At the end of oh a long day. Woke at 2am to a possum scratching noisily at a hatch to the crawlspace under my bedroom window and that went on some hours. Now after office hours, teaching, teaching prep, and an edifying but mind-twisting course at the local REI on orienteering with map and compass – now a glass of white wine and a big fat artichoke steaming to be had with butter and garlic, and in the gap as it steams one more blog for you.
So here’s a blog, as all these have been so far, on seeing freshly. In this case, seeing what’s real in the daily, unique in the ostensibly interchangeable. A very William Carlos Williams sort of blog.
Pennies, for instance, we act as if one were as good as another. Look at them better, though, and each is its own creature, has its own smudges, patina, has carved its own arc through the ether to your pocket or your change jar.
Or stones. Everyone talks about snowflakes. Fuck snowflakes. Stones are very different from other stones. Why don’t they get some fucking press?
Why’s this matter. We live in a world system that’d make a given face, a person, interchangeable with every other, if it could, and maybe it could. To recuperate one penny or scrap of stone from all the others and say – this. In that plain ordinary moment attention is love, squishy yeah but that’s the word for it, and nothing the world commodity system raping the earth and our spirits can do will undo the moment, and the system has to fall back and die.
Doesn’t fall back far. Doesn’t die for long. But does a little, does a bit, and’s good and good again.
Another student blog for yehs from my Art of Compost class now entering its sixth and final whirlwind week. Picture compost aloft in circuits in different densities in fitful gales.
This one, on the face of it, a travel blog, but under its careful surfaces, the transits are interior. Meditation with landscape as alterity mirror.
Something about the introspective quiet of this blog (you can find it here) puts me in mind of John Berger, whose Shape of a Pocket we’re reading this week.
I had a dream in which I was a strange dealer: a dealer in looks or appearances. I collected and distributed them. In the dream I had just discovered a secret! I discovered it on my own, without help or advice.
The secret was to get inside whatever I was looking at – a bucket of water, a cow, a city (like Toledo) seen from above, an oak tree, and, once inside, to arrange its appearances for the better. Better did not mean making the thing seem more beautiful or more harmonious; nor did it mean making it more typical, so that the oak tree might represent all oak trees; it simply meant making it more itself so that the cow or the city or the bucket of water became more evidently unique!
Beautiful man. That is eunoia, Christian, beautiful thinking.
Here’s one more for you of an evening. Student blogs I mean. An ode and owed to coffee. Rich in a compost sensibility and not just because coffee grounds make (I’m told) a fine generative soil.
Comma in the name, that’s punc that don’t punk nor get punked.
Lots I enjoy here, but maybe most of all, the quality of attention everywhere in evidence – let’s call it a wakefulness, in the spirit of coffee, noticing minutiae, taking pleasure in, say, the fleeting flowers of foam a barista draws atop your latte, not because she has to, nor even just because she can, but because she can offer.
And chooses to. We’re back with Imagination, living always and only as imaginations, plural, demotic. NO PLATONIC CHICKENS HERE. Just lots of heartful cups of coffee. (A mischievous link in the spirit of Alex’s blog.) (‘Cept I just spoilt it by saying so.)
No words for this. Guess that’s what got me making picture and thing poems. And yet we need to keep finding and failing to find the words for it. Worlds rely on it. E.g., the pic above.
A lot of ways to believe in Aphrodite,Ἀφρόδιτα, whom Sappho calls ἀθανάτ and ποικίλοφρον, athanatos, poikilophron, deathless and spangled in mind, as I wrote about once here.
She could be for you an outer being as real as mom or dad or auroch or furniture. Or did anyone ever believe in spirit beings in quite that way? Maybe only atheists ever have.
She could be something liminal, a threshold being, as she seems to have been for Sappho in that astonishing Hymn, nor outer nor inner, but bridging that perhaps in her time widening divide (Heidegger, comment here?). Gist of so many of her invocations being, come here, to me; bring her, to me. To, unto, into.
She could be what we, now, dissociated, have liked to call an “objective correlative,” an external object saturated with an inner state, longing for what we cannot have, let alone be.
Phenomenological to the core, I spit TSE on your objective correlative – as I know you wished to, too.
One thing more I learn from my student is, wiccans, like monty pythons, fear bunnies among them, as well they might. Check it out.
Another is, witchery is about intimacy, not harming what you’re close to, and seeing you’re close to all of it. Check that out.
Addendum. A book in the mail by my old teacher, Don Revell, out of which these lines, which I am still plumbing (as am I them all).
(In Paradise, remember to tell Hart Crane Tom Eliot was his kitten in the wilderness; the fact that Tom grew up into three white leopards is neither here nor there. That Bohemia should be an island crowded with magical shepherds is neither here nor there. Canons are funny that way.)
Neither here nor there because the Imagination is every where.
Here’s another found its footing right quick, or if not its foots, a nearby anatomical feature at the meeting of adjacent appendages – a spot commonly referred to as where the sun don’t shine, though in KV’s cult-iconic rendering, oddly redolent of an asterisk, which I know you know is named for star, which our sun is one of. Is the sun a place the sun don’t shine?
Anyway, said star is, here, home base and icon, by which I think our author may have out-gutsied Vonnegut. Too, I can imagine Vonnegut saying: You think life is bad with an asshole? Imagine life without one.
You can see I’m overcompensating for my discomposure by expatiating and Latinizing. But it’s a kickass blog, w/ word-image mashups, witty capricious hyperlinking, genuine irreverent homage to Mr. V., and real live thinking- and feeling-through of what a blog can do to keep his mischief alive. Go find it here.
So here we are in migraine land, and one thing I can tell you? Reading disjunctive avant-garde poetry, even the charming sort doing songbirds and you’re set to teach it tomorrow – not so much fun when the words are sound-and-light-knives.
Thought instead I’d begin the happy work of spreading the word of my students’ blogs. Here’s one that’s found its footing (and feathering and yes taloning) right quick. finch binch. It’s bad it’s sassy it’s rude. It’s got a chip on its shoulder you get closer it turns out’s a bird might be live might be dead.
I’ll let it speak most for itself in situ (go there! do!) but quick what its author says of it:
from videos to mod podge collages to pictures of birds doing people things to documentation of the bird wake I once held just expect lotsa bird stuff and nestle on in
A mural my students made last week in class. The prompt: using only the materials you have on hand, or can forage from the surrounding environment without breaking the law or hurting anyone’s feelings, express your understanding of “the art of compost.” Oh, and no legible text, other than found text.
Here it’s, as composted through my iPhone:
Interesting to watch them work. Each one herself, himself, just about perfectly. Last year I gave this, every one worked pretty much on their lonesome, class dynamics, long story, and it did come out okay. This time, some leaned toward solo, some into duo, some asked as to overview, but as they felt their way into the actual question at hand – are we one or are we many – those arrangements softened and shifted.
That is, as they composted their thinking, they found a rhythm where each had room to breathe, or so it seemed to me, and nice to see. Nice to be part of just in watching. Here ’tis, as panorama,
Click on me to see (and again) compost understood
Sometime soon, a post on breath, breathing, the breath, which I’ve been thinking and not-thinking about, these days of hot high still air all round. How’s it I ever thought my breath was anyone else’s to order around? That’s my little bit cryptic thought of an evening, after a day hiking up at Baker, forest fire haze out of BC hanging on air, dulling Baker and Shuksan to the eye, but someone or something was watching lupines and mimulus shivering in wind bits, and what’s wind but earth’s breath, what we’re in.
The student journal for which I serve as faculty advisor is, a bit belatedly, hanging out among the electrons. Occam’s Razor, we got Burroughs’s cutups, Harry Smith’s psychedelic animations, Coriolanus, social media in China, diatoms in your gas tank.
These guys done a great job in, oh let me tell you, some trying conditions. Or I’ll skip the tell you and you’ll trust me. For reals though check it out. Asses are kicked in it.
Conceptual poetry, not so good maybe at the lugubrious emotions, sundry melancholies, but sure good at giddy, it digs gid. I mean not a disease of sheep but the happy slippiness of speech.
To wit (to whit, to woo), early in the compost course, an exercise in homophonic translation, the full of which you can read here.
And bold preconceptionless forays by a new brave company (I like them! very much!) from which a few excerpts, and thoughts on them, forthwith.
This one drifts, as a number here do, some way from the sounds of its source. The title e.g.
La dulce boca
becomes
La Dual, Say Broke Up
A strength of this approach is that, as fidelity yields to association, some inspired phrases come to be.
Okay, a Jupiter minister elder zone dead
No turquoise sea quietly vetoes
Those are gems that could find a setting somewhere. A cost is, the limbo bar’s been raised to let the dancer get under. I laugh but also feel let down when I see aljofaradas y olorosas rendered as “hiatus seen multiple-sclerosis.”
To stay closer to the sound source, spurn the edges tween words. Com, that is, post them. A puritanical homophonic translation of
La dulce boca
might be
Lad duel, Ché book, ah
One chose German, a grievous challenge. Fünfundzwanzig? OMG. Again a considerable drift from the sounds of the source – so that
Die Sonne ging um fünf
becomes
Season going on foot
rather than say the more rigid or rigorous “Die, son. Gingham? Pff!” But here I’ll touch on my other major notion about making a homophonic translation that will win fiends and influence poppies.
If one is, ignore and abuse the bounds between words in the source, the other is, imagine and impose all sorts of phrase articulations in your destination.
Here the student arrived at
Season going on foot or soon funds van zig off, also why men ought to through her all some dean stack …
and it feels, undifferentiated, an impenetrable thicket. A thing strong translations of this sort have in common, Zukofsky’s Catullus, Melnick’s Men in Aida, is very short sharp telegraphic phrasing. My own efforts have come pretty quick to the same strategery.
I could dilate why but I’d rather lay out more student work. Here it seems to me a little phrasal articulation would do a lot
Season going on foot. Or soon funds van zig off. Also, why men ought to through her all? Some Dean Stack …
This one made similar calls, and arrived at a nice refrain, from
Et il m’aime encore, et moi je t’aime un peu plus fort Mais il m’aime encore, et moi je t’aime un peu plus fort
getting to
Ay eel lemon core aim-wash tem unpopular for May eel lemon core aim-wash tem unpopular for
Again I was curious what a more puritanical adherence to sound – a recklesser disregard for word bounds in the source – and a fiercer phrase articulation in the target – might have got. From
Alors tu vois, comme tout se mêle
from which the student derived
Ah lore too voila come to so well
another possibility might have been
Ah, lore. Tuvak, om. Too, some ell.
Moving a bit quicklier or I’ll be here all night! This one feels caught in a between-world, somewhere on the way from its faux-Latin source to a mock-English target.
Dues Israel epp say true dare it virtue tem et
might for instance develop into
Dues? Israel up. Say true, dare it, virtue Tom et.
This one made v. bold w/ its source, bossed it, nor let it boss her, round. Never mind the author worked with’s Cervantes.
En un lugar de la Mancha, de cuyo nombre
becomes
A noon Lou guard – day lemon. “Shah Day cool, yo.”
Gnome bray Nokia …
Another fave moment from this one:
“Did your, uh, low stomach go consume Ian?”
Lost Stress Parties Day; halcyon. Duh.
This brings to the fore a core diff. Respect your source text wholly and let it shove you round not at all. From hacienda, “halcyon. / Duh.” Okay she added an ‘l’ sound. It’s still pretty tight.
Here’s one with loads of good language substrate, just in need of some of that phrase articulatin’, and maybe shiftin’ a few vowels accordin’
Layin’ trouble masquerade a ponder we a soup-up a gamier shoe heir Adele guy in square tone “lay, double add-in trough.”
might become
Lay in trouble. Masquerade? Oh, ponder we a sou, poop. A gamier shoe heir, Adele, guy in square tone, lay double odd in trough.
This one stayed close to source sounds, so that
Tú para mi
became
Too paw raw me
but wanted perhaps again bolder rearticulations, so that for instance
A kay in may pray sent oh con me, sir
might have been remastered as
Okay. In May, pray send, oh con me, sir.
Or half a dozen other possibles. The thing is just to make it wholly your own.
This student hit on a tellingly brutal translation of love, one face of it, from
amo
to
Awe mow
and a bit more articulation would have drawn all the potential in it out. From the source text,
Te amo mujer amo tu historia, amo tu vida, y amo tu paz
she got to
Tea ah mow moo hair Awe mow to history ah Awe mow to feed duh He awe mow to pass,
And it strikes me that the insight in amo —> awe mow is not quite fully realized here. With a few tweaks you might get to
Day awe mow moo hair. Awe mow to history. Awe, awe mow to feed. Awe, he awe mow to pass.
One of course of just a dozen ways it could go, a dozen dozen. (The change from “tea” to “day” seems slight to me, by the by, cuz it’s from unvoiced to voiced of the same mouth shape.)
The image by the way is a text I’ve yet to explore, I, purples, spat blood, laugh of beautiful lips by Aaron Cassidy, who describes it as a product of Rimbaud’s “Voyelles,” Bök’s Eunioia, and a tangle of semantic and homophonic derivations of those. Look forward to getting to know it better.
Click on me for some mathematical sublime
Okay a few more. This student from
Si la vida es amor, bendita sea!
got
Seal feed a, is armor. Bend it as me.
And from
Donde la mano
got
Don day, lamb an oh!
This one played fast and loose with phonemes but was also willing to compost words and impose word bounds the source author n’er had thought of, so that
Cordoba Lejana y sola
becomes
Kurt, oh baa. Leia, Han, huh? Pee Cola.
– laying the complicity between Lucas Studios and Coca Cola Corp. bare for once & all. Later the poet turns luna to tuna, fudging grapheme more than phoneme, but okay, hells, y not.
Here too though a bit more articulation? Exercise, where’s a good spot to put a period in this line? I can see at least four. Five if you strike an ‘l’ from “Llama.”
Llama ate a neigh is tough mirror and dough.
This student took on no less than the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, which en francais reads, article 26.3,
Les parents on, par priorité, le droit de choisir le genre d’éducation à donne à leurs enfants.
And perhaps as a comment on how much good it’s done, it becomes in translation, and I’ve articulated it just a little more,
Less parents on, pair parrots, Lee. Do it day chaser, Lee. Genre? Day education at diner allures infants.
Homophonic translation tends to draw out the unconscious of language, its polymorphic perversity, if you’ll let it. “Perversity” in a not bad sense, just etymologically, as in turnings off the straight and narrow path. This one makes bold to find such gists in an ordinary Spanish-language newspaper article –
Yo, no karaoke Margarita! Clod, dickhole! These interest, dear, scatter my pain. Yo, karaoke Lo Mein tie, never! OH! Penis? Okay. Meaty? Okay, sir. Arrow lad, a cone, laps are a toy. Lace: track her. EEK! You an asset, ran, sit. Oh? See affect area.
That seems to be about, whatever else also, its own activity, the queering of language this exercise seems ineluctably to go to.
This last one departs far from the sounds of its source text, and also comes to compelling lines in English, and I can only make out traces of Spanish, but have some feeling that the author has fell into Zukofsky’s own practice, of mingling homophonic and semantic translation at will. I’ll just give ya the first line –
Cuerpo de mujer, blancas colinas, muslos blancos
Aquarius day, new hair, blanket colonies – new blankets,
– and the last –
como una flecha en mi arco, como una piedra en mi honda.
Come oh one a fellatio in me on top.
And that there’s the unconscious of language, right there, remembering for us we’re in bodies, prideful, all.
Last day of my vis po class today. Gonna miss these guys, I am. Not often a group comes together so clear real and kind. Mean to post over the next week or two some of their later works, which have been bright and entrusting as ever.
The exercise:
Either compose a poem with no words in it, or compose a poem that is one continuous line (once the pen tip touches the paper, it doesn’t leave the paper, until the poem is done), or do both!
All that follow follow the former prompt. This time round, the latter didn’t work out, quite so well. (I mean to write, before I’m done with this spring class, on how little it matters whether a given ex has worked out for you or not. For most students most of the exes are enh and that’s fine and expected. And one or two make for breakthroughs and that’s giddy and golden.)
This one harks back to our study of Judith Copithorne’s Runes and’s inflected maybe also by flash presentations on graffiti and calligraphy. Though the semblances most evident to me are Arabic script and maybe even Hélène Smith’s Martian writing though I don’t recall us discussing it.
Anyway it suggests to me that our early exercise on handwriting, which seemed mostly a bust at the time, might have set some seeds long to germinate.
This one’s a culmination of its author’s preoccupation with forces in the culture, ad copy junk food and so on, conspiring to benumb one.
I should mention that the exercise comes in company with our work on Derek Beaulieu’s Local Colour, a reading of Paul Auster’s novella Ghosts that replaces every colour word with a swatch of that colour, all other words with the whiteness of the page.
I could dilate here on the symcomplexity of that project, or on the extraordinary anxiety it induces in some students (“You don’t ask what a waterfall means,” I said today, “why do you ask what the poem means?” “Nature – art,” said one student, and it’s a sound response, and because I didn’t feel like talking about Kant, I went to Bach. “You don’t ask what the Goldberg Variations mean, though, right?, you ask what they do.” Probably not a good pick, but my first thought, Beethoven’s 9th, has words in it, which complicates. A long parenthetical. Gist is, if there’s one, we got into a good discussion of just what one means by meaning, and’s pretty effing giving of a group of graduating seniors, Thursday of Dead Week.), but I’ll just send you to the text itself. Wread it!
Can’t quite put my finger on why this last one blows my mind.
Saw its author today on the plaza and asked her what it was like to make it – was she in the zone, an altered space, and she said she kind of was, there on the floor with her scissors and construction paper. What you Buddhists yo call samadhi, one-pointedness, and it does come through, so we get some of it, too.
There’s something inexpressible comes across in the whorls. Its imperfections are perfections. All that’s clumsy about it’s subtle. Makes me want to cry and don’t know whether w/ happy or sad.
This one’s her breakthrough poem; told her so; she thought that, too. Everyone in the class had one this time round, no one left out, some did early, some late, some with fireworks, some as quiet as a snowflake of exclamation points or a photocopy of onion skins. What a privilege to be a part of, my god.
The Art of Compost 