Showing posts with label Tom Raworth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tom Raworth. Show all posts

Thursday, February 18, 2016

Toward. Some. Air. eds. Fred Wah and Amy De’Ath




The positions articulated in this anthology are vastly different, crossing generational, geographical, and theoretical borders, and in this sense we are aiming to encourage dialogue by proximity but also to suggest a looking-outwards; not so much towards other individual poets but towards other poetics and ways of being in the world. In this spirit some of the pieces included advocate different ways of listening. Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm and Christine Stewart emphasize the importance of listening for a politics of decolonization in the settler-colonial state of Canada; Maria Damon, speaking of her position as a critic, modestly characterizes herself as the “cheer-leader,” the “friend of poets,” the “poetry-enabler”; Sean Bonney and Stephen Collis discuss the difficulties of listening to the cacophony of voices present in a collective, and the dangers of privileging the poet-subject who imagines s/he might speak for, rather than with, the otherwise excluded subject who is wrongly perceived as “voiceless.” For many of the poets in this book, listening is a political practice that moves away from the individuating compulsions of singular authorship and towards modes of collectivity, perhaps to imagine what a collective subjectivity might mean. For all its difference, the work collected here is also testament to a widespread interest in the relation between poetry and social change, or between poetry and revolution, even as the latter may involve an assertion that poetry cannot do the same work as gathering of bodies at a protest or a riot. (Amy De’Ath, “Foreword”)

I’m quite amazed by Toward. Some. Air. (Banff AB: Banff Centre Press, 2015), a remarkable poetics anthology edited by Fred Wah and Amy De’Ath. Subtitled “Remarks on Poetics of Mad Affect | Militancy | Feminism | Demotic Rhythms | Emptying | Intervention | Reluctance | Indigeneity | Immediacy | Lyric Conceptualism | Commons | Pastoral Margins | Desire | Ambivalence | Disability | The Digital | and Other Practices,” the book collections a wide range of creative and critical works by Canadian, American and British poets and critics: Peter Jaeger, Anne Boyer, Andrea Brady, Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm and Rita Wong, Jeff Derksen, Kaia Sand, Justin Katko, Liz Howard, Larissa Lai, Reg Johanson, Michael Davidson, Nicole Markotić, Lisa Robertson, Kirsten Emiko McAllister and Roy Miki, Caroline Bergvall, cris cheek, Fred Moten, José Esteban Muñoz, Steven Ross Smith, Christine Stewart, Keston Sutherland, Eileen Myles, Hoa Nguyen and Dale Smith, Dionne Brand and Nicole Brossard, Nicole Brossard and Fred Wah, Jow Lindsay, Keith Tuma, Amy De’Ath, Catherine Wagner, Rachel Zolf, Peter Manson, Louis Cabri, J.R. Carpenter, Lori Emerson, David Jhave Johnston, Nick Montfort, Stuart Moulthrop, Brian Kim Stefans, Stephanie Strickland, Darren Wershler, Sina Queyras, Daphne Marlatt, Sean Bonney and Stephen Collis, Maria Damon, Juliana Spahr and Amy De’Ath, and CAConrad. What is truly remarkable about the collection is in how it attempts to introduce, engage and even clarify, an incredible amount of contemporary conversations on poetry practice across North America and the UK. While the book doesn’t pretend to be all-inclusive or complete in any way, it does manage to bring together a much larger range of contemporary poetic practices than I’ve seen in any other single volume in quite a long time (if at all).

Honestly I don’t really like to write about prose so much because, in a way that seems true for me about prose and not so much about poetry, the practice of prose is both theory and practice. It’s one body. I mean discourse gives poets an opportunity to write prose and I think that is a pleasure in itself but prose writers, and even ones like myself who like to call themselves fiction writers or non-fiction writers and “poet,” too, depending on the mood, I think, would rather just do it and have it contain all its marvels, including thought about itself. There’s nothing about fiction or non-fiction that can’t contain thinking about itself and extrapolating about that. It’s like dropping your pen and noticing the room and then sitting up and keeping going. It’s like getting up to make tea or shitting or something like that. Thinking about the practice and the practice itself are part of the same territory in fiction so of course when you asked me to do this I thought oh fuck but I am working on a book. (Eileen Myles, from “Reluctance”)

An important feature of the anthology is in understanding how much of the conversations explored here (some of which have been building for years), as well as a number of contributors, aren’t often collected for a book such as this, especially one that exists across more than a couple national borders. As well, many of these conversations become required reading in part for their prior absence in the larger sphere, having long existed on the fringes of literary discourse, or simply too new to have been properly explored, whether conversations concerning new media, post-colonial attitudes and Idle No More, disability poetics, archival projects and post-lyric sensibilities, and any number of further conversations involving gender, race, resistance, reconciliation, violence and attention. At three hundred and forty-eight pages, this is a hefty volume, and one that anyone could and should spend a great deal of time working to absorb. What makes Toward. Some. Air. such an important anthology is in the wide range of discourses it contains, all of which have long been existing just under the surface of literary conversation; with increasing volume and intensity, these are the conversations that will be existing in the ways in which we write, read and comprehend ourselves. If you want to know what is happening, in writing and the larger discourse, this is a place to begin. As Larissa Lai writes to open her “An Ontology and Practice for Incomplete Futures”:

If the practice is to be meaningful, it must engage language, body, history, memory, the present, the unconscious, imagination, ethics, and relation in a drive towards the future.

There are also a number of more direct conversations in the collection, including an essay on the work of the late poet Peter Culley by Lisa Robertson (“Listening in Culley’s work is an economy that, while seemingly as at ease with its demotic setting as it is with a profound literariness, subtly undercuts itself with a sonically installed irony.”), the poet and critic Dale Smith interviewing his long-time partner, co-editor and co-publisher, the poet Hoa Nguyen, Keith Tuma on the work of British poet Tom Raworth, and Christine Stewart’s ongoing exploration of Edmonton’s Mill Street Bridge, specifically “Treaty Six”:

the underbridge

The underbridge at Mill Creek is an exposed edge, scarred by the extraction of resources, development, and the displacement of people. Its dynamics and devastations, its sleepers, reveal the Treaty violations and the government’s continued bio-control of Indigenous peoples and their land – all that remains at the heart of Edmonton, and of Canada. There are hundreds of underbridges in this country – colonized spaces, debris fields, wounded, appropriated earth, displaced Indigenous communites.
            How to heal this wound, how to honour the treaties, the obligations of sharing Indigenous land? How to be here? As a non-Indigenous person embedded and implicated in white settler ideology, who is that I that I am? What forces have formed me, my sense of land entitlement, and this gaze? That I, here, settled and settling, unsettled and unsettling, born in a country that is a collective and purposeful creation of forgetting, oblivescent, obliterating; not a place of limitless potential, but a nation that demands a baseline of deprivation and suffering. There is always someone sleeping under the bridge there is always an Attawapiskat. There is no post-colonial, but there is capitalism, and these are these conditions that constitute Canada: land and resource theft, the enforced dislocation of communitites, genocidal administrative systems, and government-sanctioned amnesia.
            Under the bridge at Mill Creek, composer Jacquie Leggatt and I listen, gathering rhythms and vibrations that are material and specific to the stream, to the ravine, to the river valley and to the river. Next to the huge cement piers, to the thin trees and the creek, under the bridge, noise envelops us. Wearing Jacquie’s earphones, holding the Sony recorder, we encounter layers of sound, emetings of lives; dog, jogger, stone, water, car, bird, two men (yelling from the bridge deck above). Noise swarms the listening body – from behind, from above, from below. The eyes close; the I shifts and is shaken. In its immediate proximity (surrounded) with the materiality of sound, the body encounters the permeability of its own matter. The ears can’t and won’t block the siren, the car alarm, booming truck, ragged breath, coughing body; each noise enters, moves through. The underbridge: kâhasinîskâk, place of stones, and stories, buffalo trail, a dense growth of trees and brush, remnants of a shanty town, holes from the coal mines, cow bones from the abattoir, inhabited coyote den, defunct railway: the resonant matter of this place.

Another highlight in a series of highlights is the conversation between British poet Sean Bonney and Vancouver poet Stephen Collis, “We Are An Other: Poetry, Commons, Subjectivity,” that includes:

Sean Bonney: I’ve always been interested in subjectivity, at first because certainly in the London avant-poetry scene, when I first showed up, lyric expression was a real no-no – the whole scene seemed to have very rigid rules. And anyway, dogmas against the lyric subject in poetry – from Olson on – always assume that we’re talking about a middle-class, usually male, usually white subject, as if the only people who could be interested in the “avant-garde” would be white posh men. It is easy to deny subjectivity when yours is the dominant. There’s no need to assert it because it permeates the entire atmosphere of social reality.




Saturday, February 01, 2014

Marianne Morris, The On All Said Things Moratorium



YOU POEM

you (walking up the road)
you, you (bird with a hole in its wing)
you you you (thought under pressure)
you you (didn’t see what I was) you you you
(now see what I was) you you (a space
opening up between me and myself)
you you (a breath I took through being alone)
you you you (thought reduced to doubling) you
(blatant reformation of) you you you (and me,
me, reformulating) you (a praxis) you (not
singing exactly) you you (can be forgiven for
everything) you (absolutely everything) you
(draw the lines according to what) you
(forgive, arrive late to the games) you
(a staging of battles) you you (just wanting more)
you you (of a nonspecific bounty) you you
(more and then less of me) you (music rising)
you you (up the stairs my thoughts climb)
you you (impose a structure onto the impossible)
you you (eternal suspension)

The back cover of Canadian/British poet Marianne Morris’ first trade poetry collection, The On All Said Things Moratorium (London UK: Enitharmon Press, 2013), includes a small paragraph by the author in lieu of blurbs:

As the documentation of culture, as the source material of history, and as a medium of resistance, we know that words have the power to shape us. The way that we speak to people shapes the way that they treat us, the way that we speak about ourselves creates certain permissions and impossibilities in our own lives. Therefore the specific, intentioned, and pointed use of language may also constitute an attempt to change certain ideas – political or otherwise – that depend on language for their perpetuation.

The back cover also informs us that Toronto-born but London, England-raised Morris “has been writing, performing and publishing poetry for over ten years.” What is fascinating about her work is in how the poems feel as though they’re being performed, even while on the page, managing a kind of breathless rush, an accumulation wave of energy, fire and language, enough to knock the reader sideways. As she writes in the poem “UNTITLED”: “You say you are trying to make the everyday / vibrant with being not / cleaving to pulsion and in so / doing seek in every / permission a man.” There is a fantastic and clear wisdom to these poems, and this is not just language poetry, but a language poetry married to performance, without either overpowering the other. The combination is staggering, and creates an entirely new flavour; one that owes as much to contemporary British poetry as anything (and yet, I don’t really know contemporary British poetry well enough to be able to cite specific examples, apart from Tom Raworth, of just what influences might be feeding her work). Where some poems have a more performance feel, others feel like extended train-of-thought essays, managing to be contained and in every direction all at once, with lines so tight one could bounce a coin off any of them. There is such a sharpness here, such a sense of joyful energy in this collection, such a joyful expression in poems that react, respond and rant, exploring a blend of language play, popular culture, historical references, social responsibility, and shades of the metaphysical, as well as what might simply be directly in front of her at the time. As she opens the poem “MEAT BEACH”: “Today is average but totally unique / I decide I am not going to blame myself / even though travel is clearly becoming a / series of attempts at psychological avoidance / & go instead artificially / winged.” Another of a series of uncountable highlights comes at the end of the poem “MAGDALENE” that reads: “By the way, I have / a set of postcards. Most depicting naked women, but some are technical / appropriations of a very famous building. I find a woman’s body / very like a famous building.”

THE MUTILATION OF IRONY

A pinprick. Langauges
sing in their dictionaries, the covers shut, considering the
soft fervor moments take on once they have passed
and it is safe to rewrite them. One says, on reflection,
that was such and such a moment, and perhaps another
will agree. But at the time no such thing existed
and in this way we are all authors. Generalities
and the uniqueness of certain things.
It’s silence that gives birth to them and
then swallows them up, the entire mystery
congealing in someone’s mind a vast
internal dialogue of birth and silence and death
can span any number of weeks, its longevity
coming to mean nothing if death is a certainty and it is.
As you are born, so you shall go: under pressure,
wrought in the privacy of how thought wanders
inventing the connecting wires, what shall we
talk about next. Viciously sweet moments ensue
passing between real eyes. Thought wanders again,
leaves the present company to reminisce about the
not-too-determined future and presses into its hands
the petals of a dying rose. Scentless pieces. The
thought returning each time to a
site of sadness that glimmers with the
compromise of return. Then all the other people
compromises become
laughable by turns having been silently exhausted having
never been tried. Measure out the cups of flour
press them to her neck turning her face away,
the shoes stuck on.

Friday, September 27, 2013

Ongoing notes: late September, 2013



We slowly begin to settle into our new house. Only another six or seven weeks until baby.


And,of course, if you subscribe to above/ground press for 2014 before November 1st,you will also receive forthcoming 2013 titles by Rae Armantrout and Hailey Higdon! Other forthcoming titles include new chapbooks by Hugh Thomas, Nicholas Lea, David Phillips and Carrie Olivia Adams…

Toronto ON: Out of a workshop conducted by Victor Coleman comes the collaborative journal COUGH, the first two issues of which are now available, most likely by contacting one of the editors or Victor Coleman himself. Loosely based on Vancouver’s TADS magazine (as was our own journal, The Peter F. Yacht Club), the journal is edited by a different member of their group each issue, with the first issue, February 2013, edited by Oliver Cusimano, and the second, May 2013, edited by David Peter Clark (a third issue is apparently due out any minute now). Since the Queen Street Quarterly folded, there really hasn’t been much opportunity to see the work of more experimental writers in/around Toronto in journal form, especially from emerging writers (chapbook presses such as Ferno House and The Emergency Response Unit, as well as the Avant-Garden Reading Series, at least, have been picking up some of that slack), so the appearance of such a journal is much-required.

I Pilot

A video loops on the ceiling.

A pumpkin in the corner
eats its young. Funny

feelings: I, pilot,
next to a pirate, who’s just gotten an
actual parrot, which turns words
on a perch
down the road. The ghost smells of

laundry soap.

Alibi Air Freshener, hairspray
called Consort: pilot aborts to the bathroom,
takes a second to self is then able to return
to a party where

parachutes please,
speckled spores on the coffee table. Feeling

funny, something brought me back
to my ejector seat: lazy boy
beside the couch’s clam, its pull-out host,

where me

and this black cat discuss an ordered cosmos
as recliners kick
back and

back—and
before that, and before
that, and before that? (Zach Buck)

The first issue has contributions from David Peter Clark, Zach Buck, Victor Coleman, Andrew McEwen, Laine Bourassa, Mat Laporte, Tyler Crick, Oliver Cusimano, Jonathan Pappo, Kelly Semkiw and Robert Anderson, and the second issue has contributions by Louise Bak, Gary Barwin, Michael Boughn, Laine Bourassa, Zach Buck, Jack Clarke, Victor Coleman, Tyler Crick, Oliver Cusimano, Sam Kaufman, Victoria Kuketz, Mat Laporte, Danya Lette, Andrew McEwen, Jimmy McInnes, Jonathan Pappo, Vanessa Runions, Dominique Russell, Kelly Semkiw, Brad Shubat, Dale Smith, Drew Taylor and Jess Taylor. There are some intriguing things here, and a number of writers I haven’t heard of previously, which is always exciting. I look forward to seeing what these folk end up doing next.

Worn atomics. Buss shelter logistics. To get to the front. Iterate the passage as it’s narrated. Rerun. The return binds industry, numbers quantity. Pre-packaged, pre-read. This is nothing. No one is called next. Lines repeat unnoticed. A stance again, another. Equally isolated blindnesses bind viewer recognition. This is a theory of high art. (Andrew McEwen, “All We Ever Wanted Was Everything”)

Cambridge UK: CRITICAL DOCUMENTS editor/publisher Justin Katko was kind enough to recently send a small mound of publications he’s produced over the past few years, including Rosa Van Hensbergen’s SOME NEW GROWTH AT THE TEMPLE OR LOBE (2013), his own Songs for One Occasion (2012), Mahmoud Elbarasi’s ST. BEAUMONT CONSERVATIVE CLUB: TEN POEMS (2012), Posie Rider’s CITY BREAK WEEKEND SONGS (2011), Frances Kruk’s A Discourse on Vegetation & Motion (2008) and Tom Raworth’s LET BABY FALL (2008), among others. It’s nearly too much to go through at once.

NEVER ENTERED MIND

forgotten monkey amber
delights my introspection

but bubble massive armour
fermentation magnet arc

geek motherfucker instinct
fix mitochondria a

generous martini ice-cream
further messages arrive

germ mail illustrated
flashes medical alert

gone mental incandescence
flames melodically around

glitz mercury illicit
coagulability (Tom Raworth)

At this point, Tom Raworth is an old master, publishing dozens of books and chapbooks over the past five decades, and has created a space for himself between language poetry and political commentary that is entirely his own. A former Calgary writer now living in England, I’ve been catching small publications by Frances Kruk for years now, wondering why more of her work hasn’t been available in Canada, or why she hasn’t (at least, that I’ve seen) produced a trade collection? Her small sequence A Discourse on Vegetation & Motion is all anxiety and rage, and it is marvelous.

today I have ₤12,000 worth of Rage
squashed into a Mindset   I vacuum
Ladybirds   re-live Nausea,
insert Electrodes into Aspic & watch
the Meat dance
in its sustainable Environment

The short sequence that makes up Rosa Van Hensbergen’s SOME NEW GROWTH AT THE TEMPLE OR LOBE is quite compelling, each page/stanza pushing against its own conclusion, rushing ever forward from page to page. The poem feels sectioned and contained at first, but begins to pick up speed, each stanza/page beginning to bleed into the succeeding page until the entire sequence is irrevocably linked. As she writes:

Hoc grasp sudden, out trolleyed on the steps,
sung a chantey in reputed chaste. Your
eyes turned off to sync with left hand fighting
right hand, in gender unfounded. Redeemed
with your good foot forward, dug prong, an
Assisi under earth mound. Wounds raw
but invisible. Not equipped for locomotion