pseudopodium
. . . Glück

. . .

Robert Glück seems miraculous to me: smart, honest, experimental, and exquisitely gracious, yet in the founding thick of a literary group which, left to its other devices, would be at least as noxious as every other literary group.

Here the miracle tries to explain itself. Inadequately. Which is where dogma and hierarchies come in, I guess.

. . .

Nothing Personal, 7

It's not true that only poets read poetry. It is true that keeping up with poetry comes close to a full time job, like keeping up with international cinema or popular music or genre fiction.

Job markets vary by geography even avocational job markets. Taking similar land routes, I and Joshua Corey traced similar reading histories, and the ten years between us made comparatively little difference. Although a quirk of publishing history had led to Zukofsky being stocked by the Chillecothe, Missouri, library, and although the Black Mountain lost-leaders were widely available, there was no collected Niedecker or Spicer in my youth, and what I could find in Philadelphia and NYC led me, like Corey, to posit a post-1940 decline into the poetics of lithium. (Things are better in Brooklyn now.)

When I moved to Cambridge, Mass., I lost access to international cinema but gained access to WordsWorth Books and the Grolier. (I also gained a three-hour daily commute, and I also lost my lover and my mind.) At one of those shops, I bought Sal Salasin's first book because it reminded me of Ed Bluestone in the National Lampoon. And I bought Bloomsday by Jackson Mac Low because it was Bloomsday. And then I bought Sulfur 24 because Jackson Mac Low was in it.

I can't find that issue must've lent it to someone and never gotten it back. The web tells me it included one of my favorite Ron Padgett poems, and something by the incomparable David Bromige. But what struck hardest was a long excerpt from Ron Silliman's Toner.

"It spoke to me."

Diction is about shared assumptions, and diction varies because what's "universal" varies. For example, pace Berryman and Hacker, not all of us have had the universal experience of sleeping with our students. So it's possible that you just need to have been a commuter to really get Silliman's poetry. But I got it, and got it bad: here was someone who'd experienced this previously unsung, astonishingly stupid side of life, and found redemptive lyric possibilities in its suspended-yet-mobile state of consciousness. A suspension so extended that it became epic: Kinda-Ron kinda-Endures.

One Age of Huts later, I walked away with the ugly mossy block of In the American Tree. I wouldn't say it changed my life I haven't led that sort of life but it certainly changed my buying habits.

What the anthologized pieces shared was an absence of recognizable names (other than the dedicatee, Larry Eigner) and anything resembling well-established subjective lyric stances. The range of alternatives seemed even wider than what Donald Allen had come up with. And yet Silliman didn't present himself as an outside arbiter or professional event organizer; apparently this range belonged to something he thought of as one group, his own.

The nearest thing to a new norm here was parataxis, which seemed to account for many of the precursors paid tribute in the essays at the back of the book: Ashbery (although not Allen's Ashbery), Stein, Spicer.... Still, there wasn't a "standard Language Poet poem" as far as I could see at least not among the ones I liked. Lyn Hejinian's My Life and Bob Perelman's a.k.a. were both beautiful little books of paratactic prose paragraphs, but you couldn't mistake Hejinian's VistaVision montages of Northern California for Perelman's grim resignation to "cleverness", young Beckett pressed into an old Beckett role:

He heard the music and stood up. Played at appropriate speed, incurable motion out the window. The names are maintained to prevent the accumulations of self-esteem from crashing too harmlessly into private abysses. As if hearing were a perfection of air perpetrated among rivals, sets of teeth, synonyms, sentence structure, ruptured blood vessels. He held on, in advance. Night fell, and I lived through that, too, expressing the expressible in terms of the expressed. On good terms with neighbors, dependable, daily, there, smiles, and is currently writing and reading this sentence.

Susan Howe suffered megalomania of the archive in a way I found much more congenial than Charles Olson's: high on dust mites and the glare of wide margins, the texture of the paper, the impress of the type, a whited-out thought balloon of imminent immanent insight tugging gently at our scalps....

And sure, lots of us have words appearing on our foreheads, but Hannah Weiner was the first to accurately transcribe them.

Depersonalized? No, just respecified: new specs in front of the eyes, less heavily tinted, and, in some cases, less smudged.

I moved to San Francisco in 1991, when Small Press Distribution and Small Press Traffic both had storefronts, and my binging intensified. Like Corey, I learned to browse bookshelves by publisher name. Some of Silliman's also-rans were as good as he'd implied: Rosemarie Waldrop, Robert Glück (who turned out to be a very different sort of writer indeed), Beverley Dahlen, Alice "Notely", Rachel Blau DuPlessis, Mei-mei Berssenbrugge. Some of the included gained importance: speaking of Campion, Stephen Ratcliffe's spaces in the light said to be where one / comes from is subvocalized MDMA. Some seemed to drop out: Stephen Rodefer's Four Lectures were primo, and his Villon translation was a pungent pinch of Spiceresquerie, but then what happened?

Most were uneven. There was such a thing as The Charles Bernstein Poem, and I didn't think much of it, but just often enough he'd come up with something unexpected like "Artifice of Absorption" or "I and The", and even The Charles Bernstein Poems had their place. On the other hand, Susan Howe, always worth reading, was worth surprisingly less in dowdy paperbacks than in her expansive expensive smaller press editions. Silliman's Tjanting played to his weaknesses, despite the conceptual catchiness of its form.

But they continued to be more uneven sometimes than others, and they led other places, like Jackson Mac Low had, and so the binging goes.

Here ends my happy consumer conversion narrative. "Or like stout whosits when with eagle eyes," "Nirvana made me a better student," "I can't believe it's not butter," and so on.

Happily, I wasn't a participant.

Next: I finally get back to where I was more than a year ago!

Responses

Joseph Duemer has some questions.

. . .

Poetic Occasion from Milton to Wordsworth by John Dolan

For once the title's staider than the text. An apparent survey of eighteenth-century occasional verse is instead a briskly related origin myth of New Yorker-ish Anglo-American poetry, its snottiness about as securely veiled as a nipple at the Oscars:

... in return for greater latitude in claiming occasional basis for a wide range of purely mental events, the poet must subject himself to scrutiny on ethos, not occasion. The new-modeled elegiac poet is in this sense always a 'persona,' as it were in every social setting, the poet must strive at all times to act like an inspired being (even to the extent of stubbornly living in the country, hoping for visitors as witnesses to one's dramatized solitude). Testimonials backing up epideictic claims no longer attest to the reality of a particular incident, but to the ethos of the poet. Thus it is not surprising that Cowper's first volume of verse on the new pattern was prefaced by a testimonial to his moral character by his religious guide, Mr. Newton. That testimonial replaces the long, occasion-substantiating subtitles of previous generations. The 'dispositions of the [poet's] mind', if sufficiently vetted by clergy or other reliable persons becomes the new ground of belief in lyric narrative; and as ever in the English lyric, belief precedes, grounds, and all but makes superfluous the act of reading the text itself.

Funereal pathos without the corpse; the intra-cranial space as the last, costly refuge from the truth demands of a suspicious audience; abandonment of overt narrative invention to the novel....

(Dolan later had occasion to track the novel's progress.)

A few steps are missing between Wordsworth and Louise Glück, and a few millennia elided before Milton. But I appreciate a well-told story. And the howl-wagging-the-dog influence of "mainstream" lyric (no occasions? we make some!) is what finally made me stop playing poet in my youth. And Americans do mostly know poems as those things you have to read at weddings and funerals. All things considered, the book might have had a salutary influence on some English departments.

We'll never know. After Poetic Occasion, Dr. Dolan joined a roadshow company of Fear & Loathing on the Campaign Trail. His book garnered two iffy reviews and a dozen citations, and in the consumer paradise of contemporary publishing, it can be yours for $287.41.

Responses

Academics still get off lightly next to Dolan's treatment of Victor Davis Hanson.

That carries Gary Brecher's byline, but I understand your mistake. The Exile enforces house style as rigidly as Henry Luce's Time.

nice to see you posting regularly, one could get used to this rhythm

Thanks. The dayjob relented a bit, and gorging on josh blog stirred me a bit.

Dolan = Brecher

Thank you! I AM A TERRIBLE SCHOLAR!

 

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