slicer review

End of the season retrospective

2009-04-30T18:21:00.004-06:00

It's the end of the 08-09 Spirit Lake Poetry Series. As I had said, very fine poets throughout and the performances were all quite good - so while I may have missed a bit of variety regionally speaking, there was good diversity and high caliber poetry in the readings. Each reading also seemed to draw a slightly different crowd, so it was also interesting to see the variety in audiences who appreciate poetry in the area. It'll be a challenge and opportunity to continue to engage those audiences for 09-10!

As part of the Duluth Homegrown Music Festival Arts Night, Devin McKinnon worked a fine model for reaching out to multiple audiences through his organization of the Poetry Showcase. McKinnon drew a diverse crowd by recruiting diverse poets of varying styles, backgrounds, experience, ages, familiarity, etc. Gothic, Slam, Caribbean, Confessional, Humorous, Psychedelic, Lyrical and even one poem that was rigidly within a rhymed form - a limerick.

Ok, so now that I've pigeonholed some very fine poets, I apologize. There was a sense of desire and urgency - pleading and thanking: for relationships, for chances, for love, for peace, for understanding, for answers. With 13 poets reading for their interpretation of 5-7 minutes, there was a lot of poetry shared, metaphors crafted, f-bombs dropped in clusters, wry jokes levied, stunning images unleashed, voices leveled/raised/hushed, and muses left over-satiated.

Moments of personal note:
Patrick McKinnon's ferocity in his delivery reminding how to embody the poem, not just read it aloud.
Bob Monahan showing how to make small things big and then small again.
Amanda Teague, who I dubbed Ophelia Bohemia, showing that gothic poetry has a definite place, especially in a stellar delivery (made me think of Brock-Broido and further back).
Ben Fleissner's tribute to a poet no longer with us was personal, exquisite and neared the sublime.
Liz Minette used such great images and sense of scene that the audience was drawn into the scene so much that they were startled to find the poem over.
Ben Boylan delivered some delicious psychedelic images and some meta-poetry, excited in the act of language.
Trevor Kaldor delivered slam-styled love poems that swelled with real-life and maturity as well as humor and sincerity.
Paul Lundgren talked about lost underwear in ways that exposed relationships, taboos, and how we create stories by which we judge each other based off of rather trivial pieces of evidence all said and told. It also made me resolve to take better care of my laundry.
Kyle Eldon(sp?) read quietly, quickly and confidently focusing on the inner-resolve negotiating with outer-forces.
Jay Benson, a slam poet not heard from for a while came back in form with an extended piece detailing his experiences for the past few years- gritty, emotional, detailing addiction, poverty and vulnerability.
Devin McKinnon dedicated his reading to his father: very moving in the way he opened his emotions of sadness, anger and confusion. How can we say it's ok when we know it's not?
Sheila Packa drew on both mythology and the ice of the lake for evocative images and left me with one of the phrases that stood out: "is it love if it can't dance?"
And Ellie Schoenfeld rhymed venus in a limerick, spoke of the consumption of dark honey and how we are never far from an accident that could be something miraculous, even if the miracle, a coffee stain is somewhat dubious in its minorness.

Keeping over 50 people in a dark room for over 2hrs to listen to poetry may seem like a sociology experiment that needs an ethics review, but, for me and the majority of the people there, it was a pleasure. Thank you Devin, thank you poets, that you Homegrown, thank you Comic Pit Orchestra (for providing the great music that complimented each poet - showing how adept they are at improvisation by keying in on rhythms and tones almost instantaneously!), and thank you Duluth for setting in which this is all possible.

in which One Finds a Revitalization Effort and a Bone to Pick

2008-09-22T11:43:00.004-06:00

It's been a theme in my life that I do best when I have multiple initiatives in the works all at once until they all collapse (end of the semester grading generally) and I have to slowly pick them up and start juggling again.
Since I don't have the ability right now to take up my poetry or short story just yet, I thought setting some literary thoughts down on the interweb would be a serviceable alternative. Especially when I have a bone to pick, but don't feel it'd be in the spirit of the store blog.

Spirit Lake Poetry Series was started 20ish years ago now. Its aims were(are?) to bring great poets into the area and help to highlight poets and poetry interest in the Twin Ports. I know Louis Jenkins was integral to its creation and long-term success. I'd have a lot more to share about the series if they had a website. I'd even be able to support what I have here if The Reader had a real website since I learned a lot for the Louis Jenkins interview a year or two back. But that's not the case.

And that is part of the problem. It's a great initiative that doesn't seem capable of recognizing how great it is. No one university in the area is large enough to really draw in great poets from across the nation. But between all the writers and educators we have between the 3 universities, 3 community colleges and different writers' groups, there are plenty of connections to wonderful poets across the country and beyond! Spirit Lake Poetry Series offers poets a visit to Duluth to read for an hour, then relax and leave. No classes to teach unless they seek them out. No panels or conferences to prepare for ahead of time. Just a clean reading and a chance to chat with some Duluthians who know and love poetry.

But this year the majority of the readers are either Duluthians or have read in Duluth in the last year. We do have great writers in Duluth, and I treasure them dearly. But there are plenty of venues and times for them to share their craft in the city. They are close enough that they can run courses and come in to the Universities. There have generally been two events for local/regional poets: St. David's open mic day and a release-type reading from whomever has a book coming out near to the event. Everyone else would be coming in from out of town. It may not be their first time, but they've at least been away and working for several years.

This year the only poet who falls into the category of new, visiting poet is Beth Ann Fennelly. I really do like her work and I'm looking forward to hear her read again, since she's done a lot of work since I last saw her read at Miami University. Everyone else on the slate has read in Duluth within the last year. Great talent, but how is that really serving the poetry/writing community?

Have the connections run dry? Are the resources less? Do we really think that we are so low on local venues that we need to utilize the one that was meant to showcase talent from out of town? I am WAY for localism and community spirit, but a part of that HAS to be awareness and recognition of the larger picture. It's what keeps communities from becoming redundant and solipsistic. I don't think we've crossed those lines yet, but the 2008-09 series does very little to inspire my confidence that we will continue to be a dynamic writing and literary community in the northland.

North of the Cities

2007-05-04T19:09:00.000-06:00

Generally if you are in a bar holding a book of poetry, you catch odd glances, confused stares and the rare gasp of disbelief. That is not the case if you are in Duluth and carrying a copy of Louis Jenkins' new collection of 50 prose poems and a conversation with Garrison Keilor, North of the Cities ($15, Will o' the Wisp Books 2007).

It is the book equivalent of a cute puppy. Stangers will flock to ask you where you got it (here, of course)and will barely pause before recounting personal experiences with Mr. Jenkins and how he was one of the first poets that drew them into an adoration of poetry. So, like a puppy, but literary experiences in place of "ooooheshocutenowisnthe-whosagoodboy?!"

North of the Cities strengthens Jenkins' reputation as an important voice in the prose poem form and the art of understatement. Memory and the persistent need to identify our experiences drive many of the poems... not that Jenkins advocates falling into either of these traps. We take our "Big Brown Pills," contemplate what Art desires (to see a Twins game), and prepare for the black&white realities and hidden memories to strike. Jenkins aids our contemplation and preparation through crafted stories that remind us how very common, and delightful, the unexpected is in daily life.

A Memoir of a Radio Program

2007-05-04T16:52:00.000-06:00

Speaking of Faith(Viking Press 2007, $23.95), written by Krista Tippett, creator & host of NPR's Speaking of Faith, has been marketed widely as a memoir. And it is. But it's not exactly Tippett's as much as it is a memoir of the meaningful conversations that she has had on the show. It is a memoir of the show, that she hosts, this time, through relating her travels and forays along the spiritual path.

Here is a quote that leads me to make the distinction:

"Listeners have asked Krista how she came to care about large questions of meaning, the dangers and promises of religion in human life, and how she sees the world differently through her radio conversations. This book is her response." (NPR site)

Tippett sets the tone early that this book is a continuation of her program rather than any inside-scoop of her life. She gives us spiritual themes as chapters and mentions straight away that the majority of the autobiographical information will be contained in Chapter 2, "Remembering Forward." Here, the autobiographical details help us to understand the conditions she encountered, a conservative Christian background and Grandfather, and several years in Germany during the Cold War, involved in study and politics. Certainly enough material for several books, Tippett truncates her experiences, references historical events and personalities and leaves us with a flurry of impressions. More details of her studies, turned towards theology, and her marriage come out, but they are almost always downplayed (she mentions a divorce and depression but does not dwell on the details).

What she does do, consistently and eloquently, is draw from her studies and the conversations she's had to create a chorus of voices that sing of compassion and struggle; community and meditation; and, perhaps most importantly, of empathy and the reservation of judgement.

"As the specter of the fundamentalist religious identity of Al Qaeda has come to overshadow international affairs and identities, Marty has this advice for policymakers and citizens that echoes everything I learn in my life of conversation: Don't lump the faithful and fundamentalists together in any tradion. Don't demonize any group of religious people as an enemy. There is great diversity whenever large numbers of human beings are involved. Do all that you can to help them show their varieties and make it easier for them to be diverse. Make it easier for moderates in all of these movements to be moderates. Marty helps me better understand an important side effect of the work I do" (Tippett 161-162).

Tippett melds the voices of those she has interviewed with those whom she has studied, to promote the open exchanges of beliefs. From Dietrich Bonhoeffer to Einstein, Karen Armstrong to Elie Wiesel and many, many others, Tippett juxtaposes their experiences - highlighting the similarities of diverse traditions without losing sight of their unique qualities.

Krista Tippett is a refreshing voice of humility in a market and topic often cluttered with bravado and sensationalism. She shows that one need not be provocative in order to provoke thought, reflection, and (hopefully) action.
This book is Tippett's response to her listener's questions. It is not full of intimate details and definitive conclusions. It is a furthering of the dialogues about faith. It is a reflection on experiences. It is a call for empathy. It exposes our human vulnerabilities and human strengths of spirit.

How much more intimate could one get?

So, if you're looking for direct answers or the gooey details, I'm afraid you'll have to keep looking. If you're interested in the multiplicity of voices negotiating the path of spirituality, Speaking of Faith is definitely worth a read.

Poetry Month List

2007-04-07T18:24:00.000-06:00

Well, we're a week into National Poetry Month. Duluth has already had one major reading involving three local titans of verse with several more events on the horizon. After asking around, I put together a meager list to help start people off on their celebrations of poetry. Please add your favorites and any poets or titles that I've missed!

Poets on Poetry:

Nine Gates: Entering the Mind of Poetry by Jane Hirshfield. I think Hirshfield does one of the best jobs of accounting for the mystical experience and discipline involved in the creation of poetry without loosing sight of the matters of form and craft.

Poetry Anthology:

Rainbow Darkness ed. Keith Tuma. I am particularly attracted to this collection because I was at the Marjorie Cook Conference on Diversity in African American Poetry. This collection captures the spirit and energy of that week and is a wonderful sampler for those interested contemporary African American poets.

Legitimate Dangers: American Poets of the New Century ed. Michael Dumanis & Cate Marvin. If you want to know who the next big names in poetry are going to be, I suggest that you page through this anthology. It is just over a year old and several of the poets are already adding to their success. Each poet is amply represented with a picture, bio and several pages of poetry giving the reader a good feel for the poet’s works and directions to discover more (without paging to the back and searching through small print).

Poets (an incomplete list in no particular order):

James Wright. Ok, he’s listed first on my list because he is my most consistent favorite. I love how he is able to combine imagery with epiphany without coming off as overly romantic. “A Blessing” and “Jerome in Solitude” are two of my favorite poems of all time.

Pablo Neruda. If you’re looking to introduce someone to the power of poetry, Neruda is a very good poet to go to first. Simple, beautiful images, the respect and reflection of ode, the complexity of turbulent politics… each reading will reward the reader with new insight. If you’re interested in Spanish-language poets, I also highly recommend Octavio Paz and Federico Garcia Lorca.

Marianne Moore. Moore is one of the most influential women in poetry. She is most famous for her numerous poems on natural subjects, but the value of her poems goes much further into the heightened attention to details, image, meter and specific word choices (which sometimes necessitate a dictionary on hand, but more than worth the extra effort).

Terrance Hayes. A younger poet now teaching in Pittsburgh, Hayes has great breadth to his work – relationships, racial experience, humor, sensuality… he’s very much at home no matter the specific form or topic he’s covering. Wind in a Box is one of the best collections of poetry I’ve read this last year.

Robert Creeley. Not a beatnik, not anti-beatnik. Creeley has wonderful sense of voice in his poems and a very unique and sparse rhythm. His poems are experiences; confessions that call us to care more about the act of confession that the confessor. Recently departed and greatly missed for his continuous contributions to the greater poetry community.

Richard Siken. A poet whose works are very influenced by visual media, his poems are fast paced, visceral and always searching loves stories. Crush was the Yale Series of Younger Poets 2004 winner.

Harryette Mullen. Mullen is a great poet for every language lover out there. Not a “language poet” per se, Mullen is very experimental and her word play is fascinating as well as compelling. Recyclopedia compiles several of her books and is a wonderful introduction to her work.

Russell Edson and Louis Jenkins. If you are at all interested in the world of prose poetry, you owe it to yourself to check out both of these poets who specialize in the form. Witty, absurd, unexpectedly cathartic and always entertaining – Edson and Jenkins will both open new doors for those interested in poetry, story telling and the possibilities of the imagination.

Recommended by My Poetry Friends

Denise Levertov, Mark Yakich, Tony Hoagland, John Berryman, Dean Young, Shel Silverstein, Richard Brautigan, Fanny Howe, W.S. Merwin, Elizabeth Bishop, Wislawa Szymborska, Edward Hirsch, Geoffrey Squires, Nathaniel Mackey, Juliana Spahr, Jennifer Knox, and many others. (Not all of these poets are currently available, but they are all worth tracking down!)

I apologize for the utter inadequacy of this list but hope that one recommendation may help lead you to a poet who will impact your day, week, life as much as these (and many more) have done for me.

Remember to support your local poets as they help keep the energy of language and art alive and vibrant. This list only mentions one local poet, due to his work in an underappreciated form. The Twin Ports, and the greater MN/WI region, boasts many highly skilled, creative, attentive wordsmiths.

The Tower of Books is Gone

2007-03-17T00:47:00.000-06:00

It fell. It's much more egalitarian this way. No strange sense of heirarchy. Reviews after St. Patrick's Day!

Short Review of Books I Constantly Pick Up and Peruse in the Store but Have Yet to Buy (in no particular order)

2007-03-14T16:15:00.000-06:00

The Joy of Cooking
Rombauer, et al.

I keep promising myself that I’ll buy it and use it as my new food bible. Next paycheck. Next paycheck arrives and I realize that I don’t get all that into cooking for just myself and don’t have anyone else to cook for/with right now. But maybe next paycheck. Because the beauty of The Joy is that the recipes are fantastic templates for anything you want to eventually create. Right now, I’m afraid that it would gather dust with my vegetarian cookbook as I continue to make rice and beans and Indian food out of a box.

the curious incident of the dog in the night-time
Mark Haddon

I actually read this one all the way through in the store. A feat I realized (in retrospect, of course) that is probably not something to brag about when discussions shift to store productivity at a staff meeting. If you have not yet read this book (in the store or elsewhere) grab a copy. If for nothing else than the narrative voice, it is a compelling novel of trepidation and a great outsider’s viewpoint of how relationships and societal conventions fall apart. And the chapters are prime numbers.

This Is Not A Novel
David Markson

“Realizing idly that every artist in history – until Writer’s own century – rode horseback.” Markson rejects narrative and offers a long string of interesting (true?) tidbits about the lives and (more so) the deaths of literary and artistic figures. And some etymology. And history about famous works. The juxtapositions, and new (again, true?) awareness are very enjoyable, especially when the Writer interrupts (interjects, since there is no actual story). It’s an experiment that serves to comment on art and readership as we create our own stories and meaning as we page through the seemingly random quotes and factoids.
I’ll probably wind up owning this one since I keep picking up and enjoying it. Maybe next paycheck.

Rainbow Darkness
Keith Tuma (ed.)

This is the resulting anthology of African-American poetry from the Diversity in African American Poetry Conference held at Miami University in 2003. A conference that was a week of excitement for myself and everyone else in the poetry program during that semester. One of the only reasons I have yet to buy this one is that I keep trying to let other people know about it when they ask for my recommendations. It’s a fantastic collection: Lorenzo Thomas, Harryette Mullen, Terrance Hayes, Natasha Trethewey, Wanda Coleman… wonderful, powerful and creative voices in American writing. This collection does recreates the experience of that week – by reading through the poems and essays, you feel the different opinions and passions that were shared; you discover new poets who have been operating below national recognition and you see the reasons why they are right next to the poets who garner a lot of attention. I will buy this book. It’s just a matter of how many people I’ll sell it to first.

Upcoming reviews- The Tent by Atwood, Icelander by Long, and Speaking of Faith by Tippett.

SNOW

2007-03-06T10:11:00.000-06:00

Snow by Orhan Pamuk has received an extraordinary amount of praise. So, I hesitate to add my meager opinion to the eloquent appraisals already out there. But, it's proven itself to be a cornerstone of the tower of books awaiting some passing comment, so here I meagerly go.

Snow is about Ka, a Turkish poet, looking to fall in love with a girl from his youth in a town he visited in his youth. He's spent the last years in Germany and comes under the guise of investigating a recent string of suicides. The small town gets snowed in, a coup is staged, he deals with fervent Islamists and fervent Secularists, he writes poems based on lightening inspirations, and he falls in love. A love, that we're told by our narrator from the start, doomed to failure.

I love situational reading, and this novel seemed tailored to my circumstances. Ka is snowed in; we get a couple feet of snow in a week. Ka is searching for something to aspire towards: love, religion, politics, art... but he's kept back by his own senses of skepticism that is split between doubt of the authenticity of those around him, and his own questioning of his own intentions. I can relate. Ka hasn't written poems in years. I've only written a few that I like recently. Ka starts writing furiously to describe his circumstances and those of the small town he's in. I so want to do that.

Ok, so it's not all as direct of correlations as the snow happened to be.

Orhan's narrative voice is splendid. It ebbs and flows, inviting the reader to become very involved with the action and the characters, then reigning back with an objective reminder that this is all a tragedy and then heightening our desire by announcing points of no return "the last time he would see her." It matches the story of Ka in this place, Kars, that continually tempts and rejects him. He is a guest, and the narration shows how tenuous that position is between involvement and exclusion... especially when the place is familiar and part of one's own history.

I was nervous about the flashes of inspiration that Ka received for his poetry and how each poem came out just right on the first draft. But Ka shows equal disbelief and begins to surrender himself to the process. He is called a Dervish several times. It is a good commentary on writing- that there needs to be that doubt and work ethic, but there also has to be a devotion to being open and receiving the flashes of
inspiration when they occur.

Orhan Pamuk keeps the uneasiness and excitement of writing, of not belonging, of falling in love, of politics, alive throughout the novel by never resting too long at any point. It keeps us wondering, wanting to identify the characters and place them archetypically in our appreciation of Turkey. And it keeps showing that we won't be able to succeed at that.

Winter Reading

2007-03-01T22:54:00.000-06:00

I've had this growing stack of books threatening to attack me whenever I need a new pair of socks (nearly everyday) and I've decided to deal with it by reading a book for every book I add to it. Not as diligent as some may wish me to be, but it keeps it from looming as high as it might be otherwise. In an effort to not immediately forget the pieces and masterpieces along the way as I slice through the literary jungle that has become my room, I'm going to try and document my reactions and recommendations here (huh... like a slicer review of sorts...).

The Keys of the Kingdom by AJ Cronin. I picked this one up because it's the book my father referred to most often when he was stressing religious tolerance and exploration to me as I grew up. I'm exploring again and decided to go to the source. The prose seemed sensationalistic and heavy handed at times, and quick witted and poignant at other times. The story is much the same. All in all, a very nice read as the message behind the would-be-trite was sincere, if trying to push the envelope. A young Catholic loses both of his parents to Scotish sectarian violence and is guided by his relatives into the priesthood. He falls in love, she dies. He goes into the priesthood. It's set just past the turn of the century and written pre-Vatican 2, so it's common practice for the clergy to be heavyhanded and self-occupied, while our hero aspires toward austerity and subtlety. He's sent off to China where he develops an affinity for the people through serving them as best as he is able. He refuses those who try to convert out of eagerness to please or to seek advantages for themselves. He sets up a school and a garden and negotiates peace between warlords. Other priests deride him for not following strict Church dogma, not converting as many locals as possible, and being too proud in his own asceticism. Good Quote: "... Mrs. Glendenning, who cannot of course help her extreme stoutness, came to you for spiritual guidance you looked at her and replied, 'Eat less. the gates of paradise are narrow.'" In a world dominated by religious extremism, it's refreshing and inspiring to read of sincere people who give themselves to their faith without turning on others (although that quote out of context seems less than compassionate).

There's more to follow, soon.

Please, as always, leave any comments, criticisms and questions.

Also, keep coming back for updates in the links section (any and all suggestions welcome there too!) and news on my chapbook's struggle towards becoming a physical reality.

Sentinel Disappears Briefly

2006-04-30T20:39:00.000-06:00

for D.Dass

Sentinel slips behind
the waterfall to run
his hands across the old
paintings. The mist clings
to his shirt
pools on his collar and trickles
down, following his spine.

Sentinel gazes at the ochre
deer and the shadows
of the hunting party and the lighter
circles above them all ⎯
time passed?
weather?
ancestors?

The roar of rushing water is
a harness ⎯
the external indicator of place
that keeps feet firmply spaced
on the wet, smooth rock which,
in the ambient light,
looks strangely jagged.

The roar calls Sentinel back.
The same flood of sound that hid
this artist so many years ago.
Sentinel looks at the care in the painting.
The arcs in the curves, the distances between
the figures. Such a display of intimacy
for subject. Artist cherished this story,
so much so that he had needed to remove
himself from the world to record it.

Sentinel traces the fleeing
back of a deer. He holds his
ear against the thin chest
of a hunter. Sentinel makes a quick
cut into his hand
letting the blood darkly
reflecting glints of water-filtered
light. He adds a distanced circle
above the hunt. Neither leading
nor trailing. Distanced or connected.
Just deep red that will either wash away
or grow brown behind the water.

The Dragon Alligator

2006-04-04T09:49:00.000-06:00

Was very lonely. Sitting perched in his tree he looked across the top of the swamp for a friend. He saw St. Elmo’s Fire and couldn’t carry a conversation. He saw swamp gas and didn’t want to play the silly games. He saw a shiny moonshine still, but it exploded at him after a simple hello.
The Dragon Alligator preferred his fish blackened. The Dragon Alligator enjoyed the feel of leaves on his back over the drying cracks of mud. He did not like pretending to be a log; he always seemed to steam.
The Dragon Alligator sighed a bright sigh and watched the sun set a bright orange across the shimmering swamp.

what he didn't say

2006-04-04T09:48:00.000-06:00

i enjoy smoking
he said
it’s the heat and escape
that lets you know you’re alive

like the heat of breath
on a summer night
tracing my collarbone a prison
searchlight… a tether of awareness

a lingering reminder of the other
within a dark world of ecstacy

Truth and Memoir and Poetry

2006-02-15T21:02:00.000-06:00

What is memoir? A hot, growing genre? An autobiography with less ego & more focus? A word that spurs debates over pronunciation, let alone agreeing on any unified definition or purpose? Maybe one or two of those.

Lately a lot of discussion has been focused on Truth (big T generally, occasionally little t) in memoir. Some people have made up entire sections of their lives, some have embellished here & there; both groups have drawn criticism which has, in turn, drawn criticism. I want to look at some of the reasons behind the criticisms of those who hold Truth to be paramount to memoir, and even poetry (and maybe even fiction).

Firstly, memoir is a hot, growing genre. If only for all the fire it’s drawn lately. People sharing their life stories of endurance, tragedy, perseverance, spirituality, affirmation, etc., are competing for space in the bookstores. So if I have survived life with abusive parents worshipping Satan during an earthquake, and you just throw all that into your book, you’re elbowing me out of my space on the shelf. A gesture that seems all the more vicious if you never were in the earthquake. Truth is a marketable concern, and memoir has been marketed as entertaining, accessible Truth.

Another aspect of this might be divergent notions of authenticity. This drives the argument in two primary ways, because authenticity depends on perspective and preconception as well as authority. We sometimes hear of “authentic” Mexico ore Ireland contrasted to Tourist Mexico or Ireland. To the Mexicans or Irish working in the tourist trade, are their lives less authentically Irish? Or more? If I skip the major tourist destinations, is my trip more real? Each reader will value one over the other depending on how much they want to challenge their own awareness of the place and experience.

In addition to being a self-affirming process of identifying key moments and events in one’s life by finding ways to communicate the experiences to another person, memoir is also about negotiating and trading realities. As communities have been growing more distanced and children aren’t left to their own devices to socialize (for better and worse), memoir helps to fill a gap, often for both the reader & the writer. The intimacy of the page contributes beautifully to the experience. TV & radio will always have a filter, but the page can allow a reader quick access to the author’s thoughts and emotional states.
If the reader wants to sympathize, s/he will want all truth and can remain distanced: “Oh, how horrible for him…” The concern is probably rooted internally, but the energy of the emotion is directed outwards.

If the reader is reading for empathy, then s/he will want detail of the experience and get lost within it: “How horrible!” The concern is in identifying with the experience and the energy is very internalized and as introspective as it is analytical of the writing. The empathizer is in the position to be changed through the experience of reading. If that change is then integrated in the ego, then that change becomes the truth and the writing a mere catalyst. The feelings of betrayal are lessened because something was gained.
The sympathizer is more vulnerable. His/her experience is directed outward - it’s an experience that adds to one’s conception of the world (as opposed to the empathizer’s conception of self). To have been “lied” to makes the sympathizer feel foolish & even mocked. There is no personal change on which to fall back on; the reading experience and knowledge garnered becomes tainted.

So, if all that is true (I doubt that it’s True), I propose a quick summary:

Reading is an intimate experience.
Publishing of Memoir is a business, concerned with making money (both for the publisher and the author).
Readers are paying publishers for a go at an author. Currency is exchanged for intimacy and catharsis (release). Some are upset to find they weren’t with the hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold. Others know only that their world was rocked and could care less if she was faking.

So, what’s the problem? Truth can keep the genre proprietary in that one must have lived an experience in order to write about it & call it memoir. Truth (big T, not just the beginning of a sentence) is taking the form of authenticity and accountability in order to help bolster people’s awareness of the world (ideally). What I see as the problem in this is that by using Truth for these purposes and with these definitions/goals, is that it’s risking the loss of Art to protect against artifice. Art is communication, not always intelligible, but communication. Artifice is pretence with no message – all sound, no fury – the communication is not a dialogue nor a negotiation, and therefore, not really communicating (unless on an ironic level, which could make it art again, unless that’s artifice too, in which case…). A genre that builds itself on Truth opens the doors for charlatans. When you proffer Truth, you’re closing the door on the communicative aspect of Art and leaving yourself very vulnerable these deceivers. There’s no real authority set in place. It’s been on the honor system for so long, but all the communications have been focused on either the communicative acts of memoir (how to best organize and develop) and effects (benefits for writers and readers). Truth is a late-comer (as a big T, as an authoritative T, as an universal T), and it’s Tyrannical.

I’m really tempted to not lose any sleep over the whole matter. Memoir can slip back into obscurity and vanity presses and I’ll feel disappointment for my friends who had good stories and good writing to mix into the genre, but I won’t beat my chest and wail.

Unfortunately, I have been losing sleep. For about six months now. Just after Ted Kooser, our poet laureate, spoke with Carol Bly on the topic of Truth in Poetry and Memoir. Their consensus seemed to be that the big T belongs there and other opinions are either splitting hairs, intentionally trying to deceive others for personal gain, or just the arrogance of youth. I’ve been Tossing ever since.

I have always viewed poetry as an art. I think that knowing about the life and background of a poet can offer good insight and is certainly interesting, but that knowledge is not the art, nor necessary to appreciate the art. The root & core of the experience should be from the piece, and how it causes the spaces between your internal organs to swell with your pupils. Truth and authenticity (and the hierarchical structures in tow) can mean reading the poet, not the poems. The Yasusada hoax (the fake Hiroshima survivor) occurred because of people buying the poet. It didn’t garner attention through its imagery and rhythm. People wanted a piece of history (or a piece by a piece of history). The worth of the art was dependent upon the worth of the poet’s biography. Buying the author is like setting up a collection. The kids who never took their toys out of the original packaging like to buy the author. I propose a double-blind approach to Truth, if we must have it, in which authors’ bios and poems are presented separately and the public makes its choices based on the work. It there’s accountability, it should be on both sides.

The proprietary issue comes into play then too. As an artist, it’s nice to think that I can write about what I want to write about; in the manner that I think will affect my audience. To do that, I call on my imagination and my empathy to find meaningful mediums. Truth would make those mediums proprietary. Unless it’s obviously fanciful or in another voice, you will have had to have walked through the woods, and come upon a fork in the road. And your choice better damn well have made all the difference. Otherwise you’re stealing the poem from those who’ve had loads of difference from their fork choices. Ok, that was a might bit asinine, but I’m left with a lot of questions when Truth comes marching into Poetry and I always thought it was Art. What are the criteria for authenticity? If I’m writing about my 6th Christmas, did Santa forget what I really wanted, or did my parents? If WCW hated chickens, does that information change his poem? Are there degrees of authenticity? Should they all be accounted for? Where is the place of ambiguity in the realm of Truth?

For my money, I’m with Keats: “ ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,’ - that is all / Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.” Unless it turns out he was only looking at a cheap knock-off of an urn, in which case he made my life a lie.

2006-02-07T23:32:00.000-06:00

Ninth Letter published out of University of Illinois
Literary journal of poetry, fiction and non-fiction (creative essay mainly). It also dedicates space to art projects and talking discussion of the art. Throughout, stories and poems are laid out over different sketches, paintings, photographs and designs. This is one of the first aspects that I think makes 9 a good coffee table journal. It's visually intriguing. Nothing too shocking or abrasive, so as to intimidate your dinner guests while you have a quickie in the kitchen. Nor so bland as to leave your guests carving tribal designs in each others arms as a way to transcend their boredom.
The actual writing is also nice. Nothing to rave about. Nothing to condemn. It's nice. Fitful moments did include an end note explaining "The preceding stories [were] part of a collection of 'dream' stories..." It was also disappointing that the artist descriptions of their work actually detracted from the images they were able to produce. It seems that some artists need to have interesting explanations to validate the experience for any audience. Others should make a bunch of prints and walk away. Or, better yet, hire a poet to create an interesting explanation for them.
The poetry has some nice images, thoughts and narratives. "The Upstairs Cow" by Matthew Gavin Frank was a nice quasi-surreal, mostly post-modern piece: "But this long is all for the sake of the father. The cow is still / a cow (not a fact). She won't come to the family."
A series of Newtonian Girl poems by Stefi Weisburd showed some whimsy and enough character insight that although the premise seemed a little stretched, there was enough emotional impetus to keep interest in the next of the series.
Other poems were nice, but lacked tightness. They were more concerned with stream of consciousness and being unique that I feel they lose the urgency that consideration of craft brings. I'm not a big fan of formalism, but nor do I feel that not taking on a particular form means that a poem should give secondary consideration to imagery or sound.
Fiction had the surrealistic impoverishment piece, the translation piece and the teacher/affair piece. Your mom could read these, but you may want to keep grandpa occupied with the Upstairs Cow. You've read most of the pieces before. They're nice pieces and it's not likely to kill you to read them again.
To be commended- the collaboration between the editors and the UI arts dept. It is visually impressive. Not always necessarily meant to mesh directly, the photos, sketches, oils and computer graphics are definitely interesting. I read some of the stories for the simple pleasure of having the photo in my peripheral vision. It's inspiring that the literary and the arts are spending time together to create this.
So, the Ninth Letter is great coffee table reader. It's a page flipper rather than a turner. It's visually impressive, even (briefly) captivating at times. The poetry has it's high points and doesn't sink too low. The prose pieces seem a little typecasted, but they play their parts without too much stammering. So, one copy will look great, but until people start to comment on how old your copy is, I wouldn't bother rushing out to get a new edition hot off the press.

2005-12-20T15:02:00.000-06:00

Reading Spanish Poetry

I have been lucky enough to have seen some of my Mexican friends online the last couple of weeks. It rekindled the desire to go visit Mexico again (a desire that nearly rivals the fluxuating desire to visit Ireland. The desire to actually live in Ireland is stonger once the hypothetical time period is over 2 years, but equal when the time period is 15yrs or more.). With the desire to visit Mexico otra vez, comes different memories of being in Mexico- the traffic, the people, the mountains, the beaches, the food, the colonial archetecture next to barrios. I also remembered being handed several poems in Spanish to read.
I loved being handed these poems. By no means am I fluent in Spanish. I know enough to fake getting by. But the poetry really called out to me, and today, while giving a final, I thought on why that is.
First I have aesthetics that do not immediately call for sense, and are far more interested in the imagery. So the initial frustration of "not getting it" is practically nil. I loved the intangible qualities of my mistaken readings. It was almost like stream of consciousness reading, as each word I didn't know somehow was ascribed a meaning (not always an English translation) quickly and fluidly as I pieced together what I thought I understood. The parts that I knew sprang into a realm between sound and meaning. For lack of any term for this realm (if someone has one, clue me in) I'd call it guessing and hoping. That moment of groundless brilliance that could either be sustained or shattered, when it's just the poem, my instinctual translation based on little experience and me. I'd then feel very selfish when someone else translated the poem and I didn't like it as much as I enjoyed my version. Any other stories of translating/reading poetry in another language? (chris?)

2005-12-08T10:34:00.000-06:00

my little kitten
is already
an accomplished dreamer

2005-12-01T14:15:00.000-06:00

Ode to an Anthropormorphized Archaeopteryx

Oh, if it doesn’t trouble you much,
How to describe that beginning spiral of your neck
As you cast your first gazes towards the ground.
You possesed the first memories of the sky
Because insects and terradactyls
Have such tiny brains.

I’m sorry for mentioning your neck
It may have been the source of your death
It certainly doesn’t look natural, and if it is, sorry again.
No, I’m sure I wouldn’t appreciate people writing poems
With quick images romanticizing my mortal wounds either.
But your feathers made the very first etchings
On a stone tablet
Before we had drawn beast nor breath.