific American blog entry. Right now, though, here’s a rhyme that isn’t a poem:

                     Count that day lost                    Whose low descending sun                    Views from thy hand                    No worthy action done.

It’s from a wall of my high school cafeteria. I don’t know who wrote it, but I like it a lot-–and believe in it! A pretty rhyme but didactic, so not a poem. Its function is not to provide pleasure but to instill (however pleasantly) a valuable rule of conduct.

All of a poem’s poetifices taken together are a . . . poem, a lyrical poem if the poem’s aesthifice is dominant, a narrative poem is its anthrofice is dominant, and a utilitarian poem is its utilifice is dominant.

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Well, I did a lot better than I thought at the start. It needs more work but I’m satisfied with it as is.

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Entry 1084 — Yet More Mathpo Thoughts

Thursday, April 25th, 2013

In the March entry of my Scientific American blog, I praised a poem of Rita Dove’s–with chagrin, because she’s one of poetry’s enemies, in my view, due to her having the status to bring the public’s attention to poetry outside of Wilshberia but doesn’t.  Here’s what I said about her “’Geometry,’ which wonderfully describes the poet’s elation at having proven a theorem: at once, her ‘house expands,’ becoming transparent until she’s outside it where ‘the windows have hinged into butterflies . . . going to some point true and unproven.’  Putting her in the almost entirely asensual beauty of the visioconceptual part of her brain where Euclid doth reign supreme.”  I bring this up to illustrate an important reason for my emphasis on the idea of a mathexpressive poem’s doing mathematics.  It is, that if one of my long division poems does not do mathematics, there is nothing to distinguish it from a poem like Dove’s.  If that makes taxonomical sense to anyone, so be it, but it doesn’t to me.  

Needless to say, I very much want it believed that my poems do something special, but that doesn’t make my belief that they do necessarily invalid.

Going further with the idea of the value of doing something non-verbal in a poem rather than just discussing some discipline in which non-verbal operations occur, the possibility of doing math in a poem simplies the possibility of doing other non-literary things in them.  Like archaeology.  I’ve tried that in a few of my visual poems (as have others, whether consciously or not, I don’t know).  I’ve suggested archaeology sites to what I believe is metaphorical effect, but only portrayed archaeology, not carried out archaeological operations.  Not sure yet how that can be done but feel it ought to be possible.  Ditto doing chemistry–as some have, I believe (although I can’t think of the unusually-named poet who I believe has, right now).

I’ve read of choreographical notation and feel confident that it could be effectively used in poetry.  Don’t have time to learn it, my self, though.  I’ve done music in poems–only at the simple level that I’ve done mathematical poems, but made poems that require the pocipient to be able to read music to appreciate them.  There are all kinds of wonderful ways to go as a poet for those believing other ways of interacting with the world besides the verbal can be employed in poetry rather than merely referred to, however as eloquently as Rita Dove has referred to the geometrical.

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Entry 1083 — More Mathpo Blither

Wednesday, April 24th, 2013

I believe I’ve worked out my final argument for considering mathematical operations to happen in my mathexpressive poems:

(1) Consider the sentence, “It is the east and Juliet is the sun.”  The sun is presented as a metaphor for Juliet but it remains an actual sun.

(2) Consider the equation, “(meadow)(April) = flowers.”  The mathematical operation of multiplication is presented as a metaphor for the way April operates on a meadow, but it remains an actual mathematical operation of multiplication.  The equation carries out the operation of multiplication on two non-mathematical terms to get a third non-mathematical term.  It is something real that acts metaphorically.

If the mathematical operation does not occur, what happens?  Two images, one of a meadow, one of April, whose collocation a reader is to take as having to do with flowers?  What sort of poem would that be? Not that the actual mathematical operation makes it a great poem; I only use it because its simplicity makes my point so clearly.

That it is possible for such a thing as a poem that is part mathematical and part verbal to exist is important to me for taxonomical reasons since it helps substantially to allow me to claim all poetry ultimately to be of just two main kinds, lexexpressive poetry, which consists of nothing (or, sometimes, nearly nothing) but words (and punctuation marks), and plurexpressive poetry, in which one or more expressive modality is as aesthetically important in it as words (and punctuation marks): visioexpressive poetry, mathexpressive poetry, audioexpressive poetry and performance poetry (which I want to find a term for that carries on my “X-expressive” coining).

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Entry 1065 — Behind Again

Saturday, April 6th, 2013

I waited until early afternoon before finally taking a caffeine pill.  I just couldn’t get going.  it’s a little after 5 now, and I’ve been zipping along, feeling content albeit not exuberant.  I haven’t done anything of consequence yet, though, and this entry won’t be much: one of my “just-keeping-my-vow-of-an-entry-a-day” ones.

First off, here’s where my latest Scientific American guest blog entry is, although I’m sure all of you got my group e.mail about it. I have one sort of interesting thing to say about it. In one of my poems there my quotient is, “painter/ unsleeping/ a day long ago.”  I saw when looking over the entry earlier today that most readers would probably interpret this as about a painter who is staying awake through some day long ago but what I meant and thought without thinking that I was saying was that the painter was in the act of unsleeping the long ago day.  I was using an intransitive verb as a transitive verb.  I did mention that in my entry but not because I thought anyone could take me to be writing about an unsleeping poet.  Anyway, to make it clearer, although maybe not clear enough, I’ve changed my version of the passage to “painter/ unsleeping a/ day long ago.”

I have tentatively coined “bentword” to represent words like “unsleeping” which will derail readers.  If they do so effectively, they will cause the simple pleasure of fresh language.  Which I hope soon to discuss like I’ve just discussed rhyme, and various metaphors–including the verbaphor, another new coinage to go with my visiophor, mathephor and audiophor, as a kind of metaphor.  I must be taxonomical complete, you know.

Well, my caffeine pill is wearing off, so that’s it for this entry.

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Entry 1033 — Important Taxonomy Announcement

Tuesday, March 5th, 2013

At New-Poetry today, Al Filreis mad the following announcement:

Today we are releasing PoemTalk #63, a discussion of Laynie Browne’s Daily Sonnets with Sueyeun Juliette Lee, Lee Ann Brown, and Jessica Lowenthal:

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PoemTalk is available on iTunes (simply type “PoemTalk” in your iTunes store searchbox).
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From the program notes:
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PoemTalkers Jessica Lowenthal, Lee Ann Brown, and Sueyeun Juliette Lee gathered with Al Filreis to talk about five poems from Laynie Browne’s Daily Sonnets, which was published by Counterpath Press of Denver in 2007. We chose two of Browne’s “fractional sonnets,” two of the sonnets in which the talk of her children is picked up partly or wholly as lines of the poem, and one of her “personal amulet” sonnets. These are, to be specific: “Six-Fourteenths Donne Sonnet” [MP3], “Two-Fourteenths Sonnet” [MP3], “In Chinese astrology you are a snake” [MP3], “I’m a bunny in a bunny suit” [MP3], and “Protector #2: Your Personal Amulet” [MP3]. The sonnet after Donne is a constrained rewriting of a “holy” sonnet: “I am a little world made cunningly.”
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After reading about the fractional sonnets, which sound like fun to me, I am giving up my lifetime view that a sonnet must consist of 14 rhyming iambic pentameters. There are just too many variations people are calling sonnets for my previous insistence to make sense. But we need a name to distinguish the traditional “real” sonnet from other poems called sonnets, so I ordain that such sonnets be called “classical sonnets,” and all other sonnets be called . . . “stupid sonnets.” Just kiddin’. I haven’t thought of a name for them yet.

(Yeah, yeah, who cares. But I wanted to show that I can change my mind.)
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Entry 447 — Me Versus Academia, Again « POETICKS

Entry 447 — Me Versus Academia, Again

David Graham made one of his always reasonable, never alarming posts to a thread on a 1993 book of Heather McHugh’s about the use of fragments in poetry, Broken English.  He couldn’t keep from making what I took to be a crack at me, and was unable not to reply to.

.  .  . I think McHugh’s right–if I understand her point, what she’s talking about is not a particular technique but an effect reachable by various means at various times, one of those first principles that I referred to before.  The high modernists, who were crazy about collage, were in this light not inventing anything entirely new so much as finding a fresh path to an age-old destination.

(All worthy destinations are age-old?)

This principle of disjunction, then, is visible in Whitman’s whip-saw juxtapositions, Stein’s fracturing of syntax, Eliot’s fragments shored against the ruins, the electric leap in a haiku, surrealist imagery, and so forth, right up through more recent instances such as Ginsberg’s “hydrogen jukebox” and Ashbery’s ruminative ramblings.

I’m just thinking aloud here, and no doubt overgeneralizing, but it occurs to me that there is at least a kinship between poetry such as Dean Young’s and a lot of language-centered poetry with which it wouldn’t normally be compared.  Rather like Ashbery, Young employs utterly conventional syntax, image, and figure; but the results are most slippery and unparaphraseable.  He doesn’t fracture language itself, but there is plenty of disjunction and fragmentation at the conceptual level.

If you focus mostly on the easy binaries (style/theme; free verse/meter; traditional/experimental) you would naturally miss recognizing this sort of kinship.  If, for example, all your definitions of poetry focused relentlessly on
purely technical matters such as the handling of syntax.

My response: “I suppose if you focused all your consideration of poetry on the techniques objectively distinguishing each kind from all others, you’d possibly miss as much as ten percent of the things you’d miss if you focused it only on the trivial kinships that can be found between any two kinds of poems.  (Note: there is more to appreciating poetry than defining it, although that’s the most important part of intelligently appreciating it.)”

In a second post, I opined that “all worthy destinations are much more age-old than new, but never not-new in some significant way.”

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Entry 546 — I’m Back Home, and in Good shape « POETICKS

Entry 546 — I’m Back Home, and in Good shape

I walked to the hospital (about ) 2 miles from my home, getting there at a little after 5 AM.  My appointment was for 5:30.  My friend Linda got me home at a little after 10 AM, even though we made two small trips, one to the drugstore and one to Staples so I could buy cover stock for Marton’s book.  My surgeon had told me he’d talk to me after the procedure, but he didn’t.  I’m sure things went okay, though; otherwise, I’d not have been let go.  One disappointment–I have to wear a catheter for six days rather than the two I’d been told I’d have to.

I’m pretty tired, this time for the legitimate reason that I only slept a half-an-hour last night.  I didn’t feel particularly edgy, for I wasn’t anxious about the procedure.  Maybe my body was.  Stress affects it much more than it affects the part of my brain the brain calls “me.”   As is often the case when I have insomnia, I had quite a few ideas.  One of them was a refinement of my long-held belief that it’s unfair to hold an innovative poem to the same standards of clarity a conventional poem is held to since the former is likely only clear because one reading it has been educated in the reading of such poems since nursery school or earlier, and has (probably) not been exposed to anything like what he needs to have been to find an innovative poem clear. 

 The refinement is a new term: “the clarity-to-exposure ratio.”  Or how clear a poem is to an engagent on a scale of, say, one to a hundred, and how much exposure he’s had to poems of its kind on the same scale.  Hence, a poem by Frost may have a clarity rating of 95, but an exposure rating of 95, as well, because of what school teachers have taught him about formal verse, and his memory of nursery rhymes, and much else.  One of my mathemaku may have a clarity rating of 8 (because it will have understandable words and recognizable mathematical symbols and, perhaps, recognizable graphic images).  It may have the same c-to-e ratio as the Frost poem, though, if its exposure rating is only 8,which it could well be because no such poems will have been taught to its engagent. 

Offhand, I would say a poem approaches ideal clarity to the degree its clarity-to-exposure ratio approaches point nine.  After its exposure rating has reached 100.  I make point nine (or some such figure)  the ideal because perfect clarity is boring.  That I consider a fact of aesthetics, not an opinion.

 

 

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