What I Assume

April has been declared National Poetry Month by poets.org, and a week into the month Chris Lott described how he planned to write a poem each day in line with NaPoWriMo.  The name NaPoWriMo is lamely appropriated from NaNoWriMo, the generally obnoxious National Novel Writing Month wherein artistic conflates attempt to burn through writing a novel in 30 days.  While the energy of  NaNoWriMo inspires me in the same way the discipline and fervor of Ray Bradbury's practice does, the idea of an organized, collectively proceeding writing effort frustrated and annoyed me, particularly since it clearly valued quantity over quality.  It certainly favored people who had no jobs (a surprisingly large crowd, by the way).  Add to that the vocal dominance of NaNoWriMo participants who are either self-aggrandizing or self-degrading, and I knew this was not an activitiy to me.

But Chris Lott's engagement in NaPoWriMo intriguiged me; a poem-per-day struck me as do-able, and Chris's very practical list of self-imposed "rules" demonstrated that he, at least, wasn't afraid to do his own thing, independently.   The idea of joining him in this effort also provoked some vague feelings of comeradery, so I chose to do the same though I rejected the name NaPoWriMo and simply called my efforts "poem-per-day".  My hope was that I would stick to the schedule and thus forcibly return myself to writing poetry, a pasttime that I've sorely neglected in the last 6 years.   The goal of writing one poem per day would be rigorous, but not so difficult as to negate the quality of the poems I was working on.  I soon realized that quality could be a priority, but in the confines of whatever hour or two I had each day to put a poem together, it was impossible to make each poem "good".

Though I can't speak to the quality of my output during April, I did hit quite close to the mark in terms of quantity: from April 6th through April 30th I wrote 26 poems, and posted these on my web site, What I Assume.  I wrote nearly every morning before work, and spent a few evenings catching up.  On several days what I wrote were more poetic exercises than full-fledged poems.  A couple of the poems I thought were good at the time of writing, and I know most of the poems had at least one good line, but I think only in retrospect, some months later, will I be able to look back with any sort of objectivity.

Another interesting phenomenon had to do with my choice of subjects.  I began with a string of fairly gloomy, stereotypical subjects for a poetaster, but soon found myself terribly bored and in fact embarrassed with the uniformity.  So I urged myself to change subjects, mash-up exclusive ideas, and write on things I really wasn't comfortable writing on.

 

To add to the excitement of writing a poem-per-day, in the first week I also threw down the gauntlet and challenged Chris to write a villanelle sometime during the weekend.  We both did, then he reciprocated my challenge with the torturous ghazal.  I returned the final weekend with the deceptively simple-looking bref double. These excursions into poetic forms was both frustrating and delighting; I've always loved poetic forms, and in college fancied myself apt at writing formal poetry.  But either I oversupposed my abilities back then, or I've lost quite a bit of of ability since then.  What fascinated me in writing these forms is despite their apparent artificiality, their formal elements help, or rather, force the author to carry through certain themes, ideas, images, or resonances.  And while I've often thought that formal meter and rhythm risked neglecting meaning or intent, I found the limitations--particularly in length of lines and stanzas--directed me to focus on my meaning and intention more precisely, and with less waste. 

At least that was my perception during the writing; what the final outcome is, I'm too timid to suppose right now.  But this very strong and impactful month is an experience that I intend to repeat--not next year, probably not the year after, but not too far in the future.  It is a precious, exhausting experience that was worth every ounce of extra effort, but that I do not want to normalize by making it an annual tradition. But some year, some day, I will sit down again and decide, "Poem-per-day, for the next thirty days."

Vox really has some cool things going for it, the best being ease of connection with like-minded or new people.

However, it is also lacking too many features for me to continue to ignore, and so I am moving my writing and cognitions to my own WordPress setup at the following address.

If you enjoyed reading any of my posts here, please visit my new site: http://write.5tein.com

I will add all my good neighbors' URLs to that site soon.

Today I attempted a translation from a passage of Kafka's Der Prozeß, aka, The Trial that has always fascinated and confused me:

Hier konnte niemand sonst Einlaß erhalten, denn dieser Eingang war nur für dich bestimmt. Ich gehe jetzt und schließe ihn.

My translation:

No one else could receive access here, because this entrance was intended only for you. I'm now going to shut it.

This is the closing line of the parable "Before the Law" that haunts any sense of optimism the reader may hold onto throughout a reading of The Trial.  I translated this on my own for my own comfort; though I've read The Trial in translation probably half-a-dozen times, I only ever tackled it in German once, and I must admit I didn't get half-way throughout.  Yet this line, and this parable, has always struck me as a curiosity.  It is presented as both the solution to the mystery of The Trial, and as simply another weighty piece of confusing misinformation.

I thought it important to use "receive access" rather than the English convention "gain access", because throughout The Trial Joseph K is unable to "gain" anything. He is at the mercy of the system, the justices, his lawyer, his neighbors, and it is clear that his efforts, though necessary, can guarantee nothing, are incapable of genuinely earning nothing, and thus the access to the Law that he would receive must be seen as a gift, the product of an indeterminable act of benevolence.  Joseph K's lawyer describes in Chapter 7 (David Willey translation):

...dark moments, such as everyone has, when you think you’ve achieved nothing at all, when it seems that the only trials to come to a good end are those that were determined to have a good end from the start and would do so without any help, while all the others are lost despite all the running to and fro, all the effort, all the little, apparent successes that gave such joy.

I also used "entrance" rather than "gate" or "door" as I've seen in other translations because "entrance" is, to my understanding, more correct literally, and it carries with it a connotation of one-way passage: one may enter, but it does not necessarily follow that one may leave.  This resonates with the text of The Trial, wherein Joseph K sometimes must use a different doorway than that through which he entered. And often those doors lead to places unexpected. In the Painter's studio, for instance, the "other way out" leads not to the street, but (where else) the court: "'It’s better if you use the other way out,' he said, pointing to the door behind the bed."

This idea of one-way doors also plays into the idea that there is no authentic self-determination available to Joseph K--just as his efforts to "gain" may or may not be fruitless (completely independent of his own efforts), Joseph K is capable of locomotion, but his range of motion is restricted, and the simple act of moving through doorways may in the end be predetermined, or controlled--subject only to the will of the powers that be; certainly not subject to the desires of the actor. As I read The Trial again I am aware that this is the greatest trouble, the largest fear that the system incurs on it's members: independence is impossible, and self-determination is pure fantasy.  And so when with uncontestable finality the Doorkeeper states, "I'm now going to shut it." our hearts sink, for the last possibility has now been lost, and all the remains is inertness and death; the ultimate helplessness.

Film stills from Orson Welles's 1962 film, The Trial. Watch it online at: liketelevision.com

• 08:03 Why is it that, as an adult, I count and relish the hours I am asleep? This phenomena is acutely recent. #
• 08:17 David Gedge lives on an odd, romantic fantasy plane that's unexpectedly comforting. Listening to "Because I'm Beautiful" from Peel season 2 #

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• 08:00 Had to come in early for a mtg. Thought I could do my 8am ritual in the office. Failed. #
• 08:01 @fncll Let it wander as it will, and it will come back. #
• 08:17 @ninnypants I noticed that when I read Shakespeare for the first time. That was one of those life-changing experiences. #
• 10:44 @fncll I remember a David Duchovny interview where he sings the supposed lyrics to the theme song. Those dumb words stuck to my head! #
• 10:46 "The X-Files is a show / With music by Mark Snow..." #
• 11:38 @ninnypants I appreciate the compliment! #
• 12:34 Note to self: @johnkrutsch and I used a Chris Lott-inspired word for random LLC security code #
• 15:58 Proposal to present on cheatability accepted for DT&L in Madison. Woo hoo! Dragging @diamond_mind and @johnkrutsch with. #
• 16:20 @gsiemens is keynoting at DT&L 2008. A good year to attend DT&L, but bad year for us fans of Shakespeare at APT: tinyurl.com/2bmclb #
• 16:45 My obsession to see all of Speare's plays live before I die will lead me to fly in a few days early. Henry IV is too rarely produced. #

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Thanks to Chris Lott for tagging me through his meme posting (which quoted Jack Driscoll). It's like I've been picked for the cool kids' kickball team!

The Rules According to Chris:

1. Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages).
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people.

I actually expected the book to be T.S. Eliot, which I've had in my bag since I became motivated to begin memorizing poems again, but it was not; another book lay upon it:

I'm a good sport, but now I have to tag five people? I hope they forgive me:

1. John, because I think he needs to update his blog
2. Marc, because he needs a blog
3. Dave, because he says he has a blog but I don't believe it
4. Iris here on Vox, because she has a good blog
5. And because I'm not very social therefore have a rather small social circle I have chosen to break the fifth part of the fifth rule by omitting a fifth participant.  If you refuse to allow that, then I shall take the fifth, and I'll grab another quote, but I won't post it anywhere, except on Vox, marked private.

• 23:07 Girl lingering in Borders cafe with young stud is overtly hoping to score, telegraphs it with every move of her meaty limbs. I can't watch. #
• 23:13 3 short posts on Vox; 2 brief poems. Enough for 1 Saturday night. Blast-off. #
• 11:13 Trying to decide if it's worth moving Vox to my WP install. No export on Vox; no import for Vox on wp. Then there's the lost neighborhood... #
• 11:29 Stranger at cafe who sees me every morning asked me questions, seemed proud that he could sit and drink his coffee next to a wannabe writer. #
• 11:36 Pleased how @ninnypants took a student to task on the discussion forum re. Web standards. #
• 17:47 The tardy instructor resumes grading. #
• 20:16 @ninnypants NP. Sorry it's so late in coming. Those take a while to review, and I'm a slow grader in the first place. #
• 21:17 MAN. Just found out two cheatin' suckers. If that weren't bad enough, their cheated markup and CSS even STINKS. #
• 21:37 @ninnypants No doubt. You know you got the highest score in the class on P4, right? Great work. #
• 22:39 @opencontent I finally have enough staff to allow for more play--er, R&D, and some of our ideas reach out to what you've suggested. #

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Every story, every poem, is toxic ectoplasm I Must Expel...

...even if in the end it's deemed fakerey, insubstantial, or only true for the medium.
 

Through Chris Lott's recent reminiscence on poetry, which was referenced on Twitter, I discovered a new blog post by Gardner Campbell, an professor of English lit and adventurer in new media.  Mr. Campbell has made available an audio file of his reading of several Samuel Taylor Coleridge poems, including "Kubla Kahn". 

I myself have a working memorization of "Kubla Kahn", and have recited the poem aloud dozens of times over the last dozen years. It's not an easy poem, but it gets easier each time you read it.  And because I don't recall anyone else ever reading this poem to me aloud, I've tried various oral interpretations of the sometime befuddling language.  Particularly curious to me was the following:

And all who heard should see them there,
And all who should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!

You've probably noticed what I notice every time I read it: the "who" in the second (quoted) line is confusing.  For a long time I've read it as if there were a comma after "should", making the "all who should" refer back to the "heard" or "see".  This invisible comma also causes an awkward pause which I've capitalized on to catch my breath before bellowing "...cry, Beware! Beware!"

In terms of comprehending Coleridge's unusual phrasing in this line, I'd blamed the anomaly on archaic usage, or else opium.

Those who know this poem are already giggling at me, for my memorization is erroneous.  Listening to Mr. Campbell's reading, I listened anxiously for his interpretation of that line, and was stunned to discover my memorization of "Kubla" embeds an invention: the extra (and confusing) "who". 

The Old Main Amphitheater at USUI have to wonder if it wasn't a bad text that incurred this extra "who" in my long-term memory.  In retrospect, I imagine I memorized it off of an early Project Gutenberg text from the mid 90s while I was in college, and a handful of friends and I would print off poems to compile our custom reading lists for oral delivery at the Old Main Hill amphitheater.

So by happy chance Gardner Campbell's eloquent reading has enlightened me to the error in my memory, and we have yet another instance of Twitter as a catalyst for learning.

P.S. I can't help but notice that, in listening to Mr. Campbell's reading, the line "As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing" still makes me chuckle after all these years.  Apparently C.S. Lewis wondered to his pupils about the pants in question:  John Dougill's Oxford in English Literature: The Making, and Undoing, of 'The English Athens' notes that Lewis's pupil John Betjeman complained peevishly that his tutor had forever ruined Coleridge's 'Kubla Khan' by wondering whether the 'pants' in the line ... were made of wool or fur.

Based on the earth's reaction, I say wool. Or else chain mail.

The other night at Borders I picked up a few books off of the discount rack: the 2007 Writers Market (the dream persists), a (meagerly) annotated edition of T.S. Eliot's major poems, and The Best American Poetry 2004.

The latter I picked up out of curiosity more than passion.  Let me now claim to be enthusiastic about poetry, a devotee, an eternal student, a reader, and a listener.  Though I tend to trust most of my precious available reading time to the classics and the Western Canon (to paraphrase Harold Bloom [fair warning for those of you who detest him], Life is Too Short to Read Bad Literature), I do my best to listen to and read new poetry whenever possible.  I usually 'get' modern poetry, and believe several living poets to be among the best that American writing has cultivated. Having said that, I haven't bought a BAP in half a dozen years, perhaps partly out of disappointment but certainly in part out of laziness and disinterest.

My expectations for BAP 2004 were mixed. On the one hand I've read enough new poetry to know what to expect: A poem launched from a cliche that turns our understanding on it's head.  Poems that vigorously attend to white space.  The poem where the narrator does something by himself, reflecting on relationship, strained or wholesome.  The poem that serves up a dated political lambast.  The poem that accuses a part or the whole of civilization (in quotes) of murder or injustice. And maybe, just maybe, a wholly readable poem with brilliant turns of phrase, unusual but precise application of words, and meaning that both provokes and satisfies.

I also expected, structurally, that BAP would start off with it's strongest poem(s), much like a rock album (Dirty Three and the White Stripes spring to mind for some reason).

But I couldn't get past page 26 of Best American Poetry 2004.  I had begun reading it at Borders in the cafe, and though I was let down with only mild amusement at the predictable haughtiness of the first poem, Kim Addonzio's "Chicken", I continued on, slowly, carefully.  I continued reading at stop lights and even as I sat in the drive-thru of Taco Bell on my way home.  5 or 6 poems in was stupefied.  Not because the poems were so bad (they were neither poor nor great), but because I could not imagine that they would be accessible to Normal Human Beings.  

This point was emphasized by my environment at the time, for I was comfortably by myself, one link in a chain of many cars--a crouching train of idling engines, waiting for our turn to drive off, receive food, pay, order.  We were all hunting our "Fourth Meal", subjects in a scene of benign banality, of innocent, ignorant human appetite, as un-literary and low-brow as one can imagine.  Mixing poetry into the equation seemed both ridiculous and perfectly appropriate, a very modernist posture to take.

And as I struggled to parse through the overstuffed and obscure vocabulary of Will Alexander's "Solea of the Simooms", stuttered over Bruce Andrews's gleefully obtuse and surreal "Dang Me", I caught the scent of exhaust from the car in front of me, and a horrible epiphany hit:

It's no wonder people neglect this, the supposed highest form of art. These poems are so inflated, vulgar, convoluted, or simply inaccessible that they can only be counterproductive to the cause of poetry.

I have always believed that, though there is ample room in the art for experimental poems and even poems laden with difficult, intertextual richness, most poems should be written for Normal Human Beings. Not scholars, not critics, not other poets.  If I who am passionate about poetry and in fact trained (BA in English lit, MA in Language Teaching, and a voluntary drop-out of a highly-ranked English grad school) to read closely become so frustrated with so much new poetry so easily, the question is begged: Who _is_ the audience of modern poetry?

Though I say I am trained, I don't claim to be a definitive expert. Though I do have a Masters, I dropped out of my subsequent grad program in English lit because I found little chance for pleasure-reading from under the strictly academic mantle. Rather than profess literature I chose to worship it.  Yet what more damning evidence could there be than for Devotees/Readers to read poems from BAP and say, "I don't get it" or, worse, "It's boring/What's the point?"

Putting aside the clearly narrative poems, the meaning of many of the pieces in BAP were nearly inextricable on a first reading. To make matters worse, I could find little pleasure in reading them even superficially, the way I might "read" a non-representational painting that I might not "get" at first glance.  A relaxed, pleasure-of-sound reading is hindered when vocabulary is sinfully overwrought, toilsome, excavated from the bottom of the list of entries in thesauri so as to be toothless.  I'm not afraid and think it not naive to suggest that much of what I read was simply adjectives for adjectives' sake. "Big, stuffy words that nobody uses" is one of the most common indictments of poetry from the non-literati (and this is often admitted with some degree of self-consciousness and guilt, for no one wants to appear an ignoramous), and so many ignore or avoid poetry.  How pretentiously this practice scars our noble art!

Hemingway remarked that literature is akin to an iceberg where 7/8th of its mass is under the water, but if we can't even visualize the tip of the iceburg with any reliable degree of clarity, how will we ever desire to discover the whole? Who will this sort of poetrt appeal to? How will this bring any more significance or reflection to normal peoples everyday lives? Who will buy these books? Read these poems? Thirst for more?

Apoplectic with the obviously talented but (what word can I used except) corrupted poets, I tore out a page in the drive-thru of Taco Bell & wrote my own poem about a train, the exhaust of civilization, hunger, and groping for brotherly love. It was not a good poem, but it was a simple poem, one in which I sought to bash out in plain language to contain what the poems I'd just finished had lacked: tangible imagery, and at least one meaning that could be accessed by any member of my immediate or extended family, adolescent or older.

12 hours later I've had a chance to read more of BAP 2004, and even reflect on some of the strong choices in earlier BAPs.  There are a number of good poems in the collection, but no where near a full 75.  I think of the Willesden Herald's short fiction contest, in which no winner was chosen due to lack of quality entrants. One argument against this abandonment of a winner was that the contest was not so much about granting an award to signify quality, but a stimulus for discussion of the short story.  Perhaps BAP is something like that, and the bother to fill up the 75 (which is not a requirement but nonetheless has not been strayed from in 19 years) is more of a provocation than a gift.  For those of us with less time to lose, we might just wait for Harold Bloom to reflect and edit out another Best of BAP.

P.S. Immediately after finishing writing this I leapt into my car, and Robert Bly was reading on the radio. In less than a stanza this great poet reminded what the art is all about, and has not only depressed my general criticisms, but also buoyed my hope for poetry in spite of everything else.  I have not changed the rest of this entry to capture the true frustration and destitution that I'd felt the night before, so that some day I will remember how Important Poetry Was to Me.