why poetry matters

The Eternal Critique of the Indexical:

which, I will admit, is perhaps not the best title

*what follows are hasty remarks, a distillation of thoughts at times possibly incomprehensible. A defense? from a broken brain.

 

 

“poetry” is the most “human” of all acts because it is this act which is self-aware (an inscription of its own act) of

 

1. the human drive to solve problems

 

-and-

 

2. the awareness that this “solving of problems” is in itself a human-problem; that is, we, as humans, create problems/problematize in order to solve because this has become intrinsically how we operate

 

3. awareness even of this which leads to the eternal critique–the artifice, the recursive recursion; patterning & thus necessitation of “sense-making” thereof–troubled by a lack of immediacy/access to a “real” which can only exist insofar as a perception/construction of a lack of access feels it (this perception) ought to be troubled because it recognizes that said trouble is itself a construction, itself subject to its own “infinite” (perhaps bounded by some material/bio constraint)–construction-perception/perception of construction/trouble/awareness that this ought to be troubled only because it is a “self-awareness” as such…–recursion.

 

4. as well as attendant pleasures and madness (themselves subject to the hectic above—which obviously plays a part in both the pleasure and madness regarding).

 

5. “flow” begins exactly as artifice. It is this awareness in which we “lose ourselves” – it is the “opposite” of transcendence as the starting point. Thus ritual.

 

6. all we can do is point to one thing which points to other things. It is from this, a sense of this, that we can approach awesomeness—which is nothing more than an awareness of awesomeness in its proper sense (awe, codified as and imbued as—or rather, triggered and guided by the process of (re)enacting/unfolding the codification of—a “thing” pointing toward).

a

Truth is process.

a

a

a

dream journal and hypothetical bad news

lover crying in the corner.
lover in the STD dream, the erotic nightmare.

lover on top of you, hypothetically crying.
a surprisingly tidy

little nightmare–somehow
this has everything to do with being upchucked

from the apartment, not a little with
the shadow-show of being twelve.

sunday morning poem

the first business is old business
by Allister MacMartin

the coldest morning in August
came with rain,
the utter myth of density

drops, and
mist on the scalp;
what we don’t say–somehow,

the sun manages
to rise, despite–
back on instant

coffee, muttering,
yes, I could
always care less.

Friday feedbag.

Agenda:

1. Review of article

2. Poem based on review of article (if you feel inclined to skip)

***

Just picked up my copy of the May/summer Writer’s Chronicle, thankfully provided gratis by the University of Michigan — though based on the date, obviously under-read by us here, well, me at least.

Some interesting and not-so interesting articles/interviews/essays. But what did catch my eye was entitled “A Poet’s Anti-Rule Book,” by Steve Kowit.

I’ll profess my ignorance: I have no idea who that is. However, reading it was confirming — I would say insightful, but unfortunately I can relate to the painful lessons that unfold within its sections.

First off: criticism. While Kowit rails against recent categorical developments and the in-group/perceived critic’s stance on what constitutes good poetry, he does advance his own agenda, which if taken too literally, would produce it’s own set of terrible poetry-problems. His early deployment of Shakespeare, besides the very tone and snarky attitude of this section, is unnecessary — and there is definitely a consistent theme of cherry-picking throughout. That is, he ends up sounding a bit categorical himself — which might be a disaster were it not for the intended audience, i.e. people who want to write poetry that doesn’t suck.

He could have spent more time explaining and deconstructing why the current perceptions and attitudes toward over-arching rules of poetics are unwarranted — and he also glosses over the fact that much of the practices he denounces have had overwhelmingly positive impacts, and much of what he advocates is perilous. In short, and as usual, more of a middle-ground could have been sought…

pictured: fun.

but then, where would the fun be in that? Basically, his attempt to un-demonize certain aspects of directness and communicative writing, and to sweep away prescriptive advice is well-intentioned, and because of the position he is arguing from, he doesn’t really need to address all of the problems his advice might bring about,

e.g.

you can tell, not just show

sometimes, cliches work

it’s perfectly okay, and occasionally genius to just come right out and say what you mean

passive voice and -ing and adverbs have a definite place in poetry as they do in speech

why be difficult? why “trust the reader?” why not write a political poem? why always rely on free-verse and spontaneity? etc., etc.

The way I see it, the problems of constructing a poem or poetics based solely on the above approaches is quite self-evident (as anyone who has ever written or heard high-school poetry is well-aware).

Ultimately, the point is well taken that poetry should be accessible, and that being all mysterious and oracular and a clever wordsmith about it are susceptible to the same self-indulgence and just plain bad-writing when lack of intention/attention comes (too much) into play.

For my part, and though I hate to rely on anecdotal evidence, I wrote a lot of very terrible poetry leading up to and even during my first year in grad school because I was under such entrenched impressions of what a (professional?) poem should be, do, and perhaps more to the point, not-do.

***

I’m not going to convert or shed all of my prior conceptions, but based on reading Kowit’s article I hastily penned the following. (A Friday almost freewrite.)

***

“the hobby”

like knitting — the apartment
should be empty tonight.
The dishes, finally, all being done,
put away and stay put — they
seem to have their place; for the time being,
I’m alone here. I’m giving myself permission
to try and get a little drunker than usual. And if something
miraculous should happen:
fine. The styrofoam
clam-shell — put in there
what you will — steaming on the nightstand.
What it doesn’t know: the world’s
still pretty fucked up, as it is, and I’ve fucked absolutely
nothing up tonight — puttering about
even with a basement I’d probably, stubbornly
still be lonely — a habit — like a kind-hearted father’s way
of saying it is what it is — thoroughly
unconvinced.

Missed Connections

Freewrite Thursday is the new Freewrite Friday. Poem after the pic:

don't hate.

“Missed Connections”

standing like a confession
in the fish aisle
your brainstem leaking jewels
——————–let
me gobble these up
for you
——-vicious harmonics

architecture O
pipes
—– abuzz
———– muzak stank
——–fish
—stain

pseudo jazz furniture refrain
——————–I reckon
viscous ephemera
in abundance
————-of emeralds
your cod pecuniary hopeful
pump of your sashimi heart

unroll your carpet of cauliflower
such an odd occurrence of tongue unfurled
—————-I demand
to understand the wicked
ways
—–of your cole crop

what you seek is cruciferous
the missed connection of a
paper cabbage
—————contemplating cabbage

contemporary abundance
————————–well
————–it takes one
————————–more than that
————to know then
one’s self
———who happens to have
———sold the food
——————– -soul as fool’s gold
when what we need is the new biggest boat

Compensation (a draft)

“Compensation”

Don’t tell the gods
but I’m pretty sure I’m pissed.
I was on the lookout for love
in the breakfast nook.
Last night was ecstatic—
ah yes,
   ———is it ever enough to say,
my bad? I know you now as one who waits to move
from one plaid couch
to a slightly less plaid couch.

It was way better than last Halloween,
and since the bars are closing,
and since today I got nowhere
near close to resembling that first assured step
in front of that blue bus
(and how
————–could I?)
my 5 o’clock shadow
is cast at 2 a.m. you affixed in the dimming
of one wrecked bulb—

a kind of patient, luxurious surgery
kept our spirits up until first blue. It was monstrous
what a splash of hot caffeine
could do for one’s impoverished soul. The breakfast nook
was no place for love-making.
I’ll take cake and cake and cake
for breakfast any day now—let’s face it
I’ll never be the misty-eyed type
across a table
———————of grapefruit—this is
at best, a place
for fucking—and since
I am all that’s left of my own hurt devices,
tonight:
———– images
of imperceptibly staining teeth.

poem regarding last night

To the girl who hustled
us last night at pool,

make no mistake, I was
not impressed by you, but by what you did

there. Perhaps, I am just now
getting older–or careless; yes,

to be so young–that’s your prerogative–
and so decisively impressive.

***

Also: I bought the world’s cheapest, worst digital camera. Shake it up:

That's my pumpkin. Been here since last October.

hate and inspiration

I used to hate
John Ashbery
but that was before
I realized I was John Ashbery.

your cover letter is (probably) terrible

and the best, most current advice I can give to any writer seriously considering submitting his-her poetry is to work as an intern or in some slush-reading capacity. It will illuminate your own idiosyncrasies (or what you had assumed were your own special, cute little quirks), and you will grow to despise them.

I'm guilty, more or less, of all of this.

some principles:

1. The two most common types of cover letter are: a) overly minimalist, and b) longer than the submission.

a) address the magazine by name — probably no need to directly address it to a specific editor, but it’s nice to see someone take the time to word-process at least the cover letter. Also, a lack of a cover letter, though not the end of the world, is a minor frustration; see, there’s this thing called priming, and a lack of a cover has roughly the same effect on me as sipping lukewarm coffee while reading it (not good).

b) make sure it is relevant info. I don’t care about your dog. I don’t want you to list every minor publication or accolade you’ve ever received (or worse, almost). Yes, I do read cover letters, but ultimately it is the quality of the work that determines whether or not I pass it on to the editor. In the same vein, do not send what you consider your drafts, second-bests, or good-enoughs my way (this not only makes me question your listing of publications and awards, but inspires very little hope in the whole project itself).

2. On being edgy.

Stop it. Either your thoughts are genuinely interesting and complex, and this is demonstrated by your writing, or they aren’t.

Things that aren’t edgy: bodily fluids/excretions, hating stuff, alternate lifestyles, anything regarding politics, anything regarding religion, anything regarding linguistics/language.

This is not to say there aren’t many fine poems (indeed, some of the better, perhaps the best?) about the above topics — but this impulse seems, perversely, linked to the next point…

3. It’s not the worst subject in the world.

Stop writing about your dog. It’s not that poems about a/your/dogs in general are inherently bad. This more exemplifies the phenomenon of fatigue in a reader. Namely, there are days when it seems that every poem from every contributor is about the same thing. If this happens, then the odds start to stack against your particular poem “about a dog” being the best in the incoming submissions.

I read over a dozen poems today about “what is the soul?” — also, don’t do this. If you write about this, the soul (unless you are Carl Phillips), then stop. Not to say this is not an appropriately “poetic subject”? but that most poems end their conversation at exactly this point. Boringly.

i.e. the poem should not be a meditation on what the soul is (especially if it’s obvious from the poem the writer has some idea), nor should it end with this as a rhetorical device employed to evoke a response from the reader (sympathy in poetry is over-rated), but that it must be genuine (which, is difficult to convey in poetry, and again, ironically, involves craft/crafting).

It is difficult to write about a) the soul, and b) dogs, in a genuine manner.

I really do enjoy the large part of submissions I have had the opportunity to read first. I’m sorry that I can’t offer (or bemoan) some practical and positive advice (it’s always easier to see the negative), but like I said, reading submissions has been illuminating.

In short:

1a. name the publication in your cover letter (and include one)

1b. keep the prior publications/biography relevant (and painlessly brief — also: correctly formatted)

2. reconsider what taking risks means (make sure the risk you are taking is not cliche)

3. give your reader something they haven’t seen before, and aren’t likely to encounter for some time.*

*Really, the only thing to remember is not to submit a fanciful little poem about your pet-peeve, and on the same note: DO NOT submit the poem you just wrote which you consider to be “THE POEM”

online publication

I’m giving in.
I am so alone in Ann Arbor.

I’ve been driving tall
people to the hospital
in my small car.

I’ve been submitting.

elimae is the only one I’ve heard back from so far:

“Soon, This.” & “Contents Unknown”

see also: Christmas, palpable disgust.

feeding the affirmation monster.
it is what it did.