Ken Edwards, a book with no name

No such thing as repetition

No such thing as repetition. No such thing as repetition there is no such thing as repetition. There is no such thing as repetition. Because. Because when a thing happens. Because when a thing happens for the first time it has not already happened. It has not already happened. It has not already happened when a thing happens for the first time. It has not already happened and when it happens again. When it happens again. And when it happens again it has happened before. There is no such thing as repetition because when a thing happens for the first time it has not already happened. And when it happens again and when it happens again it has happened before. It has happened before. And when it happens again it has happened before so inevitably. It has happened before so it has happened before so inevitably at once. So inevitably at once. So inevitably at once there is a difference. There is a difference. At once there is a difference. There is no such thing as repetition because when a thing happens for the first time it has not already happened and when it happens again it has happened before so inevitably at once there is a difference.

The latest from British poet (and editor/publisher of Reality Street, which recently folded after more than two decades of publishing) Ken Edwards is a book with no name (Shearsman Books, 2016), a collection of expansive and playful prose poems. As the back cover attests: “It is not a book of poems. / It is not a long poem. / It is not a novel. / Nor a volume of short stories. / It is not a work of philosophy. / It is not an object – like a stone. / Yet it drops into the well of nothingness / and is never heard of again.” As literary titles often do, specifically books of poetry, this might entirely be the case, but one can hardly claim title to such a pessimism, at least in the absolute, with such a list of publishing credits. Or perhaps this is simply matter-of-fact? Constructed in three sections and a coda, this is the first book of Edwards’ I’ve explored in detail. The poems here are lively, yet methodical; philosophical in tone, the poems in a book with no name explore a repetition of sentences, phrases and sound, and what meanings can be gleaned and gained through such repetitions. The effect of the repetition upon short sentences, which seem uncomplicated at first, is quite jarring, as meaning becomes muddled and then clear again, the more the poem moves forward. When you say something twice, the effect is far different than if you continue to say the same thing (and/or a variant thereof) six or twelve or twenty-six times, shifting slightly here and there. One could almost claim that this is less a volume of poems (which the back cover claims it isn’t) than a book of accumulations and accretions, adding upon additions to them be added further upon.

Where are the animals going

The animals are running. They are running together. The animals are running away. They are all different sizes. Faint steam rises from their bodies. They are not looking at us. Their eyes are fixed on where they are going. They are fleeing but we do not know what they are fleeing or where they are heading. It is a mystery. Scientists have come up with various possible explanations. The animals appear to be scared you can see it in their eyes. They are scared all right. They are all running together in a group or in several groups. They run and run. Are they trying to tell us something? Nobody knows. Nobody knows what they are trying to tell us.