Scientific American Guest Blog Images « POETICKS

Scientific American Guest Blog Images

Because a few visitors to my guest blog at Scientific American found certain images difficult to read because of their small size, I am posting larger, images with better resolution here.  The following five are from my April 2013 entry.  If you hold down on your Control key, and hit the + button, you can enlarge them.

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Note: parts of the triptych are intentionally difficult to read.

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 I believe these three works are not so much sequential as different perspectives on Monet’s creative process.

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I haven’t decided if I’ll call the following an addition to the triptych above or something else.  It is certainly very much related to it. 

MonetBoats4-FinalCopy

The last image is “Mathemaku for Robert Lax, from 2002:

 

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I will continue to post images from my Scientific American blog that need extra resolution.
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Column008 — September 1994 « POETICKS

Column008 — September 1994

 

 

From A Penny Up

 


Small Press Review, Vol. 26, No. 9, September 1994



 

1CENT, No. 297 & No. 298, April, 1993; 1 p.; Curvd H&Z, 1357
Lansdowne Ave., Toronto, Ontario M6H 3Z9 Canada. $0.50.

Central Park, No. 23, Spring, 1994; 198 pp.; Neword
Productions, Inc., Box 1446, New York NY 10023. $7.50.


For close to ten years, I would guess, jwcurry has been overseeing a series of hand-outs devoted mostly to poetry, but also occasionally to illumagery or prose. Various presses, including his own Curved H&Z, publish the issues, with curry distributing them–at just a penny a copy. Which accounts for the name of the series, 1CENT. Of course, curry also charges a half-a-buck or so for postage, but since he generally mails out several issues in one envelope, the cost for each is rarely more than a quarter.

Most 1Cents are broadsheets or on business cards or the like, but a few are small chapbooks. Production values vary but are usually down&dirty. #297, for instance, is just a 4″ by 5″ piece of paper while #298 consists of two pieces of typewriter-paper stapled together. The issues vary in aesthetic merit, too, but most of them are at least interesting.

#297 contains just three texts: the words, “DYSLEXIC ESSAY:/ too:/ TRANSLATION:,” which are jittered by double-printing; some information about number of copies printed, etc.; and a three-word poem (by “NE”):

MOOM IN VALLEY

Perhaps this is minor but there’s something about it that strongly appeals to me. The suggestion of a half-moon, or obscured full-moon, and its reflection in a pond is part of it. Also the idea of the word for moon’s being corrected! (Because surely “moom” is a better spelling of the word than the conventional one.) Due to its title, the poem also conveys an impression of someone’s immersion into and dyslexically back from rather than linearly straight through the moon.

#298 is “a triple memorial issue for RDHanson, dom sylvester houedard and Joe Singer.” Hanson was a little-known but talented Canadian poet who was only 33 when he died, houedard one of Canada’s–and the world’s–leading pluraesthetic poets, and Singer (who shot himself last year at the age of 42) a publisher/writer well-known in the small press for The Printer’s Devil. The issue includes reminiscences of his dead friends by curry; a news article on houedard; scraps of Hanson’s, houedard’s and Singer’s work; and additional pieces by Gustave Morin, Alberto Rizzo and Rosemary Hollingshead.

I was bowled over by Morin’s cover for #298, which is labeled, “ECOSYSTEM: A FRAGMENT.” Two knife-&-fork settings are shown in it, one large, the other much smaller, and between the knife and fork of the first–which jolts us into taking the settings as upright, with one deep in the distance, and makes us see how the place-settings existence provides for us recede into nothingness.

But the piece is also a quietly devastating satire on man’s irresponsible use and understanding of existence as nothing but a series of meals for human beings, tastefully served up.

Central Park, which is printed on excellent paper and has a glossy, perfect-bound cover, is at the opposite end of the production-value spectrum from 1CENT. It specializes in “forms of thought and feeling that address the most general and pressing concerns of our time, and do so through passionate and/or unpredictable means,” according to its editors. The following are just a few of the fine items it contains:

A refreshingly even-handed and thoughtful discussion of “Political Correctness and Popular Culture” by Robert Stam, who feels that the left should stop looking for correctness of character and text, “and assume instead imperfection and contradiction. A correct left is not only a privileged left, but also . . . a losing left.”

“Counting Sheep,” a poem by Maria L. McLeod that contrasts a “good” wife (who, for example, won’t mind your owning a copy of Playboy) with “I,” who will burn your Playboy and lock you out of the house till you’ve gotten a series of articles into print called, “Pornography: One Link in the Patriarchal Chain of the Victimization of Women.”

A very funny piece of fiction by Jonathan Brannen whose narrator is trying in vain to recall the name of a film someone called C made. He runs through the film’s plot–and plots of others of C’s films. They are all absurd, full of loony situations, and characters like the two women “who live in each other’s bodies.”

Excellent criticism by Stephen-Paul Martin, Kirpal Gordon, Susan Smith Nash and others. And . . .


 

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NewBlog Entries « POETICKS

NewBlog Entries

Bob Grumman’s po-X-cetera Blog

The Past Week’s Entries

22 October 2009: The following essay on d. a. levy (from #574) is either a review I wrote for the May 1992 issue of Small Press Review (my copy of which I seem to have lost) or an expansion of it I later did. Whichever, I think I did a pretty good job on it, although no levy scholar has paid any attention whatever to it:

d.a. levy, Pioneer in Visio-Textual Art
Zen Concrete & Etc.
by d.a. levy, edited by Ingrid Swanberg. 245 pp; 1991; Pa;
ghost pony press, 2518 Gregory St., Madison WI 53711. $29.50 ppd.

The initial charm of this nicely-produced, richly-illustrated large book is the immediacy with which it brings the sixties to life, at least for anyone who spent his twenties there, as I did. Just about everything of the era is in it: the sometimes jejune but always impassioned and compassionate politics; the sometimes jejune but always free-ranging and committed devotion to art; the struggles over obscenity, complete with busts; marijuana and various psychedelic drugs; the paraphernalia both physical and mental of exotic Oriental religions; and the wonderful, if sometimes frazzling, sense of everything’s coming to fruition at once.
Almost always an implicit or louder part of the textual poems that make up about half the book are the politics of the time, as in his “Suburban Monastery Death Poem,” for example, where he writes, “Really/ the police try to protect/ the banks – and everything else/ is secondary,” or in his four “visualized prayers to the American God,” which are comprised mainly of dollar signs.

The devotion to art is burstingly there in the sheer amount of poems and collages in the book, particularly considering that they are a mere selection from the ouevre of a man who died at 26.

As for the obscenity wars, they explode in the excellent over-view from the early seventies of levy’s life provided by Douglas Blazek. Twice, according to Blazek, levy was arrested for distributing obscene poems. AND THIS COURT HAS A RIGHT TO PROTECT KIDS FROM THIS KIND OF FILTH FOR THE SAKE OF FILTH AND NOTHING ELSE as one of the judges involved thoughtfully put it. Levy was clearly a victim of persecution, for one of his arrests was for publishing a poem by a minor that contained the word, “fuck,” in it. Although levy was never convicted of the charges against him, the persecution took its toll on him and certainly contributed to his eventually killing himself.

Drugs are only peripherally in levy’s poems and collages, but get more attention from levy’s friend, the poet D. R. Wagner, whom the book’s editor, Ingrid Swansen, interviews, and in the personal reminiscences of levy by Kent Taylor, as well as in a wonderfully black-humored fragment from a radio talk show featuring levy and a few of his friends which ends with a woman caller’s saying, “I think the boys are absolutely right! I think it’s great! Why don’t we all just bug out, and we’ll see who provides the groceries, and makes the shoes…” with Levy interrupting by asking who needs shoes and the host’s observing that levy is wearing a pair.

Buddhism permeates levy’s poetry and collages, though in tension with his propensity for agitation and despair. As for the sense of going-somewhere that the sixties symbolized for so many, it is there not only in levy’s poems and collages, but in the descriptions of his publishing (via offset and then mimeo), his organizing of and contributions to poetry readings, his leaving free copies of books he’d published at public libraries, and selling them on the street, and all his interactions with people like Ed Sanders and Allen Ginsberg.

By now it should be apparent that a signal virtue of this book is its bringing levy himself, through his friends’ reminiscenses of him, to life. Literary Biography and Social Document– as just these two things alone, Zen Concrete is well worth buying. But its greatest value is as a collection of levy’s art.

That begins with Zen Concrete, 1967, which consists of a sequence of what levy called “experiments in destructive writing.” Its first page contains something that apparently was a poem, but all its letters have been blacked out. Trivial? Perhaps. But considered as a kind of drawing of literary process, it begins to say more than On one level it says not of silence but of silenced writing–and this no doubt refers, in part, to the attempt of the police in Cleveland to silence levy as a poet by twice arresting him for purveying obscenity. But it also speaks of the poet’s disappointment with his medium. Also, the canceled words look like they’re seeping larger, flowing toward the paper’s edge, or even misting upward off it, into subtler expression. Other things that cross the mind: that some portions of the poem are only lightly scratched out, and others heavily, and passionately, defaced suggests the poem’s personality–as does its still apparent shape. As a composition its author turned against, it is amusing, too, particularly at its start, where lines between lines had to be canceled–as if the poet, dissatisfied with his effort first tried to rewrite the beginning of it, then gave up. The title, “Selected Writings,” which is left unmarked at the top of the page with levy’s name and the year of composition, suggests something of the artist’s sardonic self-contempt for his presuming to work up an Ouevre out of matter better blacked out.

But the piece is most important for setting up levy’s series as a whole. The second work in it, “Totem,” consists of more blacked out lines of print, but with a little oval sun added off to the left, and the text reversed (due, d.r. wagner informs us in an interview included in the book, to levy’s practice of “backfeeding” pages through his mimeograph). Most of the text is in a narrow, irregular column, and looks like a totem pole. But not all the letters in the thing have been blacked out. The result? Words in the process of going against themselves, and into self- obliteration in an act of worship? Or the reverse: letters backing out of a dying act of worship and on their way toward asensual pragmatism as normal words? Both, I contend–into a tension of opposed magics.

In the third segment of levy’s sequence cut-up texts are superimposed on a silenced text; one of the additions concerns Cambodian statues of the Buddha; another is a snippet that contains just the word, “(dharma).” The main addition, however, is an upside-down text, mostly blackened out. But scraps of material remain readable: “come,” “gain refuge” and “they didn’t,” among them in the upside-down portion; “red walls” “as twilight formed” and “staring at” in the rightside-up text it covers. Many meanings are possible: a world of words and orientations going meaningless, but with havens preserved within? And of course more than a hint of the salvation of levy’s brand of Zen. So, like many poets after him such as Doris Cross, John Stickney, Greg Evason, jwcurry and Tom Phillips, levy is here silencing a given text down to some poetic or otherwise aesthetically meaningful essence.

As the sequence continues levy adds more and more subteties, e.g., a half-page with just a few scattered fragments of illegible words above a text on . . . the Beginning, which opposes a page whose silenced text looks like a brick wall. As a whole, Zen Concrete becomes a treatise on the Varieties of Disintegration and Ressurection, as well as a visual poem one can go back to as often as one can to the best paintings.

A year later levy was adding visual cut-outs from girlie magazines, books of reproductions of Buddhist statues and other artworks, and elsewhere, while building on his techniques of textual destruction and collage for even richer though sometimes disorganized-seeming work that looks contemporary, and has had a wide if not yet academically- acknowledged influence on the best visual poets of the present..

Meanwhile he was turning out visio-textual work of an elegance that almost seems slick. Ny favorite of these appears to be something clipped from a Greek newspaper. Three circles of equal diameter have been collaged over the clipping, and two more circles of the same size drawn intersecting two of them. One of the first set of circles contains blown-up Greek lettering in white on a black ground; a second has similar lettering in black on a white ground. The texts are perpendicular to the clipping’s text. The third of the cut-out circles is mostly blank, with just a shade of small disappearing lettering. Some dots, a dotted line, a solid line and a bent line have also been drawn on the work to suggest, for me, some kind of geometric analysis.

What to make of such a jumble? I’m not sure. But I find all kinds of hints of antiquity versus the ultra-modern field that particle physics, with its extensive re-use of greek lettering, is; headline-topicality versus details of Final Importance that are turning away and rising from them. Platonic ideals.

As a textual poet, levy was not as significant or groundbreaking as he was in what I call “pluraesthetic art” to mean art that is meaningful in more than one aesthetic way, as visual poetry is expressive both as words and as visual images. An early extended poem, “Cleveland undercovers,” is mostly angry stream of consciousness near-prose in the manner of Ginsberg’s “Howl” about levy’s hometown, and perhaps greatest obsession, for he wrote about it constantly, and could not seem to leave it for more than a month or two at a time, in spite of the growing attentions of the police. But some of its lines have a poetic flare, for example, “i have a city to cover with lines,/ with textured words &/ the sweaty brick-flesh images of a/ drunken tied-up whorehouse cowtown/ sprawling & brawling on its back.” He was only 23 or 24 when he wrote it. Others of his longer poems are as energetic, and solider. My favorite of them (at the moment), “Warriors Rest,” performs all kinds of incantatory, surrealistic zigs on the idea of a “Spade Queen” as playing card, queen of night, queen of death, black woman, whose “dark dancing is/ a shadow moving across/ the moon at dusk,” versus a warrior’s white horses, and other whites until “later the shadows/ of new sun dances/ enter her mind/ like frightened moons// in the morning smoke/ like black bridges to cross.”

There is so much more to be said, but, oh, the Cleveland of space considerations! So I will end with my conviction that it would be no disservice to Keats, one of my greatest heroes, to describe d.a. levy as his 20th-Century American equivalent.

In #575, I passed on an anouncement P. R. Primeau and Geof Huth had posted for an anthology called The Ghetto of Concretism devoted to concrete poetry of the strictest sort–nothing but textual symbols, for instance. I don’t know what came of this project or whether I submitted anything to it. Geof, like me, is great at coming up with project ideas like this that don’t go far.
After an entry in which I posted Klee’s The Villa R and boilerplated on and on about what kind of work it was, I reported in #577, that my Merriam Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary defined “eme” as “significantly distinctive unit of language structure.” Ergo, all the “eme” neologisms I’d recently come up with (“texteme,” for instance, for “unit of language structure having to do with textual material”) were as clear and reasonable as such words can be!

This led to the following list of coinages in #577 through #580 (inspired by “morpheme” and “grapheme”):

“techneme” for technical term having to do with language.

“enhanceme” for

“denoteme” for verbal element that denotes.

“connoteme” for verbal element that denotes. (Yes, one word can be two or more emes.) “rhetoriceme” (soft c) for rhetorical element.

“paralleleme” for verbal element that is part of a parallelism.

“poetreme” for unit of poetry.

“repeneme” (an old one) for repeated textual element–such as the alliterative l in the text, “loony lout.”

Eventually, the list changed to one concern with varieties of schemes present in poems:

“poetic scheme” for any possible way a poem can be shaped as a scheme consisting of the units defining the shape–e.g., rhyme scheme. A texteme scheme will use x’s or the equivalent to show where each texteme in a poem is. Or x’s and X’s, to indicate size. A linguexpressive poem’s texteme scheme would be its overall abstract shape. A poem in general’s “aestheme” scheme would be its overall abstract shape. Right now it seems to me that the only other consequential schemes linguexpressive poetry uses are repeneme schemes. Visimagistic schemes, color schemes and the like would come into play in visual poetry, and musical schemes for sound poetry, and so forth.

I decided that now that I had the terms, “poetic scheme,” and “poetreme,” I could get around the form/content problem by stating, simply, that every poem consists of just two fundamental things: poetic schemes and poetremes. All these term will make more sense when I get around to making an essay of the material in #558 through #568 and #571 through #573. Note: I do believe I have more than I need–and that one or more may be ridiculous.

23 October 2009: Last night I had another of my moments of Important Versophical Insight. It came upon me that aesthetic pleasure, while necessarily sensory pleasure, could also (but needn’t) be narrative and/or conceptual pleasure. A work of art may also give an engagent moral pleasure, but it needn’t, and I claim that such pleasure is different from aesthetic pleasure. Indeed, if the moral effect of a work purported to be an artwork is greater than its aesthetic effect, it cannot be called an artwork but must be called a work of advocature–because its main function will be to persuade rather than to delight.
As always, I am bemused by how brilliant I consider a thought of mine–and at the same time embarrassedly wonder why it took me so long (decades) to come up with so banal and obvious a one.

(I hope Karl Kempton, who criticized me for excessive use of neologies in my discussion of aesthetics reads this and sees that while I could have called “sensory, narrative and conceptual pleasure” “initiaceptual, sagaceptual and reducticeptual pleasure,” to connect it to my theory of psychology, I didn’t. “Narrative pleasure,” by the way, is simply the pleasure stories of people, or animals or things acting like people, as they pursue some goal and succeed or fail to attain it. “Conceptual pleasure” is the pleasure pure ideas can give one, and pure design.

Now, back to my still ongoing project to #583 for “paramorpheme,” meaning “textual element other than morpheme, such as a punctuation mark, to add the list of “eme” words I expect all my visitors to have copied.

Next, the following piece, which is by Nico Vassilakis, was in two of my entries, #581 and #582:


In #584 I observed, unbrilliantly but correctly, that the (necessary) jargon or any original verosophical undertaking should be introduced gradually. In my next entry I showcased Andrew Russ’s most excellent

lst
last
then an entry trivial even for me on terminology followed by one where I cross swords with Marcus Bales again–actually, it was more Kaz Maslanka crossing swords with him on my behalf at New-Poetry, for Marcus was attacking my math poetry.

In #588 I discussed my struggle to find a term meaning, “text that has been poetically misspelled,” finally coming up with “errographism”–“air RAH gruh FIZ ‘m.” I reported that I’d changed the remainder of my division of poetry by metaphor to “forsythia” in #589, and noted that a selection of my Poem poems Mary Veazey had posted at her Sticks site had gotten a nicely favorable (and, I thought, intelligent) review from Particle in Light. Finally, in #590, I wrote scornfully of a statement of Pound’s, “Take a man’s mind off the human value of the poem he is reading (and in this case the human value is the art value), switch it on to some question of grammar and you begin his dehumanization.” Jeff Newberry had posted it at New-Poetry, asking us to guess who wrote it. I didn’t know, and was very disappointed to find out Pound had said it, but opined that it probably made more sense in context than it did by itself, and that although Pound said a lot of stupid things, I still considered him one of the very few people every who had written intelligently about poetry.

24 October 2009: My next set of ten entries began with one reporting that I’d returned to my “Arithmepoetic Analysis of Color” sequence to good effect, determining all the terms of one (the division of orange), and a good half of the terms of the second (the division of green). That was slightly more than four years ago, but I haven’t yet even begun to finish either of these. Typically. I added a few further comments on the unfinished pieces in my next entry, along with an epigram of sorts: “Give me a religion in which reverence is mandatory, kneeling forbidden.”
In the next entry, #593, I said I believed many of my most important life-moments have occurred when I’ve been in books. I would now amend that to “Many of my most important and happiest moments have occurred when I’ve been in a work of literature, someone else’s or my own.” Many of my other hapiest and important moments have occurred when I’ve been in some other form of art. In other words, I was meant for a kind of sub-life, not life. I have a few happy, important moments in real life, too–but not many.

#594 has some works by Tommaso Marinetti I stole from a website I was directed to by Karl Kempton. It would seem that Marinetti was as important for the introduction of modern visual poetry as Apollinaire, but coming out of visual rather than verbal art. (Note, running into Karl’s name in this entry reminded me of how valuable a follower of my blog he’s been over its five plus years–however upset with each other we’ve sometimes been.)

In my next entry I posted a 1914 piece by another Futurist, Carlo Carra:

Carra is someone I hadn’t heard of, or had heard of but forgotten. Great piece, although it seems to me a textual visimage rather than a visual poem. Words, yes–but no genuine verbality.
I seem at the time of these entries, September 2005, to have begun work on a serious essay on Cummings–which I discussed a bit in #596, mentioning the “mimeostream” as where the influence of Cummings has been most decisive, albeit not as acknowledged as it should be. I featured Eustorg de Beaulieu’s pattern poem, “Gloire à dieu seul” (1537), in my next blog, stealing it and some cogent remarks on it from Geof Huth’s blog. I sketched my impression that pattern poems like de Beaulieu’s were not concrete poems because significantly more literary than concrete poems. I quoted Karl’s disagreement with what he thought me to be saying in #598, clarifying my stand to the observation that classical concrete poems like Gomringer’s “Silence,” almost never contain textual elements which, by themselves, would add up to anything close to a poem, and therefore seem significantly different from classical pattern poems like George Herbert’s “Altar,” which contain textual elements that, by themselves, almost always add up to full-scale poems. Even de Beaulieu’s is a full sentence, “Glory (be) to God alone,” which makes it linguistically larger than any concrete poem I can think of, offhand. But I suspect Karl misread me to be saying pattern poems weren’t visual poems, which I was not.

In #598 I also returned to my Cummings essay, posting what I said about stasguards’ opinion of Cummings’s influence, to wit: “As for Collins, Kenner and the other mainstream poets and critics, and professors who have rated Cummings uninfluential, I think their condition due in good part simply to their lack of sympathy for his poetry. Many academics are bothered by his romantic individualism, frequent sentimentality, and–to them–narrow interests (in spring, stars and flowers, for instance). They tend also to be too verbal to appreciate the visual aspects of his poetry, and too techniphobic to have much interest in the nuts and bolts of poetry beyond such long-familiar nuts and bolts as rhyme and meter.

“Even were mainstreamers capable of sympathy for Cummings’s work, though, they would have trouble tracing its influence on contemporary poetry (because of their ignorance of the mimeostream).”

I’m now going to re-post the chapter from my Of Manywhere-at-Once that dealt with my theory of aesthetics in my ridiculously continuing hope that someone intelligent will see it and take it seriously enough to discuss it with me:

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A Rough Sketch of my Theory of Aesthetic Affect–from circa 1990

Back in the spring of my 26th year I was mulling over an article I’d read somewhere on memory when I became convinced that to understand memory would be to understand the entire workings of the human mind.. I have therefore over the years spent much time thinking about memory. In fact, in an earlier draft of this chapter, I used several pages to describe the theory that resulted, certain it would provide, in the most dazzling manner possible, the Final Neurophysiological Basis for all I’ve so far said about poetry, and all I would later say. Well, those pages so baffled the readers of my first final draft–and me as weIl, if the truth be known–that I decided to withdraw them. They will, however, reappear (revised) in a later book. I can’t remain entirely silent about my theory, though. Otherwise my forthcoming discussion of aaaesthetic affect, and how it relates to poetry, will make little sense.

So, on to the “master-cells” (or “m-cells”) in the brain which my theory places at the center of the human memory-process (or “retroception”). These cells are connected to sensors, such as the light-sensitive rods and cones in the retina, which are turned on by exposure to certain environmental stimuli. Once on, a sensor activates its m-cell, whereupon the m-cell distributes energy to other m-cells (and, occasionally, back to itself). This m-cell-to-m-cell energy can also activate an m-cell. Whenever an m-cell is active, the mind will experience its state as a sensation. The sensation arising from a given m-cell’s activation will always be the same sensation, a sensation unique to it. That will be the case whether the cell has been activated by sensor or m-cell energy. I call sensor-mediated sensations “percepts,” however, to distinguish them from m-cell- mediated sensations, which I call, “retrocepts.” (A given sensation’s context is generally what the mind uses to tell whether the sensation is one or the other, I might add.)

Many, perhaps most, percepts and retrocepts occur randomly and transiently. But some tend to occur together often enough for the m-cells responsible for them to form what I call a “knowlecule” (or “NAH luh kyool”). A knowlecule is a cerebral representation of some significant piece of knowledge such as the image of a car, a cat, an apple or one’s Aunt Jenny–or, for that matter, the idea of knowledge itself.

For my purposes here, the main thing to understand, is that a knowlecule is a unified group of m-cells that can be perceptually or retroceptually activated (or both), whereupon it will transmit stimulation to other knowlecules in an attempt to activate them as memories. It does this via a chain of storage-cells (s-cells) called the “mnemoduct” which is responsible for routing m-cell stimulation. How it does this is, of course, the crux of my theory–but too complicated to get into here. It isn’t necessary to know anything about it to follow my theory of aesthetic affect, anyway.

According to that theory, each knowlecule, in effect, tries to predict what will follow it in the awareness. Its success in doing so determines how pleasurably, or painfully, one experiences what actually follows. If a given knowlecule predicts what ensues too strongly, the result will be boredom; if it fails to predict it strongly enough, the result will be pain. If it predicts it neither too strongly nor too weakly, however, pleasure will result.

For example, if I heard the name “Laura,” those of my m-cells active as a result might try to rouse a memory of my niece Laura’s appearance; they would do this by sending energy to cells involved in imaging blue eyes and the other main particulars of my niece’s visual appearance. Three outcomes would then be possible: (l) the energy the auditory knowlecule, “Laura,” caused to be dispersed could succeed in activating a memory; (2) that energy could fail to do this but the environment present a picture of Laura, or the girl in person, and I would experience an image of Laura anyway; or (3) both the energy and the environment together could fail to provide me with an image of Laura. I would, to summarize, remember what Laura looks like, or be shown, or neither. In cases (1) and (2) the spoken word “Laura” would, in a manner of speaking, have predicted the visual image of Laura which followed. The probable result would be pleasure. In case (3), however, the word would have failed to predict what followed it and I would probably have experienced pain.

I have, of course, grossly over-simplified the matter. The word “Laura” would undoubtedly have tried for many more memories than that of Laura’s visual appearance, and some of them would undoubtedly have become active. On the other hand, any image of Laura that came into my awareness would not likely have exactly matched what was “predicted” if certain cells would have gotten energy but failed to become active. And the environment would certainly have contained elements unlooked for which would have added unpredicted material to what I experienced. All that is unimportant, however: if a given knowlecule sufficiently resembles the one the knowlecule just before it “predicted,” the person involved will experience pleasure; if not, the person will experience pain, or some state in between pleasure and pain. If a knowlecule is too like what the previous knowlecule predicted, though, the result will be boredom.

To account for this in more detail I hypothesize the existence of value-points of which there are two kinds: “realization-points” and “frustration-points,” or r-points and f-points. Each m-cell that receives retroceptual energy (or m-cell energy) during a given event (or instant of awareness) will release r-points or f-points depending on whether or not it is activated during the next event. (Whether it then becomes active retroceptually or perceptually, or both, incidentally, is irrelevant.) The number of value-points produced will be proportional to the amount of retroceptual energy involved.

The key to my theory is that the aaaesthetic affect produced by a given knowlecule depends simply on the value-points it causes to be produced. First a brain-center determines the number of the two kinds of value-points caused by the knowlecule’s activation, then what percentage of this number consists of realization-points. If this percentage is high, the knowlecule under consideration must be boring–because a very high score indicates that it was expected–or predictable. On the other hand, if the score is low, the moment is painful, because such a score indicates the knowlecule was unexpected–or disruptive. It is only a score neither too high nor too low which causes pleasure–a score (and this is only a guess) between 50 and 60 percent, perhaps. There is one further way a person can feel about an knowlecule: indifferent. This will occur when a score is either higher or lower than optimum but neither so high nor so low as to cause boredom or pain.

To sum up, my theory of aaesthetic affect is that we automatically consider that which is too familiar to be boring, that which is familiar but not too familiar to be pleasurable, and that which is unfamiliar to be painful, and that there are levels of familiarity between the boring and the pleasurable, and between the pleasurable and the painful, which are emotionally neutral–and, I might add, probably occur far more often than any other kind.

All this, it seems to me, fits in with the fact that human beings tend to withdraw from that which is painful, shun the boring, and advance toward that which is pleasurable. If, as my theory has it, it is the under-familiar which is painful, it would make sense to withdraw from it: better to retreat from something until one has come to understand it–i.e., become familiar with it–then chance its being dangerous. It is equally sensible to embrace the familiar since, if something were not good for us, it could not generally become familiar– it would injure or kill us first. But if we stuck with the familiar too slavishly, we would never work out cultural improvements or zestfully explore our habitat; hence the value of the over-familiar’s causing boredom.

As for my theory’s fit with everyday experience, surely it is a rare person who has never heard some song he considered ear-damagingly bad which, when he’d heard it a few more times, turned into a favorite of his. . . only to become, after he’d heard it too many hundreds of additional times, boring beyond endurance. Tschaikowski affects most reasonably intelligent admirers of classical music this way, but there are sundry other examples. My theory similarly accounts for the importance of simple repetition in all the arts–such as the use of symmetry in architecture, repeated phrases throughout music, from popular songs to Mozart, and the recurrence of steps in dance routines. As it also provides a plausible explanation of the pleasurable effects of simple melodation like rhyme’s repetition–and the avoidance of repetition by equaphors (metaphors and the like).

This set of ten entries from the past ended with one devoted to Richard Kostelanetz’s fascinating mathematical (but not visual) poem below:


25 October 2009: The following poem, which I had in #601, having returned to my Cummings essay, seems to me about as good as a poem can be:

dim  i  nu  tiv    e this park is e  mpty(everyb  ody's elsewher  e except me 6 e    nglish sparrow  s)a  utumn & t  he rai    n  th  e  raintherain  

It’s from 95 Poems. I wonder if it was influenced by Robert Lax–or influenced Robert Lax. What an intense mood it expresses–appropriately of almost anything you find that mood to be. Loneliness, sure–but equally a wonderful sense of solitude . . . in a crowded city . . . rendered as near to one with Nature by the rain as one can normally be.
Another semi-amazing math poem (if that indeed is what it is, and I think it is) by Richard Kostelanetz took up most of #602:


In #603 I posted a quotation from Charles Olson that indicated he had read and made a fairly close study of E. E. Cummings, which for me was good evidence that he was influenced by Cummings, as I have always been claimed, without convincing any language poet, so far as I know. I had the following in both #604 and #605, with a few comments on why I thought it under the influence (in part) of Cummings:

P. INMAN    from OCKER          debris clud                           (sbrim               	 m,nce                  (nome,id                           (armbjor,         (droit,cur.  

Next up, an announcement that a college textbook called, Literature: Reading, Reacting, Writing, Sixth Edition, by Laurie G. Kirszner & Stephen R. Mandell, and published by Wasworth College Publishers, wanted permission to reprint my “Mathemaku No. 10.” I told them they could print it free of chargbe if they sent me a copy of the book. They eventually used it, but never sent me the book. I finally bought a second-hand copy over the Internet.
In #607 I floated a few inconsequential ideas about poetic influence and originality, then displayed a poem by Stephen-Paul Martin that I think was a descendent of Cummings’s poetry in #608 and made some minor comments in #609 on the correct classification of a work by Karl Young next. Then in #610 came:


which is a poem of mine whose final point I no longer understand. When I composed it, I thought the zero to the power of zero which made it equal one in the final instance of “poem” was brilliant, but it now makes no sense at all to me. That happens quite a bit with me, sometimes because of a short circuit while composing a poem that makes me think it super, sometimes a later short circuit that prevents me from understanding a brilliance actually there. I’m pretty sure it’s the former in this case.

26 October 2009: At eleven this morning, a little over three hours from now, I’ll be in a hospital awaiting minor surgery on my urinary bladder. Chances are good that’ll I’ll be back home by five or six. I don’t feel much like writing a real entry now, though, and doubt I will if I’m back this evening. I have to ride to a supermarket for milk before going to the hospital, too. So this will be it for this entry.
LATEST ENTRY 27October 2009: Well, luck wasn’t with me at the hospital: I had to spend the night there. Not only that: I’ll be wearing a Foley catheter for a week, and am forbidden tennis for two weeks. I’m also Very Tired. But the surgery went well, there was just more scar tissue to slice out of me than the surgeon thought there would be. And I’m home now. I’m not up to saying more here than this, though. Tomorrow I should be.

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Selected Mathemaku, 2004 – 2009

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Column093 — May/June 2009 « POETICKS

Column093 — May/June 2009




The State of North American Vizpo, Part One

 


Small Press Review,
Volume 41, Numbers 5/6, May/June 2009




      Poetry, Volume 193, Issue 2, November 2008
      Edited by Christian Wiman
      100 pp; 444 N. Michigan Ave., Ste.1850,
      Chicago IL 60611. $5.50 ppd./copy.

 


 

Is visual poetry and related art finally beginning to get its due in our country? Possibly. Last November Poetry, the leading mainstream American poetry periodical, published a gallery of thirteen specimens of such work edited by Geof Huth. At around the same time, three anthologies of such work have appeared. I therefore thought a relatively detailed overview of the field might be in order, starting with a tour of the Poetry gallery.

Those with work in it are Huth himself, mIEKAL aND, K.S. Ernst and Sheila E. Murphy working as a team, derek beaulieu, Peter Ciccariello, Bob Dahlquist, Jesse Patrick Ferguson, Scott Helmes, Joel Lipman, gustave morin, jorg piringer, Philip Gallo and Michael Basinski. Huth’s piece is technically not part of the gallery, but given a page (front and back) as the gallery’s cover illustration. It’s just a mildly pleasant piece of graphic design in black&white using the letters in its title, “jHegaf.” Grade? C+.

aND composed his piece out of (white) typography some forgotten scholar once invented to use to represent a variety of Amerindian language on a black background. The result I would also call just a “textscape,” but it is suggestive of an undeciphered ancient artifact, so conceptually a little more interesting than the Huth piece. Rating: B-. “Vortextique,” by Ernst and Murphy is a wonderfully loud-colored dazzler of text-like elements flung every which way with just one word, “vortex,” in it–as an embedded title. Rating: A-.

The piece by beaulieu makes up for its lack of color by sizzling with sounds (e.g., “sssss” and “rrrrr”). It is the first of the pieces verbal enough (although barely verbal) to call a visual poem. I give it an A-. The same grade goes to Ciccariello’s fine “The Disremembered Glossalist.” As in nearly all the works of Ciccariello’s I’ve seen, some kind of extremely three-dimensional, gorgeously-colored terrain is overlain (via some kind of clever computer manipulations) with an originally-readable text whose letters follow the contours of the scene in and out of visibility to become basically averbal.

Another monochromatic piece follows Ciccariello’s, Dahlquist’s “alwaysendeavor.” It has two layers of the text, “ALWAYS ENDEAVOR TO FIND INTERESTING NOTATION,” one of which is printed in reverse exactly on top of the other. It is interesting and amusing (especially for those who like puzzles as much as I)–what I’d call a conceptual linguiscape. B+ (not higher because a bit low in visual appeal, in my view). “Mama,” by Ferguson, is a bunch of e’s (hence barely verbal, like beaulieu’s piece–and morin’s) but vividly expressive. For Huth (who annotates all the pieces in the gallery), it is expressive of a child’s warbling cry, for me that plus a child on a roller-coaster ride (because one large e swoops up and then slight down like a roller coaster and seems to fling another e upward, like a roller coaster . . . and/or a mother, propel–ling a child into a higher life (or just into life). In any case, something to think about and feel: A-.

One of the two pieces in the collection I give an A+ to is Helmes’s “haiku #62,” a vivid collage of snippings of magazine ads patterned to suggest a haiku in shape, its colors and shape and hints of words suggesting a haiku’s tone. My other A+ favorite is Joel Lipman’s excerpt from Origins of Poetry. It consists of three layers. The one on the bottom seems to be a page from an old physics textbook that describes experiments with electric charges. A second, framing layer consists of repeated rubber-stampings in red of some ideograph that seems Asian. On top of the other two is a text rubber-stamped in black giving the text of a poem that seems a sort of paraphrase of one of the experiments described in layer one but also directions for the performance of a magic trick. Its title is “Origins of Poetry,” its final words, “Leaves will diverge and flower.” To me, a masterpiece as both poem and visual artwork. As well as the two interacting, multiply-interacting.

“toon tune,” by morin, is a collage of 63 toon-hued fragments of comic-book exclamations like “Aaaarrrrrgh,” and “Whoooosh.” Blastfully successful in capturing its subject, and as a work of visual art. A. The piringer piece that follows morin’s is the one I fear I liked least: a black&white depiction of a pile of junk, each piece of which is a letter. That the letters are from The Communist Manifesto doesn’t make it resonate for me–all I needed was the concept fully to get it; no visualization was necessary. C. I didn’t much care for Gallo’s black&white conceptual piece, either. “PING PONG et tu ut DITERROT,” it spells, first rightside up, then upside-down. Nice bit of typographic design, but I’m less taken by that kind of thing than Huth is. C. The final work in the gallery (although one is directed to an Internet gallery I haven’t been to for additional works) is Basinski’s wacked-out “Labile.” There are words in it, but mostly it’s a “cacaphony of text and shape,” as Huth has it. Vivid colors, too. Of the many possible appropriate things it could be, the one that hit me first is a swirl of mostly nonsensical babble through a room a cocktail party is at its peak in, seen from above. Very much a fun piece to which I award an A.

It remains to be seen whether Poetry is serious about giving visual poetry and related art a boost or has just tokened it in briefly so it can claim to be open to everything. If the former, it needs reviews of books of such work, and intelligent critical discussion of the field in general as well as continued specimens of it in its pages. In any case, I cannot deny that it has done those of us involved with this kind of art a favor by exposing its readers to this quite good representative sampling of what we’ve been doing near-invisibly for so long.

 

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Column069 — November/December 2004 « POETICKS

Column069 — November/December 2004



 

Hydrocodone/APAP

 


Small Press Review,
Volume 36, Numbers 11/12, November/December 2004





The Compact Duchamp Amp After Amp.
Guy R. Beining. 70 pp; 2003; Pa;
Chapultepec Press, 111 East University,
Cincinnati OH 45219.
www.tokyoroserecords.com. $23.

Farrago, 2/4, 2001.
Edited by Reed Altemus. 128 pp;
Reed Altemus, Box 52,
Portland ME 04112. $10.

Modern Haiku, Volume 35, Number 3, Autumn 2004.
Edited by Lee Gurga. 128 pp;
Modern Haiku, Box 68, Lincoln IL 62656. $8.


 

I’ve decided to write this column in one hour or less. A weekend I meant to finish the column in is almost over, and I’ve done nothing on it but list the material to be discussed, so something has to be done. I figure if I can make a game of let’s see how fast I can do it, it’ll be fun to do. More important, I can claim it was just an experiment in speed- writing in case it’s stinko. Its title comes into it because that’s the name of the pain pill I’m on. It was prescribed a little over a week ago for a toothache, but I only needed it for a few days. I felt so good last Sunday after taking it, though, and felt so crappy (psychologically) earlier today that it made sense to take it again. I think the pill must have some kind of barbiturate in it, because it doesn’t just blot out pain, it makes you feel . . . content. (Hey, I did have a bit of a headache, too.)

The pill got me feeling so content just thinking about how fast I’d write this column that I almost never started it. I did, though! Sorta. ***

Aaaarggggghh, I was cruisin’ but all of a sudden I need a bridge and can’t think of one! I want to make a few remarks on Hurricane Jeanne, which hit my neighborhood a few weeks ago. From my last column you will remember that my neighborhood got blasted fairly substantially by Charley. Jeanne was nicer to us, staying a reasonable distance away. But she messed up my mind by lasting hours and hours–during the night when I couldn’t see what she was doing, just hear her, and she sounded a lot like Charley. I now understand shell-shock.

The first exposure wasn’t so bad, but–once sensitized–reminders, even faint, can devastate. Result: I slept very badly the night of Jeanne, and got knocked back out of rhythm–after almost getting back into it, finally, after Charley. Obviously, I’m still not back in it, but– hey–this column is almost half done, and I’ve only been typing twenty minutes or so. Never found a damned bridge, though. I hate that. I also hate the fact that I use “though” so much. Dunno how to avoid it. Well, aside from just not using it.

Okay, first up for review is the mail-art publication, Farrago. An assemblage, which means a bunch of people each sent Editor Altemus a hundred copies of a page and he collated the pages into 100 copies of an anthology. I assume he accepted everything sent. That’s usually the way it works. In any case, Farrago (alas, the last one he’ll do), is very encouraging about the state of vizpo and related art, for its level of yow is surprisingly high. The pieces are mainly collages. Mainly playful Dadaisms. Like Robert Pomerhn’s (yes, that’s spelled correctly) “Mainstream TRENDY Viewing,” to take a random example, which is a mix of texts like “If Britney’s bOObtube goes bust/ say Sayonara Ms. Spears” and fuzzy graphics that look like stills from B-movies. The other side of his page depicts “The Surrealist World Series,” by showing the “bags loaded” with Louis Aragon, Antonin Artaud and Philippe Soupault, and Dali coming to bat. Dopey, I know, but . . . Other pages do other things, some of them wonderfully using full color.

I’m reviewing the latest issue of Modern Haiku only because of Charles Trumbull’s review. It’s of Ampersand Squared, Geof Huth’s anthology of “pwoermds” that I recently mentioned in this column, flagrantly breaking all kinds of reviewing proprieties because I published the thing, and have two pwoermds in it. Trumbull lauded Huth’s introduction, and quoted four of the pwoermds, including Nicholas Virgilio’s “fossilence,” which I think a particularly fine specimen of the genre. When I first saw it, I thought of phosphorescence and thought of the glow through the ages of fossils. Only just now did I see “silence.” I’m a visual poet so I shoulda seen that before hearing “phosphorescence!”

Seriously, you ain’t serious about haiku if you don’t subscribe to Modern Haiku. Not just haiku and reviews but in-depth interviews and/or discussions of the state of the art. This issue features a conversation with Hoshinaga Fumio that skillfully reveals not only the mind and personality of a distinguished haijin (maker of haiku) and his haiku, but whispers us intimately into the fascinating otherness of the culture of Japan.

My hour is up. I didn’t finish. Well, I could say I finished, but I was aiming at (about) a thousand words, which is my usual total (including the book data at the top). And I do want to mention Guy Beining’s The Compact Duchamp Amp After Amp again. I don’t feel I did it justice in the earlier column I treated it in. Nor will I now. It’s too visual. But here’s what’s on one page: “nail the mOOn/ spike the sun,/ run harvest thru red vest of money,” in a white rectangle. Grey background. Below the text, a “visimage (“picture,” in Grummanese) of two of the Egyptian pyramids and mostly nothing else. Above, to the right a strange image of a woman whose torso forms a triangle mirrored by a similar triangle formed by the woman’s crossing legs, cropped at the knees; to the left, a photo of a smiling girl looking through what seems the back of a chair. Much else. Hard to pin down but fossilescent, to me. My blog has a copy of it with a few further musings here. (Ooops, no longer true; I’ll try to add what I said here eventually.)

There. Finished in eighty minutes. Not bad. And I still have ten hydrocodone/APAP tablets left!

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Column 111 — May/June 2012 « POETICKS

Column 111 — May/June 2012

 

The Otherstream 19 Years Ago

 


Small Press Review,
Volume 44, Numbers 5/6, May/June 2012


Poeticks.com, Webmaster: Bob Grumman http://www.poeticks.com/bob-grummans-small-press-review-columns/june-1993


Having nothing else to use this installment of my column for, I decided to return to my first few columns together a little literary history. They, I thought, would give readers a good idea of what was going on in the literary otherstream.  Well, as you will, see, I got carried away, barely covering more than my first column.  No problem: I’ll just make this a multiple-installment return to the past.

I think too few such returns are taken by writers.  This is especially unfortunate when it comes to the otherstream, which by definition is only lightly reported on where more than a few readers ever go to until it’s become part of the mainstream–if reported on, at all.  Posterity will be unhappy about that.  Or so I have to convince myself to keep on keeping on.

I’m not sure when the otherstream started, by the way.  I do know that I invented the term for it sometime in the eighties, shortly after I entered it around 1985.  I meant by it not the opposite of the mainstream, but the opposite of what I call the “knownstream,” for poetry (and art-in-general) pretty much wholly unknown to academics–and the mainstream media, which takes its cues entirely from universities, particularly the prestigious ones like Harvard and Yale—which tend to be the most backward.  It consists, then & now, primarily of visual and sound poetry, but also of mathematical poetry and various kinds of minimalist poetry—and, most recently, of cyber poetry and other poetries I myself don’t know as well as I ought to (but have at least written about).  It includes language poetry to a degree, as well, although language poetry had academic support in 1993 and now has membership in the stultified Academy of American Poets, and substantial representation in the commercial anthologies.

The very first zine my column treated was Meat Epoch #11.  Except for a mathematical poem of mine, its poems were not otherstream, only “difficult.”  But first-rate. (I’ve always emphasized that a poem does not have to be otherstream to be first-rate, regardless of what some say about me.)  As has always been my practice, what I mainly did was point out happy moments in the poems I treated, although I could be negative, too–cheerleading for the otherstream, though, since just about nobody else is.  Hence, I quoted the Wallace-Stevens-like “context (which) rose in the eastern window” from the poem by A. L. Nielson in Meat Epoch, then from the end of the similarly philosophical poem there by Spencer Selby, in which meaning-in-general “gathers in emptiness/ and waits on all things.”  Wordsworth, that–which I mean as a supreme compliment.  (He was once an otherstream poet, as I’m sure anyone reading this will know.)

I also quoted this from one of editor Gregory Vincent St. Thomasino’s fragmental, evocative pieces which represented “kairos,” or “the favorable moment”: “pray/ dance/ sing/ decide,” a sequence I thought beautifully scored off the more likely “research/ think/ calculate/ decide,” or somesuch).   At that point, I mentioned how Meat Epoch had begun about a year before as a one-man collection of critiques and poetry that St. Thomasino had distributed like a letter to other poets and editors he felt he had things in common with.  As a result, he was now getting his experimental work published elsewhere, and publishing such well-known figures in the otherstream as John M. Bennett, thus neatly demonstrating one highly viable way of getting established as a writer, outside the establishment.  Did it work?  Well, all 4 writers published in this issue of Meat Epoch are still around, but none seems more visible than he was in 1993, so far as I can tell.  I think Spencer Selby’s work has changed the most, becoming less and less verbal—but at times astonishing striking visually.  As it has been for many of us, computer paint software and the Internet have made a big difference in his work, the first chiefly by facilitating the employment of color, the second by facilitating distribution, particularly of works in color.

I’ve not kept up well with A. L. Nielson, who always seemed to me more academic and connected with the language poets than the people I became close to.  As for me, like Selby, I have become much more a full-color visual poet since 1993, without gaining any critical attention outside the otherstream.

Meat Epoch hasn’t been published for many years, but St. Thomasino has kept an active webzine, eratio, going for some time–its specialty, however, is “post-modernist” language poetry, not the kind of adventurous otherstream work Meat Epoch had.  I think that except for aiding in the distribution of his poetry and ideas (and he is predominantly an idea-person), the computer has not been important to him.

Dada Tennis, CWM #1 and O!!Zone, the other three zines I treated in my first column, are gone, too.  So is Bill Paulauskas, editor of Dada Tennis (which was just what it sounds like it’d be).  When looking him up on the Internet so I could say something about him here, I was saddened to learn that he had died in 2006.  We had a fun correspondence that, alas, didn’t last very long, he being into a different kind of otherstream work, for the most part, than I.  But, hey, Wikipedia has an entry on his zine, which Paulauskas kept going until 2005.

In carrying out an Internet search on CWM #1, co-edited by Geof Huth and David Kopaska-Merkal, I discovered you can buy a copy of it at eBay for around $30.  Like many otherstream publications, it was more packaged than published–with a pocket on the inside of its back cover containing two books of matches decorated by Bruce Mitchell and a narrow strip of folded cardboard on which G. Huth had rubber-stamped the word, “watearth”—which seems minor until you notice what its central pun is doing.

I never knew much about Bruce Mitchell, but Geof Huth, a longtime friend, is still active—over-active, I keep warning him—as a blogger, attendee at and/or participant in, poetry readings all over the world, and composer of practically all possible kinds of poems—and non-poems he insists are poems although they have no words in them.  I don’t believe he has yet been written up anywhere “important.”  David Kopaska-Merkel is still highly active as editor/publisher and contributor to Dreams and Nightmares, a major albeit marginal periodical of science fiction and fantasy poetry, which is into its 26th year of publication, but not made him famous.

Guy R. Beining, who had an arresting collage in CWM #1, was one of the two poets featured in the second issue of O!!Zone, and—for me—one of the giants of the current otherstream (as poet, visimagist and visual poet)—so ridiculously unnoticed by the academy.  Harry Burrus has continued to be active as collagist, film-maker, poet and novelist, with a new novel, Time Passes Like Rain, out, but has not yet won a Major Reputation.  I can’t understand how it is that of all the people I’ve written about over the years in my column, none has become widely acclaimed.  Gotta keep on keeping on, anyway.  The Establishment can’t keep us invisible forever!

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Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

Entry 592 — Some n0thingness from Karl Kempton

Tuesday, December 13th, 2011

I wasn’t sure what to put in this entry, I’m so blah.  Fortunately I remembered I  had just gotten a package of poems from Karl Kempton, reflections, among which were many worthy of re-publication here, such as this:

mindless x ( ) = less mind

The origin poem for all the poems in the collection is “american basho”:

old pond

frog

splash

!

Too blah to give the collection the critique it merits, I’ll just say that it seems to me a zen meditation on . . . well, the zero/hole/opening/ letter o in Basho’s old pond, the latter representing the mind . . . unless it represents something beyond that.  Karl and I have metaphysical differences, and sometimes I’m not too sure what he means, but his ideas are always worth thinking, or meta-thinking, about.

 * * *

Monday, 12 December 2011, 2 P.M.  Tough day.  A routine visit to my general practitioner at 9:40.  I’m doing fine according to the various tests I underwent a week ago.  Then marketing followed by the delivery of “The Odysseus Suite” (signed by the artist!) to my friend Linda as a birthday present.  After dropping off the frozen lasagna Linda had given me, and the things I’d bought at the supermarket at my house, I went off again to (1) deposit a check, (2) leave a framed copy of my “A Christmas Mathemaku” at the Arts & Humanities Council’s office, and buy some items at my drugstore.  I was home by a little after one, too tired to do much.  But I scanned the Carlyle Baker work I posted in yesterday’s blog entry to take care of daily blogging chore.  Dropping the mathemaku off at the A&H Council office took care of the only other duty I’m still trying to take care of daily, my exhibition-related duty.  Now for a nap, if I can manage to fall asleep.

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Entry 450 — Visioverbal Visual Poetry

Wednesday, May 25th, 2011

I suppose, now that I’ve seen (most of–I haven’t been able to download all the images to my elderly, bottom -of-the-line  computer) the collection of artworks Geof Huth curated here, I’ll have to make something of a retreat in terminology. Geof, probably the most influential authority on the definition of visual poetry around, seems to believe that artworks containing nothing but words can be poetry–if, apparently, it does something “visual” like use the fact that “hear” and “here” sound alike but mean different things–as well as artworks containing nothing whatever that is explicitly verbal or even textual are visual poetry. My impression is that they majority of people contributing to shows like this one are similarly against sane naming. Ergo, instead of using “visual poetry” to mean what I think it should mean, I’m going to try from now on to call what I think of as visual poetry (because it is both meaningfully visual and meaningfully poetry): visioverbal visual poetry. “Visioverbal” rather than “verbovisual” because “visioverbal,” for me suggests that what is verbal is more important than what is visual in what is being described. It’s an awkward phrase, but what else can I use?

If asked to curate a show of what others call “visual poetry” (don’t worry, I won’t be), I will simply call it, “stuff.” Why confuse things with any name more detailed?

I can see one virtue of the use of the name “visual poetry” for almost anything: a “visual poet” can do art of a kind done for decades, like collage, and feel original be giving it a name it hadn’t been called by. (Not that there aren’t some really fine works in Geof’s gallery.)

Entry 101 — MATO2, Chapter 3.02

Tuesday, February 9th, 2010

I wasn’t finished with the revision of my book, just with getting a good rough draft of it done.  My morale got a substantial boost on Thursday  3 January 1991 due to a letter from John Byrum.  He asked if I’d consider letting him run a series of excerpts from my book in the newsletter he edits.  I thought that a great idea and after my afternoon nap have spent quite a bit of time getting 12 excerpts ready for him.  As I’ve gone along, I have also found places in my book in need of improvement and have thus taken up the book’s revision again.  In fact, I’ve cut my final chapter by around 500 words.

9 P.M.  Friday  4 January 1991 I made a few new changes in the book and in the excerpts as well.

8 P.M.  Monday  7 January 1991 Got my Manywhere excerpts ready for John Byrum.

10:10 P.M.  Tuesday  8 January 1991  The bank account is very low–I can’t publish more than a hundred copies of my revised edition of Manywhere without going below the minimum balance on my last account with anything at all in it.  But I guess I’ll have enough to print 100 copies of the psychology book, assuming my Xerox holds up.

9 P.M.  Thursday  17 January 1991 The mail included a nice letter from Carita (a member of the Tuesday Writers’ Group who’d bought a copy of my book before moving to Miami)–and the card I’d sent to James Kilpatrick for him to let me know if he’d gotten my letter about “vizlation” with.  He had, and–more amazingly–will be quoting it in a column in February, he says.

10 P.M.  Monday  21 January 1991  I spent most of the rest of the day writing definitions for the words in Of Manywhere-at-Once’s glossary.  It took me a surprisingly long time, but it was helpful, for I was able to improve several passages conerning those words in the main part of
the book.  I was dismayed to find two or three spots where my definitions were quite confused.  But now the only thing left to do to get the book completely ready for printing is a table of contents.  (Aside from working out the margins and all that baloney.)

8:30 P.M.  Wednesday  23 January 1991 I heard from John Byrum, okaying my Manywhere series except that he preferred to start with my second excerpt rather than the one telling about my beginning the sonnet and I decided he was right.  So I withdrew the first excerpt and the last, which goes with it.  Consequently, he’ll be running ten installments.

26 January 1991 I am now like a 25-year-old in quantity of accomplishments and social recognition, but like a 50-year-old in actual accomplishment.  It also passed through my mind how extremely self-confident, even complacent, I am at the deepest level that things will eventually come out right for me.  I think I get that from Mother.  But I’ve always known, too, that I have to work hard if that’s to happen, as I have, for the most part.

Tuesday  29 January 1991 dbqp #101, which I found in the back of my mailbox when I put some letters to go in it this morning.   Very interesting short history of dbqp and list of its first 100 publications with personal comments about them.  He mentioned me a great deal which was flattering but made me a little self-conscious, too.

Friday  1 February 1991  I was full of intimations of apotheosis this morning.  My feelings built till I got back from shopping and found rather null mail awaiting.  They faded quickly, then.  But I continue to feel pretty good.  Actually, it was good mail–letters from Malok, Jonathan and Guy.  Also material about 1X1 exhibit but no letter from Mimi, and a request for a catalogue.  Lastly, a quotation for printing 100, 1000 copies of Of Manywhere-at-Once from McNaughton (or something close to that, a company I’ve heard does good work): $1000, $2000.  Second price not bad at all but 1000 copies too many at this time.

YEAR-END SUMMARY (of my fiftieth year): 9 minor reviews of mine appeared in 5 different publications; 7 pieces of vizlature of mine, all but one of them visual poems, appeared in 6 publications; 2 or 3 of my letters appeared here and there; I got 1 mailart piece off to a show; I got 8 textual poems into 4 magazines; I produced 2 or 3 unplaced visual poems; I wrote 3 not-yet-placed essays; I got my book, Of Manywhere-at-Once, published at last, then revised it in totum; I made and self-published SpringPoem No. 3,719,242.

In short, not much of a year, but not terrible, either.

Column068 –September/October 2004 « POETICKS

Column068 –September/October 2004



Hurricane Charley

 


Small Press Review,
Volume 36, Numbers 9/10, September/October 2004




Handbook of Literary Terms.
X.J. Kennedy, Dana Gioia and Mark Bauerlein, Editors.
165 pp; 2004; Pa; Pearson Longman,
www.ablongman.com. $21.20.

 


 

It looked like it’d hit further north, and just give us standard tropical storm winds. At the last minute, though, it swerved into Charlotte Harbor and whipped up the Peace River. Port Charlotte, where I live, is the first town on the north bank of the Peace River. Punta Gorda, where I substitute teach, is on the opposite bank. Both got hit pretty hard. Winds near 140 mph at times, the report was.

I came out of it okay, I guess. Twenty minutes or so of more than a little apprehension, with my cat in the bathroom. A quite tall pine and a sprawling huge oak within five or six feet of my house were my main worry. I didn’t hear anything slam into the house, though. Then of the light the eye of the storm let into my living room, particularly dazzling because so many backyard branches that would have been screening it, and two orange trees were gone. More wind followed after a short while, but less than I was expecting.

I lost enough shingles to need a new roof, and most of my lanai (which is what we in Florida call a screened-in back porch). Almost all my trees but the orange trees survived, although my yard was covered with branches, some tree-sized.

My neighborhood was without electricity for around ten days–with temperatures around 90, and the usual Florida humidity. No gas for hot water, and no cable tv. The mail stopped, but only for a couple of days. No phone, either, for me. That was what bothered me the most, for I couldn’t get on the Internet, even after power was restored. I still can’t, after over two weeks as I write this. MCI had a trailer in one of the shopping centers where you could phone or use the Internet free, though, so I was able to let friends and family know I was all right. (Corporate Capitalism has some heart–many other businesses helped out, giving away plywood, tarps, water, ice! The Salvation Army and Red Cross were there from day one with free meals and other help, too. The government also pitched in quickly: I got a sizable check for my uninsured roof from FEMA just a week after I applied for assistance. And mine and all my local friends’ neighbors were terrific, volunteering chain saw services, running errands, just checking to make sure all was okay. . . .)

Needless to day, I got further behind than ever with my writing. Who can write with just a pencil or pen? I really wasn’t in a state to do much Serious Writing, anyway. I’m still not, although I have the use of my computer again. I’m always able to gripe about the American Poetry Establishment, though, and I have to get this column done, so that’s what I’m going to do for the rest of it.

To do that, I s’pose I have to define what I mean by “the American Poetry Establishment.” No easy task, that. There’s the Harvard/New Yorker axis with its Iowa University satellite-turned-equal. This axis, or something like it, does not overtly dictate what kind of poetry is in, what kind out, so much as very influentially take it for granted that no poetry exists except its kind–which ranges from the “experimental poetry” of John Ashbery to the traditional poetry (most of the time) of Richard Wilbur. Or, 90% or more of the reasonably significant poetry currently being composed–but less than 10% of the kinds of significant poetry being composed. Consequently, few college English departments teach anything but knownstream poetry; no reputable publisher publishes anything but knownstream poetry; no anthologist whose product will have a print run of a thousand or more copies includes more than one or two token burstnorm poems in it; no critic in any periodical reaching more than a few hundred readers does more than mention one or two uncertified poets–at most; no prize of any significance goes to anyone seriously trying to advance the possibilities of poetry (unless he’s so old the stasguards in charge no longer feel threatened by what he’s doing, or he represents some victim group).

And reference books like Handbook of Literary Terms, which could easily slip in a few burstnorm terms such as “visual poetry,” “sound poetry,” “mathematical poetry” (if not “mathemaku”), “performance poetry,” “infraverbal poetry,” “computer poetry,” “jump-cut poetry,” “hypertext,” among its definitions of “cowboy poetry,” “clerihew,” “new formalism,” “play review,” “projective verse,” “print culture,” “rap,” don’t. To be fair, I must report that this book has an entry on “minimalism” that quotes a poem by Karl Kempton that my Runaway Spoon Press published–though with nothing in the entry to indicate the editors have any idea what the poem is doing (they suggest it attains “blankness” by being “pared back to near-pure description”).

It also has an entry on “concrete poetry” to make up somewhat for the absence of one on visual poetry. It quotes the same falling leaf poem by E. E. Cummings that the 1974 edition of The Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics used in its definition of concrete poetry. But that was one of the examples of visual poetry I used in my Of Manywhere-at-Once, so I shouldn’t complain. Amusingly, Handbook of Literary Terms has a fairly substantial entry on language poetry–one more indication of that poetry’s acadominance (my term for that which the advanced few in academia most admire, and their slower peers have to denigrate, being unable to oppose it with obliviousness, their preferred tactic against superior art). The absorption of language poetry into the axis previously mentioned is clearly under way, and accelerating.

I had a number of disagreements with definitions in Handbook of Literary Terms. For instance, I consider “doggerel” to be rhymed unmetrical poetry rather than poetry that superior people consider bad, the uselessly subjective definition the handbook has. But most of its definitions are sound. I really don’t have that much against it. It’s competent, and intended only for “undergraduates getting their first taste of serious literary study,” according to its introduction, so one can’t expect it to be too advanced. Still, I wish books like it would present a larger, truer idea of what’s going on in American poetry at present.

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Column056 — May/June 2002 « POETICKS

Column056 — May/June 2002



The Size of Poems

 


Small Press Review,
Volume 34, Numbers 5/6 May/June 2002




Tundra, issue #2, September 2001.
Edited by Michael Dylan Welch. 128 pp;
Michael D. Welch, Box 4014, Foster City
CA 94404 (and [email protected]). $9.

 


 

Finally: the promised column on Tundra–sorta. “Sorta” because I’m going to use Tundra mainly as an excuse to get into my taxonomy of poems on the basis of their length, something to which I’ve given more than a little thought over the years. Tundra is a good excuse for this exercise because it is devoted to what its editor, Michael D. Welch, describes as short poems, and defines as poems of fourteen lines or less, though he seems more interested in poems significantly shorter than that–in haiku, in fact. Indeed, his magazine is named after one of the best known minimalist haiku of all-time, Cor van den Heuvel’s, “tundra,” which is but that word in length (and thus, in Geof Huth’s terminology, a “pwoermd”). Actually, of course, it is quite a bit larger than that since it won’t work unless printed in normal-sized type, and placed in the middle of an otherwise empty page.

I myself define a short poem as any poem that will fit comfortably on a single normal-sized page–so should not be more than twenty normal lines in length. I break more pronouncedly with Welch in distinguishing that category from one for smaller poems, which I call “kernular,” from “kernel” and “capsular”–and adding a subset of that which I call, “microkernular poetry.” Kernular poems are poems less than twenty (or so) syllables in length, becoming microkernular poems when they have shrunk to a single word or less. Short poems are all poems longer than kernular poems but less than twenty-one normal lines in length. The sonnet is the type-model for the latter, and seems a natural size, as many before me have noticed: it perfectly holds a thought, counter-thought and conclusion, or the equivalent of the three. The quatrain, as a holder of a single full-sized thought, seems a good type-model for shorter short poems. A haiku seems the obvious choice as the type-model for kernular poems, for it is generally a kind of incomplete thought–the sensual expression all thoughts are marrowed with, sans commentary.

The couplet would be another choice, but a distant second for me because, at its best as lyrical poetry, it would be a fat haiku; at its most traditional, it would just be a lean but full thought, and a type-model for a class of poetry should do what distinguishes a poem from prose: maximize its aesthcipient’s fundaceptual (sensual), rather than his reducticeptual (conceptual), experience of its subject (if you’ll excuse the terms from another of my taxonomies, which covers kinds of human awarenesses).

As for micro-kernular poems, I suspect many of them are larger than kernular poems because, like “tundra”–and Aram Saroyan’s pwoermd, “lighght”–they require whole pages to themselves to achieve full efectiveness. My own “SpringPoem No. 3,719,242″ requires twelve pages for the single word, “spring!” Other microkernular poems are really multiple words pretending to be one word–such as Jonathan Brannen’s “nocean.” However actually long or short various micro-kernular poems are, however, they deserve a category of their own–as the purest possible lyric poems, not being large enough, verbally, to be explicitly reducticeptual (except in the unavoidable but trivial way all words, being concepts, are), so going directly to their auditors’ viscera.

It seems to me that the kernular poem may just be the archetypal lyric poem, for it seems to me that all longer poems are either kernular poems with set-ups, amplifications and ornamentation (none of which I disdain) or secondary texts studded with kernular poems– as Poe had it. Of course, such longer poems, at their best, permit their kernular poems to play off each other, and unite to some higher effect–but so might, say, a collection of haiku.

Haiku. Tundra has an interesting discussion in letters from 1973-74 between Robert Bly and Cor van den Heuvel on the value of this form. It is amazingly under-rated, for something out of the knownstream, no doubt because it is so easy to write mediocre specimens of it. Bly demonstrates the other principal reason: incomprehension in the face of the simply-verbalized pure imagery that is the haiku’s main strength. He wants some kind of heightening of language, or surrealization of imagery as in his (mis)translation of a haiku by Basho as “Storm on Mount Asama/ Wind blowing/ out of the stones.”

This kind of surrealization, incidentally, is shown nicely in another part of Tundra in which Charles Rossiter insightfully if briefly reviews Bly’s Morning Poems, 1998. In it Rossiter quotes this line from Bly’s “All These Stories”: “In some stories a wolf pursues us until we/ Turn into swallows, and agree to live in longing.” It isn’t true of most haiku, however. In general, they present straight imagery, which has trouble carrying the “ah” that Bly believes a poet should put into each of his poems; but they can: for instance, in van den Heuvel’s contribution to this issue of Tundra: “city street/ the darkness inside/ the snow-covered cars.” This haiku’s fore-burden is simply a call to attend to the way snow increases the darkness inside cars on a city street. But much more is connoted: all the absence in some city, or place of substantial human presence; stoppage; silence; the conquering of a human domain by nature; what winter is.

Even better than this haiku, in my view, is a haiku van den Heuvel uses against Bly’s condescension in their exchange of letters, John Wills’s: “boulders/ just beneath the boat/ it’s dawn.” van den Heauvel praises the way this poem celebrates light without mentioning it. It does other things, but I hold it a superior haiku for containing a juxtaphor, by which I mean one image placed next to another in such a way as to make the first seem a metaphor for that other, as in this case the boulders act as a metaphor, as they come into visibility, for the dawn rising into the sky; similarly the boat seems edging over a kind of darkness (the boulders) into a day just as the sun is. Perhaps this is a bit strained, but something of what I describe seems near-certainly there, and raises the haiku a notch for me–without relegating more straight-forward haiku like van den Heuvel’s to any realm of non- or sub-poetry.

I might insert that I don’t agree with the purists among writers of, and commentators on, haiku that haiku should avoid metaphor; the best have the kind of implicit metaphor this one does–for example, Basho’s “on a withered branch/ a crow settles;/ autumn nightfall.” It is true, though, that a metaphorless (slightly prolonged) haiku, like William Carlos Williams’s “red wheelbarrow” can do things poetically that no metaphored poem can: absolute truth, freshly observed can equal truth told slant, though in a different way. As also in this untitled almost-kernular poem from Tundra by John McClintock:

what to do with the cats?
what can be done with them?
I keep thinking
my mother is dying
what to do with her cats?

Conclusion: there are at least three valid ways to bring off an effective kernular poem, and the only losers are those not able to appreciate them all.

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Column035 — November/December 1998 « POETICKS

Column035 — November/December 1998



A Vacation Trip to Boston, Part Two

 


Small Press Review,
Volume 30, Numbers 11/12, November/December 1998




House Organ, Number 24, Fall 1998;
edited by Kenneth Anthony Warren. 18pp;
1250 Belle Avenue, Lakewood OH 44107.
price: whatever donation one thinks proper.

 


Scene: a panel at “The First Boston Alternative Poetry Conference,” 17-19 July 1998. It was my turn. I was nervous– for a moment too weak in the knees, I feared, to get up. This is normal for me when I appear onstage before more than two people, but I was also flustered and feeling horrendousfully disorganized from just having gotten back from a nearby Kinko’s where, at the last minute, I’d had to get transparencies done of the poems I was going to discuss. I had not brought display copies with me, for hand-outs containing the poems were going to be printed for the audience. But MB had thought AK was going to do this, and vice versa, so it didn’t get done. And the opaque projector I’d been assured would be available could only project transparencies! Aaargh. Nonetheless, I somehow survived–with the help of moderator Mike Basinski’s highly flattering intro, and a very supportive audience that put up with my stumbly beginning. Once I got going (along the way chastising Bill Howe for laughing Very Inappropriately at my more detailedly hyper- intellectual explanations), I was almost adequate!

Howe, the oaf, laughed most at a list of reasons I gave as to why Mathematical Poetry Is Very Good Stuff, I have no idea why. Here are some of my reasons (improved, I ought to point out, since I threw them together a few days before the presentation): such poems’ math quickly gets rid of any Philistines who might happen on them, so they don’t have time to get so disgusted with the brain-bendingness of the poems to bother one later with irate letters to the NY Times; their math gives the poems freshness of expression, always a plus for Enlightened Readers; math, the ultimate tool of concision, makes the poems they’re used in . . . concise–another cardinal virtue of poetry; math can give poetry an axiom-like feel of certainty to use against the uncertainty of existence it is generally about; likewise, math can render poetry more abstract-seeming than words ever could, thus giving it a texture with which to oppose, or highlight, the concreteness of the imagery it will generally also contain; and math can give poetry a tone of logic to use against or with the flow of intuition that will nearly always underlie it at its best; finally, mathematicality in poetry gives its auditor a chance at the thrill of Solution, and a reminder of how much fun solving arithmetic was for at least some of us back in elementary school, and still can be.

I’ve spent a long paragraph on this topic not only to pontificate about and push the value of my kind of poetry, but as an example of the sort of serious self-justification that’s behind much of the otherstream poetry that I write about in this column, whether its practitioners verbalize it or not. My main hope, though, is that my readers will immediately write Bill Howe to bawl him out for daring to laugh at what I said. The oaf. Or did I already say that?

Mary Burger followed my presentation. She showed and discussed a number of visual poems by divers people like John Byrum and others I didn’t know. Some of it was quite good stuff that made me feel better about the future of the form. Darren Wershler- Henry, next on the bill, performed an entertaining translation of bp Nichols’s “Translating Translating Apollinaire” into Klingon– and recited a nice textual poem (with puns), but presented no visual poems, which disappointed me. I never got a chance to talk with Darren, by the way, though he did introduce himself amiably to me before our panel. I mentioned the column I wrote here a while back that wasn’t too positive about his work, but he hadn’t seen it, so I didn’t get a chance to smooth the waters, if they needed to be smoothed.

After Darren came Christian Bok with a fascinating song/grunt/groan/wail I, for one, had trouble believing came out of a human body. He followed that with a textual poem. Ellay Phillips and Wendy Kramer then, in a two-voiced polyphony, read/improvised-off-of the sides of several quite splendidly three-dimensionally-collaged cartons they’d fashioned, sometimes striking ore, sometimes not, but always blazoning the potential of such collaborative efforts.

Bill Howe finished our panel off with a charmingly, at least partially improvised poem/chat that, bless him, mentioned “Bob’s punctuation marks” among the things he wanted to read, other than words; then–after spending some time inking a bowling ball he’d carved all kinds of letters and who-knows-what into–he rolled it over a long strip of paper a few dozen times, then read a poem out of the results. Great idea that didn’t work 100% but was still A-1.

I have more to say about my Boston outing, but–once again–I’ve run out of room. Before I stop, though, I want to plug at least one publication. I’ve chosen the latest issue of House Organ, which is always full of first-rate textual poetry and literary criticism of all sorts. This issue consists of a “chain of responses, memories and connections” Bill Sylvester wrote about a manuscript called Freud and Picasso that his friend Gerald Burns had sent him a few months before Burns died. It especially jumped out at me because it reached me almost exactly the day I was thinking it was about time someone did something to commemorate Burns, who was one of our very best poets. Sylvester’s commentary is not just about Burns, which would be enough, or just about poetry, but (like Burns’s poetry) it splashes through all the workings of the mind, and–finally–of existence. In short, I highly recommend it.

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