brokenloop

Direct & Suitable

2011-12-15T14:20:00.000-08:00

This then was Blart's Decree:

well then

I'm off to clock

our nation's youth

then to the step change

a pact or out

weight challenges

or to the bout or

containing slip

stumble over intrigue or stonewalling

the bolstered and cabbage ear

thickening edge of enclosure

one number collapses into

another

there oversight revision leaves

estate fatally askew – plenty in this sport –

talking about twelve bore responsibility

itching for the scrap

Notes for Fatty Cakes

2011-10-07T13:34:00.000-07:00

My second book _Notes for Fatty Cakes_ was published today by Anything, Anymore, Anywhere. It has a wicked cover by Emily Critchley, is priced at a modest £3.50, and is available here:

http://www.anythinganymoreanywhere.co.uk/notes-for-fatty-cakes.php

Elsewhere, Natalie Orme produced some wonderful linoprint postcards to mark the occasion:

http://infiniteeditions.blogspot.com/

& finally there's a launch tomorrow at the Poetry Cafe, Covent Garden, 8pm.

Like the preview in the cinema...

2011-10-03T13:14:00.000-07:00

Remarkable bit of music. Some news to follow later this week.

Bill Orcutt - How the Thing Sings

2011-09-12T12:20:00.000-07:00

O'George

2011-08-22T03:53:00.000-07:00

O'George with the prospect of our wildly looping no guff theories

and huffing bricks in a hod; a perpetuity of anger management

and evening times _ what I'm hot to is the evening array _

sod a canker let the

blister another

snare roll be fine & ready with

what's doing & down out our way.

lives all idly contained, i worry that our children grow

mad fat with fierce solar energy – the way they

kept all at it,

for some people here's helping & though oldest

simple to them i'm afraid of its bearing

yelp squaw held letters reordered and behaved

given stead devoted exchange

eyed weight tackle relate

belonging to another

it's curiosity, simply.

Endorsed

2011-08-12T07:06:00.000-07:00

By the turn of the branch

there was

{officious hokey}

great love and a few instances.

Sans auto I wonder what is it

there, can be, safe journey & late nights

vary –

– a rattling mad trolley service at night;

safe trip, safe trip,

be brave.

-------------------------------------------------

Busy completing my MA project at the moment: To Blart & Kid, I'm too busy to talk to you.

{Not really, I spent most of today listening to this.}

ChemEng

2011-08-02T08:27:00.000-07:00

A life of fiscal welcome & he's fluent for a change;

don't – in this zenith hour – abbreviate, tacit arrangements

between the petticoats of long ago or never before –

there's much work to be done between long ago

and never before. The radiant slip & treatment. Our lady,

Marie Curie, glows pleasantly down the corridors of progress,

all science light or shadow familiar. Be they a must.

Written for my sister, Jeni, who's at work at the moment.

Proj

2011-07-25T09:30:00.000-07:00

The fight ensuing and the list,
though grand, is not unassailable.
In scale it is not nothing, a
weight of paper measured to
precise quantities and
everybody can discern a

credit due or time to take and
blandly now to rest.
Home-grown consultancy,
the instruments of wearing
unity, being sounded out daily.
Understand a quarrel
as much as a top offer, be

ready and sailing by and away the mitre.
There's a bulky horizon

and silently placed is the next item
– bobbing along – not backed

against the corner, but
seeking a sliver of continuity in the

mass of cut vectors.
Worked the full fare; through lack of

contribution but be bright,
a sum of marginal fetter or you

might read it as something else.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A new piece of something bigger, given a weird remake as the line breaks didn't post properly at first. In unrelated news, I was recently put onto this by others, it's Martin Stannard's 'Respondings' & it's fantastic: especially the thoughts on Prynne (p.20 onwards) - we are all pleasantly reminded to enjoy the poems firstly, and worry about meaning as and when it suits.

As so above, also below:

"There is an argument that goes something like: how by saying things the way he

does, how by not sticking to any regular or even consistent way of saying, then he is resisting

oppressive systems of discourse, systems that use language to wield their power, or such like. Perhaps

this is so. I tend to think that even laying this down as one way of dealing with the poems is itself a

pinning down of poems that actually don’t want to be pinned down at all. They rather prefer to release

you from whatever it is ties you down when it comes to words and language and thinking."

Reviews

2011-06-19T06:15:00.000-07:00

I've done a heap of reviews for Rhythm Circus over the past year. It recently dawned on me that I'd not shared them here. It's mostly films: Peter Greenaway, Charlie Chaplin & a few others. There's a review of Alan Moore's Unearthing performance from last year too. You can find it all here.

I also do a lot of reviews for Bonafide magazine, which is a beautifully laid-out hip-hop magazine. You can find them here. The DJ mix that appears halfway down the list is actually nothing to do with me, it does however feature a track from a Mr. Spragga Benz. No relation.

alveoli

2011-06-10T08:20:00.000-07:00

by this to mean tout or do not

love so purely as to heave

grand handfuls of the air

in gluttonous quantities.

Assume, & by this time will have been & gone;

all gladly truncated.

Nantucket II

2011-05-22T11:51:00.000-07:00

Two points, a bearing is at hand; and character is –

there's one of the fiercest, time looming

large on the face – a sounding measure.

The buzz of copper bells, another note is added;

come up to shore and exhaust.

The landscape journal soaked with firm setting

delays. The new signal carries bassoon notes

up to the dome and amongst a nexus of clouds;

context rising through, an air compression.

Be that as it may: who's scuttled overground?

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Oh, to write a poem that goes nowhere in particular. Written whilst listening to The Foghorn: A Celebration.

Township

2011-05-12T07:58:00.000-07:00

O to be pleasantly busy with that hot bizness

of poetry or up late; be certain

that colliding verbiage is

WOW! A Good One!

Pinched ideas & let down by gradual

isotropic decay – the perfect radial motion.

Exclusive and a prankster is reciting moments

from a future, transferred and pleasantly backlit; harangue

TOWNSHIP – TOWNSHIP – MERITS there is TOWNSHIP

There are times when the school you've pleasantly adhered or

signed up to is no more than running slow motion through a

pleasantly spooky high-school corridor while the bows rub

against the strings disharmoniously. There are times when it's

all quick cuts to & fro, reverse shots or pleasantly nothing more.

O I am

fickle and in love with your illustrious tricks. O be so

but pleasantly.

-est-est-est

2011-05-04T11:24:00.000-07:00

The Fleetingest is now sold out. Thank you all for the tasty support. I recommend you go and pick up some of the other Red Ceilings Press books: they're fab. If you're still hungry then there's more appetifs over at Infinite Editions too.

Here's something that didn't make the cut, as they say:

emeth

The silhouette falls across the entrance,

rapt Cathy calls out a warning --

this one is a painter but moves

more like an errant detective,

scrapes his mud across the carpet.

Later, Cathy will make

a golem of the

thing.

Tracing the steps back, they end

just beneath the lintel – a star

is framed below the right angle.

It's here our man abides

with a fixed stare,

awaiting the cue to

begin the whole process

again.

Cathy's eyes are sensitive.

Her good deeds unreferenced.

Her fear of the coop ecstatic.

The Fleetingest

2011-05-02T13:16:00.000-07:00

My book came out last week. It's my first one and you can get it here.

For JS

& that's the day you became the

toxic-assest hound; un-loud and

present you, marvellous with the

eyes, and conflicts of interest

made hardy by the barriers,

no dialect of exchange shall

shallow these workings,

how you doing this? Bus

ridge melts fixtures to their

fittings

one step

2011-04-20T12:01:00.001-07:00

for those who spent

too much time & thinking

it is okay there now a

day's work if not a week

back up in the bright intolerable

sky there's ships arrayed

about the river

sails a no general upset

dehydrate the dragging tide

rigour

2011-04-04T14:43:00.000-07:00

it's beginning, for rigour is in all things,

the spark of transit, an arc of electron

decay, wide open tracts with space

for the measuring. A firmament we cannot

all be, and do not all be, but once a guiding

bulb caught ignition and cleared the air

of its thrifty gloom; no way the present

does not move on but stays fixed

like the light.

Thought for the Day

2011-03-14T15:20:00.000-07:00

"The whole practised rigmarole made me feel utterly sick, I didn’t want to be any part of this world, I just felt miserable at the total exclusion of even a passing thought for the rejected and damaged and rubbished margins of our success story, forging ahead as “we” are to a bright and bushy-tailed future."

J.H. Prynne on David Willetts' talk at Cambridge : ‘The Coalition’s Vision for Science and Technology’

Found Poem

2011-03-08T08:35:00.000-08:00

Dear customer.

The parcel was send your home address.

And it will arrice within 7 bussness day.

More information and the tracking number

are attached in document below.

In other news, InfiniteEditions has been launched this week. Check it out here and get your own free poetry postcards.

Sans Serif

2011-03-01T13:41:00.001-08:00

it is clear from

the collated typefaces that each

was a chore,

why such work should

be left to the professionals is beyond

the cusps of reason

extra funds & in each instance I am

sorry to say

well, correct, say sorry to

Red Ceiling Press Poems

2011-02-08T08:06:00.000-08:00

I've got some new poems on the Red Ceiling Press blog. See them here.

Update

2011-02-03T09:11:00.000-08:00

Rumour abounds, and plenty going on at the moment. In the news:

Tom Raworth very kindly agreed to an interview, you can read it here.

SSYK are releasing number 4.

tipping up in London for a few nights

aquacrunk nu gruel a radio

signal he keyed or mustard cords

on Berwick Street

I've not seen a woodlouse in a while

Arthur Russell

2011-01-17T13:55:00.000-08:00

You should probably watch this.

6 - He's a nervous lad

2011-01-16T09:26:00.000-08:00

Thanks for those who came to the 'Between Soundings' gig at the Poetry Cafe yesterday -- it was good fun. Click on the image above to make it larger and avoid eye-strain.

Andy

private vibe

2011-01-12T02:56:00.000-08:00

Transmission

2011-01-10T11:05:00.000-08:00

New Year

2011-01-03T09:23:00.000-08:00

New Year and all - I'll write a more coherent post soon, but in the meantime check out (&buy obviously) Amy De'Ath's 'Erec & Enide'. It's fab -- as is Amy's blog.

In other news there's a new interview with Josh Jones up on Misosenstive.

Happy New Year!

of the rovers

a life of merit
against the fist

so dispirited a measure stands
at one remove

this versatile muscular panic

who demands and who'll
work for it?

mass retaliation
fortune favours
the fixtures

                            most! mannered! of champions!
                            brisk! exhibits! of champions!
                            legit! accounts! of champions!
                            stern! thoughts! of champions!

                           we came up fighting!

Qui

2010-12-22T07:31:00.001-08:00

Stem 'le flow'! Oh the crowd
erupts, it's slang for the
vulva you know -- not 'le flow'
but the dyke grows -- the quip
cut short. We are saturated.

Found Chat - by Jamie Larkin

2010-12-16T03:30:00.000-08:00

i'm going to be Julie from the movie Julie and Julia
who writes a blog
then becomes famous
i'm going to become the new Stefan Zweig
i'll know everyone in the literary world
(just without the suicide in Brazil)
or like Ezra Pound
(just without the anti-semitism or the crazy)
what's your essay on?

(Thanks to Jamie Larkin for letting me use his webchat)

winch away

2010-11-26T11:48:00.000-08:00

who'll take that tantrum
and being late is a phone call
away

a quota of firmness
salient the point in the
face of i'll need to speak

to my husband

be still and let everything
out through
what the surgery will do

watching cheap news
and there's always
something to worry about

I've read your blog and I
think my foot's trapped
whut an agonising complication.

original draft

2010-11-08T10:53:00.000-08:00

turn to the steps sand out the stain and forget
right there is no lollard turn to the step and
forget right keep conquerors from the door
step and forget no confidence in the new
so turn to the steps – not wanted – and forget

A few links

2010-10-28T06:01:00.000-07:00

Some interesting reviews of 'difficult' poetry by the Guardian -

Collected Poems by Tom Raworth

Poems by J.H. Prynne

I appreciate this is evidence against some of what I said in an earlier post, but then as Whitman says:
"Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,"

National Poetry Day

2010-10-07T03:37:00.000-07:00

Despite a grumpy refusal to engage in National Poetry Day in any real or active sense, I thought I'd post a poem. A grumpy refusal of a poem.

Congruence

We're sequestering,
I suppose, yes,
everyone's sequestering -
Hey you, with
the bludgeoned eye and
the coffee grounds
gravelling your lips,
what are you sequestering?

Each one's sequestering,
I suppose, yes,
every one is indeed sequestering -
a blunt instrument, a parading praxis
or a childhood cape.
Hey you, what's so quick
to be sequestered?

In other news, Josh Jones of Etcetera has a book out. His sterling taste is perhaps reason enough to investigate. Get the book here.

Looking at the site, it's not actually up at the moment - check back in the next few days I guess. The book is called "Thought Disorder".

Way Down South

2010-09-23T09:53:00.000-07:00

A response to
Bill Orcutt's
Way Down South
'Track 4'

Way Down South 4 by brokenloop

Bill Orcutt's playing has got me tremendously pleased to be alive the past few months, I thought I'd devote some time to talking about him and his work. I'm keen to adopt some aspects of his approach to poetic practice - this might be a first stab at thinking about which particular elements interest me.

As former guitarist for hardcore band Harry Pussy, Bill Orcutt's career has been one largely outside of any mainstream concern. However, his resurgence as a solo performer has been an exciting development in the past few years. Now devoting himself exclusively to playing acoustic guitar, his debut record A New Way to Pay Old Debts was a highlight of 2009. The music was largely based around a series of improvised vignettes, and Orcutt's unique style of playing defies easy categorisation. Within the errant shreds of recognisable notation and tonal arrangements there is something thoroughly modernist -- something that implies a desire to de-construct, to refine and, ultimately, destroy. There are numerous parallels drawn by reviewers to early blues music, modern guitar improvisation, and hardcore noise; Orcutt's style is one of suggestion, but in doing so it still remains distinct from its source.

Way Down South is a live recording released this month by Orcutt's own record company Palilalia. Track 4 is the penultimate improvisation on the record, and in my mind it forms one of the best examples of Orcutt's playing. It also represents a new route in the aesthetic of “unbecoming” -- with its recalling of blues riffs and erratic tempo the improvisation achieves an interplay between violent expression and ethereal realisation. At its inception the piece's scale runs are suggestive of Far Eastern music, with Orcutt's voice forming a droning counter-point. The playing is far from fluent, instead a range of spasmodic modes and modules that fail to develop any form of pacing. The tempo is akin to the epileptic flicker of a bird wing, and on several occasions the structure delineates into complete chaos. This all takes place in the first twelve seconds of the piece, serving to set out a blueprint to Orcutt's technique. It repeats for fifty-three seconds before it offers the first respite of quiet. On resumption it can only sustain itself for a few seconds; Orcutt punches a resounding exclamation as the structure fails to hold, he allows it to collapse.

This process of construction and deconstruction forms a constant that Orcutt returns to throughout the improvisation. He veers between recognisable motifs and an urgent obscurity of noise, discord brought to abrupt halts, as one practising technical exercises that fail to gain momentum. This is Orcutt's deception. The whole piece is about momentum – a momentum quantified by its refusal to cohere. The most significant moment is approximately two minutes in, when the guitar suddenly sounds out a bluesy descending progression of notes. This listener is thrown into a position of nostalgia, a moment of recall that encapsulates folk traditions. It stands in contrast to all the current talk of hauntology's presence in music by Mark Fisher and Simon Reynolds; this tiny incident of recognition is not just a remembrance, it's a primal formation of Orcutt's methodology, an aural equivalent to Eliot's shored fragments.

What happens next is an invigoratingly discordant repetition, with Orcutt moving between two or three notes, bending them to create a compact and claustrophobic figure. A bass note is struck again and again in exclamation, highlighting the repetition as it does. The listener prepares themselves for the inevitable collapse that has governed the past few minutes, but in fact something else occurs -- Orcutt repeats the motif until it becomes a staccato fugue state, a drawing in of boundaries. Where most improvisation moves towards transcendence as a conclusive terminus, Orcutt seems to be bringing his listeners to a null point, an implication that nothing lies beyond those few arrayed notes. The tempo increases and as it does Orcutt emits a high snarl or whine. It's his first vocal interjection since the beginning of the track, and it is in distinct contrast to the devotional moan of earlier. What is Orcutt suggesting? Frustration? Violence? Perhaps a plea for relief? The ambiguity of his eruption hangs there as the piece falls apart into a few expansive runs across the fret board. It feels like legs stretched in response to sudden release, but in comparison to moments earlier it is spectral, barely a whisper. Orcutt has arrived at his null state and the end point of his exercise.

Spitting 'Cop-out! Cop-out!' as if from heaven...

2010-09-13T10:01:00.000-07:00

There’s an interesting series of posts on Jon Stone’s blog this month about poetry and the mainstream. He expresses a frustration about a certain bias in the media towards covering performance/populist poetry, as opposed to a more…well how shall we put it? ‘Serious’ poetry I suppose.

While I agree in part with what Jon is expressing, and can also claim that I’ve found it to be am opinion common amongst younger ‘serious’ poets, I do feel it takes a rather strong line against something while missing a much larger point. The majority of the media is a crass, wheezing monstrosity that tries to construct something resembling a narrative in a largely fragmented and confusing world. Poetry, for its most part, is fragmentary and confusing, and very occasionally it will try to pull together some semblance of a narrative. It is a multi-form and beautiful thing that expresses a rich variety of things; it’s that variety which makes it so special, and if media outlets such as the Guardian website choose only to dip their toe into the edges of that, where the water’s warmest, then it’s their loss.

Several things come to mind reading Jon’s blog posts and the various responses he received:

1) In May I had a conversation with Brian Catling before a reading - I was lamenting the onslaught of cuts coming to the arts within the coming months and he caught me with a glint, proclaiming,
“Of course, it’s our time. Poets have been doing it for free for years.”
Now, Catling is either some kind of criminal or a genius. After a couple of hours in his company I’m still uncertain. I do know that he is a man who genuinely loves the work he does, and is happy to do it for whoever is willing to engage with it. It’s a sensibility I do my best to share, because I tend to think it’s the best way forward - any man willing to strap rape alarms in his head at the age of 60 in the name of his creative practice is alright by me.

2) Poetry is a stupid way to make a living. At best it will give you a few years financial support and practically no peace of mind. It is a lamentable profession and you will be largely despised by the public. People will cross the road and curse your name. Relatives will disown you and sexual partners will do their best to forget you. The quicker we all come to terms with that the more pleasantly surprising the future will be.

3) Alan Moore sums something up quite neatly to that effect here.

4) Stewart Lee has made some interesting assertions in his recent book – one about the uniquely boring and safe line that universal art tends to take ( and by ‘universal art’ I’m taking this to mean the majority of the mainstream media’s focus), and a further one about farming one’s audiences. I would quote passages extensively from the book here, but I suspect it would be more beneficial to advise those interested to buy the book, therefore increasing the chance that Stewart Lee’s keen wit will move increasingly closer to the universal platform it deserves.

5) I like the exclusivity of the poetry I write. I don’t think elitism is necessarily a bad thing in art. This constant assumption that we have to play to the lowest common denominator (or rather the anxiety surrounding whether it ought to or not) is precisely what mars the whole progressive nature of poetry and literature in the first place. There’s nothing wrong with poetry as an entertainment, equally there’s nothing wrong with obscure, dense, ‘serious’ poetry either. I can understand Jon Stone’s frustration at media coverage and funding being thrown at the populists, but then it does seem similar to complaining that Charlie Kaufman’s latest film didn’t do as commercially well as ‘The Expendables’. Exclusivity is what makes it exciting when you meet another person who reads the Wire, or knows who Matthew Barney is, or can enthuse about their own peculiar niche of creative endeavour. In a world of such rich variety, I don’t think it’s necessarily bad to have some areas of art that exist in little dark corners and cracks. Finding and getting to grips with them is half the pleasure.

6) Joe Kennedy wrote a good review of Tom Raworth’s latest collection here. There are some pretty solid assertions being made about ‘difficult’ poetry there.

7) “Authenticity” is bunk anyway.

Poor Jon, looking at the various responses he’s had to his posts he’s stirred up quite a storm. I hope he won’t object to me hijacking his points to make my own badly formed arguments. Like I said, I can understand his frustration – I too have voiced similar complaints – but ultimately it gets you nowhere; far better to build the compound in the mountain and await the second coming. Or write because you enjoy it. Whatever.

I'll finish with a final word with Mark E Smith, or rather an approximation of something he said on a BBC documentary about his band last night:
"It was when Elton John said he liked the Fall that I realised we were doing something wrong."

Property

2010-07-29T06:16:00.000-07:00

Sell the house in the summer,
the light will make it seem free
and joyous.

You can draw back
the blinds,
leave no shadow to chance,
no gloom on the veranda
or the stairs or the landing
or anywhere else –
just a great profusion of multi-sourced
brightness,
trick them into thinking -

Such space
Such freedom

and all the time
you are just happy to get
the damn thing off your hands.

This is an old poem (3-4 months) - I seem to have edited it down in the process of posting. It was a little too clunky for submitting anywhere, but I feel it needed a home and why not here?

I keep thinking I should transmit some more missives but there isn't much to report or repost at the moment. I do have a poem available at Gulper Eel however.

Unspeakable generous acts

2010-06-05T13:48:00.001-07:00

I

Despite what you may
have heard, or perhaps deduced,
I am not St. John of the Cross.

I am moving through
Providence Place and
wistful for this world
in its many forms.

I am longing to screen-print.

II

Don’t you miss that routine of
near touching?

My god,
you ate lunch
and I changed my path just

to be closer to you,
to know you,
to appraise or
take audit of you –

I heard some of the ‘young
chums’ were in this evening.
In that instant I despised you.

III

It is your gathered,
templar tongue I take the
time to hear – it is often
more bold than not.

There is too much to see
and do, so
I am sick with instances.

The beach

2010-05-29T11:08:00.001-07:00

The beach! The beach!
It’s the first day at the beach!
Some boy flexes his bicep
and scrutinises a girl’s
derrière –
I look at his, just
to make sure that
all is balanced and beautiful
at the beach.

Po' Fo' in Parentheses

2010-05-18T11:41:00.000-07:00

The Bicycle Shop, St Benedict’s Street
Monday 10th May, 7.00pm
Part of the Norwich Fringe Festival

“I strongly suspect that when this revolution takes place, art will no longer be distinguished by its rarity, or its expense, or its inaccessibility, or the extraordinary way in which it is marketed - it will be the prerogative of all of us, and we will do it as those artists did whom Freud understood not at all…the artists that had no ego, and no name.”
Germaine Greer – Town Bloody Hall speech

How could the notion of the artist with ‘no ego, and no name’ functions in a society driven precisely by the ego and the name? Is it fair to argue that performance poetry is a projection of ego and nothing else?

Well, it's a fair if somewhat bold question - one that Tim Clare, Veronika Wilson and Sarah Ellis set out to answer on Monday 10th May ( with kind assistance from their chair, Nathan Hamilton) - first some highlights from the Q& A session

Norwich Fringe Festival - Po' Fo' In Parentheses 10th May 2010 - Highlight 1# by brokenloop

Norwich Fringe Festival - Po' Fo' 10th May - Highlight 2# by brokenloop

It's interesting stuff I'm sure you'll agree - an edited version debate is available to be heard and downloaded below (you can download by clicking the little downwards arrow on the right-hand side) :

Norwich Fringe Festival - Po' Fo' Debate - 10th May - Edit by brokenloop

I'd like to add that I will blog further about this topic at a later date - however, I feel it's important that it's presented in a raw form without me yammering all around it. I would strongly encourage you to use the comments section below to air your views however...

Many thanks to the Writers' Centre, Norwich for their support with this event.

On the subject of cooking

2010-05-02T02:35:00.001-07:00

At 19 the world was so vibrant and rich
And now at 25 – ah why give a damn?
The tarnish is best sort of stout a remedy
rich with sorrow you chug-belly you gave
it all over to the sharp spirit the buttons
in a matchbox and a collecting glass into
which water drips and you plant chillies
on the balcony and hope the horizon
is still vibrant and rich though hope enough
is enough to make it vibrant and rich you
have chosen the right words to call this
thing by what it is just as we play dress
up daily so the day is dressed to the thing
the words that’s the thing you see the tender
spirit is tender because the words are placed
so no other reason you are not tender because
tender is unique to that instance tender is universal
and multi-form and I am not certain that tender
is tender in your eyes meat is tender it is best
tender and still with its juices almost still warm
but seal the thing and retain its flavour do not
let it grey to obscurity now.

The Rialto : Young Poets Feature

2010-03-23T12:40:00.001-07:00

Read this blog, it will explain all...

Lo the iron foot

2010-03-18T12:29:00.001-07:00

He scrapes – lo the iron foot – a cluster of toes at the end –
He carves wild circles –
leaving an array of spectators frowning –

self-aware, he tries
treading softer with the other -
to compensate see?

The crumpled paper of their faces grow
sympathetic to his squealing,
begin to undo themselves a little.

Now lament
ol’ iron foot – or applaud the endeavour -
the stability of the heavens
under his callous, grating orbit.

The Effort presents : SHOEBOX

2010-02-23T13:07:00.003-08:00

THE EFFORT brings you a devised performance based around a shoebox full of poetry and prose by Norwich poet and performer Andy Spragg: SHOEBOX

SHOEBOX explores themes in the original shoebox texts (urban routines, boring jobs and the architecture of cities) as well as bringing in the work of performers, artists and musicians around the theme of shoeboxes.

Everyone has a shoebox - at the bottom of a cupboard, under clothes you should throw away, filled with letters from friends you no longer speak to, bursting with bank statements you couldn't bring yourself to open, containing photographs that weren't quite worth putting in an album.

We will be performing on the following dates:

February 24th to 27th (Wed. to Sat.)
and
March 3rd to 6th (Wed. to Sat.)
at 9PM

Tickets can be obtained through the White Bear box office at
020 7793 9193
£10/£8 concessions
The nearest tube stop is Kennington (Northern Line).

For £15, you can enjoy both the double-bill CLAM & HONEY/BABY (19:30 start) and SHOEBOX (21:00 start).

----------------------------------------------------
CAST:

Zenia Bond
Claire Chard
Emma Davis
Farah Merani
Keri Penford-Baker
Tara Postma
Victoria Scott

WRITING: Andy Spragg

MUSIC: Sim Eldem

DIRECTOR: Vanessa Pope

COLLABORATORS: Antonia Grant, Gareth Risdale, Ceridwen Smith, Jessica Spalis

PRODUCTION SUPPORT: LIft'n'Hoist

----------------------------------------------------

THE EFFORT is a London-based D.I.Y arts initiative. Pooling the talents of performers, artists, musicians and writers, THE EFFORT produces collaborative art, performance and writing. We aim to make the most of under-used spaces to create works that engage directly with audiences. In addition to producing the works of associated artists, we research, review and reach out to new performers.

In keeping with...

2010-02-13T11:44:00.000-08:00

Sonnet 1#

A spill, of late - in a dream we abide
some heart, a dredged lone wreck - ringing
in gloomed grey water - a near singing
resonance, a long haul hymn to the tide.

In each churn kept some neat reason to hide
broad tone songs with such lust, such low blessing -
murmured prayer, a principle changing,
tailored need to find brief things to confide.

What murmur, it is a tongue soon stilled,
set and so saved, repenting all but a name -
conversion made in brash storm-churned sea.

Forgive an angered word, the throat trilled
a note of love, a long hush all the same,
forgive a spill of late, a desire to be free.

Sonnet 2

Setting off so, I feel a crisp absence -
a wish to see you again manifests.
Frost plundered boots wet with long tread.
Chilled press of damp flesh confirms it,
our day together spent in a shiver.

In passing I took it to heart, this part
of a walk, an embrace given to mute
satisfaction, no pondering drive, a reason
to embrace. I guess you have to forgive
me, I broke the silence with this faint thought

In the end you will not want me, I guess
I am certain of that. I am breaking
a silence to save the chatter of teeth.
I am not given to frantic displays.

Sonnet 3

Of the/two of/ us you/are immor/tal
and free/ una/fraid to/ break the/ line or/
even/ fall ov/er it/I am/ghastly with/
envy/a green/hue a fat/trick of/your speech/
I had /a dream/ where you/came back/ and told/
me that/ we were fun/dament/ally free/ of one/
anoth/er I/ guess you/ owed me/that too/
though in/ fact I/ don’t feel/ that way/
you did/nt owe/me any/thing you/ are the/
one who/is im/mortal/and free/and I/
am aw/are you/ are the/ reason/ I find/ it so
easy/ to fall/ in love/ or at/least you/
had some/part in/it I/ wish on/ly the/
best for/you I/am learn/ing to/be free.

I set myself the task of writing a few sonnets recently - just as a technical exercise to get myself back into writing in a more structured manner. As you can see I've not had a tremendous success with retaining the sonnet's rigidity of form - but the process was fun and I've got some new poems out so it. I think also that there is something more personal in these pieces, perhaps because my brain wasn't engaged with finding overly-complex metaphors for everything.

A reminder to yo'self

2010-02-04T11:54:00.001-08:00

Cheerfully filling in a personal statement for an MA application at the moment, it's dawned on me that I've done an awful lot recently. This is no bad thing at all, and long may it continue. Sometimes it's easy to get sidetracked and forget that the direction things are going is largely a good one. Okay - it's not an epiphany as such as a slight realisation, but here's a poem to cheer you along for the time being:

Exchange

your coy shivered erection
breaks the surface of
the frozen water

your shy shameful shaft
flourishes in the frigid
tundra

a sub-zero lady of the lake
lay-man’s hand grasping

clumsy and repulsive
floundering for breath
a pervert caught in the

process of the plunge

course when it comes to it
there will be talk of
symbolic exchange

what such a dip
meant
why the focus

on your throbbing distended
(seemingly detached) member?
why the feminine and frozen

aligned in close monstrous function?
Why do you give a damn?
you didn’t even

see it happen.

Festive Season

2009-12-23T02:54:00.001-08:00

Interesting blogs from both Luke Wright and Tim Clare about the 'practitioner as business manager' debate.

The Sale of

2009-12-02T11:46:00.001-08:00

usual grounding pathologies
shrunk aesthetic – another time aped
the pounding of sheet metal to rough
unpolished tokens to line rooftops a
landscape gloomed by the spitting rain – unstable reflections
on the darkened window as the gargoyle garbles rain water
   onto those below – boxed tower – a summit that fails to taper
it has no floodlights to pick clarify identify detail least
grey stone imposing dull sonorous impressions
even in photographs
the push of the blanch blocks is firm near unmoving
not the sort for the holiday snap it takes its absence
the stern defiant lips of a speaker “See brother the light, and the light”
   the skull-cap an activist pauses proud
   pouts in excelsis his traipse affirmed
true there are no floodlights to pick out the hollowing shadows
that gloom then fresh depths announced only at twilight – a dawn light
is too sharp a sweep even in summer all must take place in twilight the        sudden calling of spaces

The Sale of

2009-12-02T11:45:00.001-08:00

Spill

2009-11-28T01:05:00.001-08:00

The young furred tongue
unravels with languor by the oily water,
lapping three cautious times –

a crimson sock blanches dark,
a rich scent, a sense of things,
not knowing the better

uncouth and ill-equipped to discern,
the palette shrinks.
“Let them believe they are fit for the work,

and that the work is fit for them.”
In line, each of them in line, let them love their roles;
hungered, sick,

swilling fresh coatings, churn, a gastric impulse –
gracious nodding, stifled belch and back to the
spot by the rainbow water that puddles

on the factory floor.

11:01

2009-11-15T12:56:00.001-08:00

a gruff rusted bell
thick pages
a cheek with
    impressed our
last weakened blow to the chin
        a bell
clapper a cheek with
a clapped hand
    the cheek with
the bell chimed the hour
late
it is time to turn in

Holding a place

2009-11-10T12:15:00.001-08:00

Good old bldg.blog - it is such a rich collection of the weird and wonderful, intelligently written and with a broad scope. I sometimes wish I could just swallow whole chunks of it and store them up to digest whenever I'm feeling despondent or a little fed up with work. I've learned all manner of things, and I was going to link a few up here - but to be honest, every time I dig to find an old article I stumble across something else. Just go, click at random and let your mind wander...

In other news, there's work afoot here and here. Both seem to be getting pretty positive responses. The numberstations work is for Futureradio - and I would take the time to talk a bit more about what we're doing, but it's very much an ongoing process so I may hold off on the grand reveal at the moment.

What other thoughts? Nothing major - no sudden outrages or laments to share. But perhaps that is a good sign.

Smuggling texts

2009-10-27T09:03:00.001-07:00

I recently attended a reading in Brighton that collected together the three most recent poets to be published by Egg Box: Daniel Kane, Agnes Lehoczky and Vahni Capildeo. It was the first time all three had read at the same event I believe, and I was in the position of being the courier for the books - Egg Box's Nathan Hamilton is a friend, and given his intense and worldly schedule I offered to do the decent thing and transport the stock for him. For those of you unfamiliar with how selling poetry works it is worth noting that readings account for the majority of book sales. It is the fastest, most direct way to get your fix, plus you get to put the money directly in the hands of the publisher or poet themselves. For a small press it is the most preferable option, as often book shops or places like Amazon will take a cut of your profits. There's also the fact that you have a direct engagement with an audience, rather than sitting at home hoping some sharp-eyed shopper will spot your book in Blackwells, or order it online after reading a review in Poetry London.

So, setting off down to Brighton I was reasonably hopeful. Nathan had given me 'an optimistic' twelve books - we sorted out a deal so that people who wanted to buy all three would be able to do so at a reduced price. I am not naive about these things and having talked about the whole nature of selling before, I knew I was likely to return with at least some of the books.

Can you guess how many I returned with?

The event was reasonably well attended - I'd say in the region of thirty-five people, all crammed into the upstairs room of the Hope. The audience were a little unresponsive, Agnes was on first and I found it disorientating when they failed to clap after her first poem. No worries though, perhaps they would for the next one, I thought - except they didn't. In fact they sat there, slack jawed through the whole thing - until the end when a polite and rushed applause followed. Now, I'm pretty sure it's considered a matter of politeness to applaud. Especially when the...poet...is...just...left...hanging...there. Apparently in Brighton this isn't the case. Either that or we just happened upon a crowd of one-armed poetry fans. Moronic, one-armed poetry fans. Moronic, one-armed poetry fans, who think a poem is something you could scare away by showing visible appreciation.

Perhaps that is a bit harsh. They warmed eventually, even emitting a titter or two at Daniel's playful, well-delivered set. The interval came and I prepared myself for the onslaught of people wanting to purchase books, which had already been graciously plugged earlier in the evening by the promoter.

Nothing.

Now that is unusual. Even if people don't rush up to buy stuff, they normally come and have a chat with one of the poets - or at least poke their noses into a book or two. It's agonising to watch someone pick up a book, scrutinise it for ten minutes, before popping it back down again and walking off. They should be restricted to a minute browsing, tops - they've just spent twenty minutes watching the poets read, why do they need a further ten minutes? Are they concerned the book may not consist of the same content? That we're trying to sell them blank pages? Are they idiots? Are they trying to memorise chunks of the book so they can go home and copy it up? ( As an aside, I once sat open-mouthed as an audience member read my poems after a reading, and then copied one up - okay I don't have a book to sell, but REALLY?)

All this crushing disappointment aside, the second half began with me plugging the books doubly hard - explaining how I'd first met Nathan, and my friendship with Agnes - explaining further that supporting such talent was bound up in the buying of their books. Nothing. In fact, so much had been made of Nathan's name and Egg Box, that by the time Vahni took the stage I was beginning to wonder if we were attending some form of commerce driven memorial service:-

"Unfortunately Mr Hamilton is no longer with us, but here's some books. I remember the first time I met him, under the bough of a tree in the cathedral grounds in Norwich - a true man of the people. Here's some books."

This is only a slight paraphrasing of Vahni's wonderful and well-humoured introduction. Actually, it's a complete reworking. She was a lot funnier than that.

In short, I didn't sell any books. This in itself was not the end of the world - it was a good evening all round, and I was glad to have attended. What did anger me was the general passivity of the audience, who made nothing more than a few perfunctory gestures towards the performers (half of whom had made the trip at their own expense to read). So much is said regarding the need to support artists and the arts, especially given the push towards free content now - yet very few people make the actual transition from talking about supporting the arts, and actually doing it.

If you actually want to make a difference to the development of the arts and creative industries, think heavily about what you actually invest in. The entrance fee for an event is all very well and good, and at £5 a head for an audience of 35 - you can see the promoter did okay out of the evening (though I don't know what her running costs were like) - very little or none of that money ever gets back to the poets themselves.

With books at £10 a pop, one could argue the price acts as deterrent - but given they are hardbacks and high-quality, what's the problem? Most people would spend that on a round of drinks. True, combined with the steep entrance fee it might have been a bit much for the audience to stomach - but then, as we have just established, none of that money goes back to the actual performers. So what's the answer? It's a catch-22 - if you choose to perform at places where there's no entrance fee then you inevitably are confined by how much pre-publicity there will be, and by how much work a promoter is willing to do for you. Consequently, smaller audience - less sales anyway. It's no wonder that so many people rush to the middle ground of Arts Council funding or other forms of creative practice subsidy - at least it offers a kind of security, even if it result in an eventual compromise of quality or ideals.

It seems a tremendous shame that in a world so driven by user-created content there is yet to be a model by which people can feasibly live in a micro-economy of exchange between creative-producer and audience. Instead of pushing towards a more direct and engaging process, we seem to long for the security of the old one - where your art is taken in on a purely passive level, consumed at arms length, kept in it's place. Yah Boo and Selah.

the hark a wish

2009-10-24T09:30:00.001-07:00

On completing and then strolling
to draw the chill between the teeth
watching what flaps and stalls
in its flight across the territory
Catching bird song also
taking in that same chill
envious then not wishing
to be so- applauding whatever
pastoral things should fill the mind
at these time Is this sense angered
the disturbed welcome the hark a wish
to sit on the bench even in this
is it even a consideration
sparked frosty layer that tips
the snow see even now
treading into the depth of it
surprise at how far the foot
goes I am grumpy I don’t
have a way to swallow that
bird whatever breed it is
or rather I know if I was
to do so it would not be
its pleasant song but my
own dry caw-caw that came from
the belly the throat the tongue
but then
sitting on the bench
feeling pity and the shame of
pity and perhaps even the shame
in shameful pity
and painfully aware my behind is
it is enough to take
in the chill and offer
our respective songs

A Fresh Day Beloved

2009-10-10T09:12:00.001-07:00

a naïve
beloved flag falls under the tramp tramp of orthopaedic shoes not jack boots, there is no
beloved requirement for the them – a
beloved correction adjusted elbows scrape merrily against work desks all harrowed I lust after all women in
beloved trench coats a man troubles the pitted tar paper roof with his besocked and beloved feet
he tingles at the tips of his toes and steadies himself with slow
beloved windmills of the arms He is assured and
beloved – he is quick and
beloved – he can barely breath
beloved for the quiver of fluster excitement a breath pours right out of him
beloved the breeze troubles his clothes but he is not unsteady because of the
beloved wind

Technorati Tags: beloved, poem, avant-garde

Michael Clark

2009-09-05T13:13:00.001-07:00

I like Michael Clark - I went to a show of his at the Norfolk & Norwich Festival last year where people walked out. One person sitting in front of me stuck his fingers in his ears for most of it. People were dancing nude in one bit. I felt mildly assaulted, abused but largely pleased with what I'd seen. It was a wonderful working of punk rock classics into contemporary dance - followed by a new bit of choreography for Rites of Spring. I went for a couple of reasons; one being that my (then) girl was a dancer and I was keen to understand what on earth contemporary dance was about. It's an alien world, and a little overwhelming - I don't have any background in dance to contextualise. It becomes like trying to understand thermodynamics without any grasp of basic science. I endevour though, and have got far enough to accept that contemporary dance is more than one stream of ideas, or one stream of practice. The term is as non-descriptive as saying 'contemporary literature' - you end up with a general context, but no grasp of what tremendous theoretical diversity exists underneath the surface. Ho-hum, there might be a conclusive point to all this - but I fear it may just be as simple as I like Michael Clark.

It's not who you know...

2009-08-08T05:06:00.001-07:00

There is a certain issue I have with people who spout the old adage about success being related to “who you know.” Nothing has prompted me to blog about it, other than the usual grumbling tums and occasional discussion – but I feel it’s necessary to highlight a few home truths about this belief that the entire arts industry functions on nepotism and an extensive ‘old boy’ network. Sure, there is a degree of that – as with any industry where you have established figures that have dedicated lifetimes to their work – inevitably they do look inwards to people they know, rather than trying to pull up the young sprogs. The reasoning behind this may not always be fair, but it’s no different from working in HR, or architecture, or town planning, or being a chef, or – well, you get the point. The truth is, the world is not like the Apprentice – you don’t wander into an office as an unknown and suddenly find yourself a career. Sometimes it’s blind luck, sometimes it’s hard work and sometimes a friend gives you a boost. Creative practitioners have a tendency to feel the world owes them a living, and consequently that every events organiser, publisher, agent or drug dealer should bow down in awe of their talent. If they don’t receive this immediate praise they tend to reach immediately for our old friend, “oh, of course – it’s who you know.” Consequently they tend to go one of two ways: complete unhinged resentment of “the system”, or alternatively debasing themselves in order to get ahead. The latter of the two is sometimes harder to stomach than the former, though it is more consistently entertaining for the casual observer. I’ve seen some wonderful displays of forlock tuggery – but it’s unfair to relate them, as I’m sure I’ve done a fair bit of it in my time too. First stone and all that eh?

Yes, it’s true that we all need to network and make strong contacts. I’m not totally throwing out that idea, and please don’t feel that my conscience is clear when I talk about people dismissing others out of hand on the basis that they know the ‘right people’. I’ve done it too – but I hope I’ve done it with a sense that some of their success is as much down to talent and enthusasim for their work. Knowing some-one with connections is only half the story – in truth, if you are good at what you do then people will want to help you – and if they don’t? Well it’s no reflection on you or them. Perhaps they are busy, or preoccupied with their careers, perhaps they don’t like what you do. If that really is the case then don’t force the issue, move on – this unhealthy notion that there is only one gatekeeper who holds all the keys is not going to get you anywhere. It’s a sad thing that people take such a mentality where they must either force themselves into a situation or onto a person in order to succeed. The world of performance poetry I come from has always been pretty kind to me, but I’ve never really felt that I’ve needed to turn a trick to proceed further. The friends I have made have been friends first and foremost, and while I may benefit from the occasional advice and support, I like to believe that it’s done as a kindness rather than a sense of duty.

So to those who rage about the old boys – well, one day those old boys might do you a favour – with no askance of compromise or sexual favours. What then? Will you flatly refuse? Course not. It’s flattering when people want to help, why would you slap them down? Yes, the whole industry is biased, flawed and messy – but when a hand reaches down and tickles your tum, have the good grace to roll over and enjoy the compliment. If it doesn’t? Well there will be other hands and other times, enjoy what you do – don’t look for favours to do all the work for you.
Ah, I’ve not made quite the coherent, centred argument that I’d hoped for. Perhaps we can discuss it some more?

First and last.

2009-07-14T13:41:00.000-07:00

The hush, a gull wheels
severed from the horizon
announcing its sudden found freedom
in squalls – not so much thunder-clapping.

It dips and heaves its span
cuts cross-winds
pointed in pursuit
of cumulus climes.

Jump-cuts

2009-06-22T04:05:00.000-07:00

It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything – not because I’ve been busy, quite the opposite. The world is fuggy at the moment, a lot of personal stuff and just needing to get myself straight. I want to get back into music at the moment – largely down to this guy.

I’ll write about Mike Watt another time.

Some other projects – I’m writing a play (or at least thinking about writing a play) for my friend Vanessa / working on a new show for the solo gig I got coming up / I’ve had an idea for some epic poem or another.

Brief notes but I’ve spent all morning writing the new grandma column, so got to get away from the screen…

Newsnight

2009-05-30T06:04:00.000-07:00

Newsnight review produced some interesting points yesterday – and perhaps highlighted some of the broader issues poetry has had in engaging with the mass media in recent years. The panel comprised of Luke Wright, Simon Armitage, Josephine Hart and Akala – all of which made some strong cases for their various bits of polemic, while remaining distinctly underwhelming en masse.The contributors, probably through no fault of their own, all seemed forced to revert to type – Simon Armitage did his typically dull “I’m the people’s poet me” bit, Josephine Hart burbled in a pitch that rendered most of what she said incomprehensible, while Luke Wright and Akala seemed largely drafted in order to make the whole thing more approachable. Depressingly, the conversation seemed to centre round a very confused debate about whether poetry was relevant or popular – with the guests taking up the stand-point that yes it was, though their views on why remained more dependent on their individual backgrounds. For example, Akala banged the drum for the power of metaphor, that its popularity in Hip-hop has allowed him (and others) to make the connections to Shakespeare and others. As a regular hip-hop columnist I haven’t got time to make my personal views on this known here, but there is some element of truth in what he’s saying – albeit in a slightly more complex manner than just direct comparison.

The problem with these arguments about poetry and popularity is that it fails to acknowledge that when you use the word ‘poetry’ you are talking about a form – not a particular style or genre of writing. To clarify, like the word ‘painting’ ‘poetry’ is a catch-all phrase for a multitude of different things. Despite what the BBC presenter seemed to imply, elements do engage and see a fair degree of commercial success; performance poetry in particular is enjoying somewhat of a renaissance at the moment (although again, the term performance poetry can be divided into countless subgenres) – but on the flip side there isn’t much call for Neo-Catholic Metaphysical Sestinas at the moment. Perhaps the problem is not so much in the attitude of audience or poet, but in our expectations on how we should consume it. The poetry world is not in a position to proliferate a thousand new poets a year, and there isn’t the demand for it. This isn’t because people don’t engage with it, it’s because you aren’t able to passively consume a collection in the same way you would music perhaps. No-one asks why 90% of recorded music isn’t ‘engaging young people’ or ‘relevant’ – because everyone accepts that there’s so much of it that it couldn’t possibly appeal to everyone all of the time. The problem is that we want simplification – we want to feel that every endeavour can be flatly defined in terms of its engagement and the success it sees economically – when actually we’re not quite certain what criteria we are using. Trying to argue about “the state of poetry” using sales figures is like trying to guess the weight of the moon using fingers and toes alone.

So are we engaged, switched on, hip? Well no, we’re albino catfish in the lake – we have a place, but it’s an enigmatic, confusing one. Mass media can’t figure it out, or at least can’t find a way to make it look interesting on the telly-box. Media coverage of the recent hoo-has in poetry have exemplified this – Padel’s resignation has nothing to do with her art, it has everything to do with preconceived ideas of Oxford as being a stuffy, out-of-touch sort of institution – No-one seems to even talk about Duffy’s laureate in relation to her work, just in terms of what she’s done with the five grand and the fact she has breasts. The world doesn’t need poets to try and engage and “be down with the kids,” because there is nothing more ball-achingly embarrassing. Simon Armitage is prime example of this – his populism just succeeds at making the whole affair look woefully out of touch, a recreational pursuit for the middle-class Cambridge post-grads and bored housewives. Much like dogging.

So what’s the answer? I’m not sure. It’s important to cultivate new audiences, work on projects that engage outside of the usual niches – but at the same time there are ways of doing that without pandering to the usual blather or trying too hard. I remember Daniel Kane talking to me about his new book and saying that poetry was “a thing, like any other thing” – it didn’t need to be blown into some faux-profound bubble or space. I like his view best - that it is a creative reflex, a game that can be played. It doesn’t need to be worried about in quite the way people seem to, and it certainly doesn’t need academics talking about how they have a responsibility to “engage” or “make a point.” Sure, some of it does – and that’s a good thing – but when you try and put blanket definitions on what poetry should or shouldn’t be, well then it just gets dull. There’s so many multitudes contained in that one word, you can’t even begin to set it out as one cohesive thing. Where Newsnight failed was in its erratic generalising and simplification. Don’t talk to me about the “State of Poetry” - Poetry need only occupy a space into a reader or listener can project – what they do with that space is up to them.

Ah forget it, I’m quitting this racket and taking up gardening.

Quick Notes

2009-05-28T10:13:00.001-07:00

So busy at the moment it's proving difficult to blog properly so I thought I'd just make some quick notes:

Currently working on something special on Tumblr - it's a writing project I've been meaning to put together for a while. There's a lot to do and the interface is proving visually beautiful, whilst remaining too confounding for me to follow behind the scenes. Every thing I want to change about the layout requires a tweak here or there and it frustrates me greatly.

On the positive side of this project I've been able to incorporate some of the ideas behind the blogging norfolk project - which was put together by chum Nathan Hamilton. It's worth checking out what's there, and his blog as well - which provides the same wit and insight he himself possesses in person. Sicophantic as all this may sound, I owe him a lot for his support and advice.

I'm taking a break from the choir at the moment to do other things - and that in itself is quite exciting. We've done a number of gigs in recent months ( which I will blog about in the coming few weeks) and as much as I enjoy it, I feel it's time to go and develop on new shows and ideas. I intend to work on some new, more immersive vocal pieces - but haven't quite figured out what yet. That said, they are performing in Luton for the first time without me - in the very capable hands of Russell J Turner as part of the Breakin' Arts Festival. There's some other stuff coming up as well - check Nosher for updates.

Other exciting news? Oh, Stephanie Leal's book is out and features a press quote from a certain someone. I'm quite proud of the little quote as it forms part of a larger article that I'll link up once it's published - it reads better than the usual "THEY IS GOOD WRITER" bumf you get on the back of books. Of course, the content of the book itself is pretty fab - otherwise I wouldn't be endorsing it...

That's it for now - off to London to see this.

Selah

Perhaps I’m not making myself clear…

2009-05-03T09:25:00.000-07:00

There seems a current trend among poets - performance and page if you are fickle about distinctions- Wait, let me start again. There seems a current trend amongst poets nowadays. And by nowadays I don’t mean that today I have seen this, I mean that over the recent months there has been a trend towards- towards the thing I am leading up to, just be patient. There seems a certain propensity towards the poet nowadays. Oh, now I’m muddled. There seems a certain tendency, propensity whatever, I’ve just had to look that word up – it means a natural inclination. There seems a certain - well when I say certain, I do not mean it is a sure thing. I mean it as a signifier of reliability. There is a reliability to poets nowadays. “What I mean is” (Agnes Lehoczky) there is a dependable, reactionary stream of blustery snot-noses. Poets I mean. A reactionary stream of bluster boys who seem quite content to classify their personal journal entries, specifically not their entries but a random quish-quash of thought which they’ve had that day, and turn them into a list. No, let me redefine that because it is unfair. Many great poets thrive on the thoughts that they’ve had on that, or any other, particular day. Take William Carlos Williams for example, who enriched American poetry just by the grace of a plum in an icebox no less. No divine mystery there, no magic hoo-do. This is not a war against the requirement of mystical energy in your plum or your poem. Please do not make that mistake. We can do direct talking, and I’m not interested in drawing myself into that woozy polemic anymore than I have to. Poems work in all variety of measures, meters, forms and failures – the world contains multitudes. To paraphrase Whitman.

No, the argument is thus- people’s engagement with poetry seems to require that they are, by their very unique and gratifying position as audience/critic/anonymous blogger, given over to wanting things explained. Quite Simply. In Big Letters. “What I mean is” (Agnes Lehoczky) there is a certain kind of brainwashing that occurs through academic study – there can only ever be one or two interpretations of a poem, and god help you if you don’t get it on the first drop. Now there is nothing wrong with a direct poem, we all like them – they are a bit like pop tarts, or hot dogs, or ice tea, or a roller coaster ride. It’s enjoyable. However, your life cannot function alone on hot dogs, pop tarts, ice tea or roller coaster rides. It would be great, certainly, but you would probably get pretty bored of a diet of hot dogs, pop tarts, ice tea and roller coaster rides. In fact your mind and body would become hideously bloated - craving nothing but endless streams of additives, punctuated with short bursts of adrenaline and possible cardiac arrest. Perhaps it would be best to seek these things in moderation eh?

Back to the brainwashing effect of academic study- “What I mean is” (Agnes Lehoczky) the disorder whereby if something is opaque or not immediately apparent then it suffers dismissal on grounds of pretension. If something is direct, then it is accused of being dumb. You are in a sticky trap, that’s for sure. It’s too easy, in these days of canny self-awareness, to ape everything. Let us assume the hubris and rhetoric of irony and wear it like a big brass badge – that way we can be picky without fear of recrimination. Or something. The notion of commitment. Or something. “What I mean is” (Agnes Lehoczky) there is this ugly feedback loop- something I’ve appropriated from a recent interview with Alan Moore – whereby the audience are not challenged, so consequently their expectations are lowered, and then the writer (or performer or whatever) produces work that is less challenging…ad infitum. The absurdity of the situation is this- hmm the situation isn’t absurd. What is patently absurd is the facile attempt to even grasp the situation. We are not talking. We are on speaking terms certainly. But we are not talking. What I mean is (Agnes Lehoczky) perhaps you do study and consume every word as it was gospel and all the rage. Perhaps you do.

There is a propensity to shrug it off. Or take it all too seriously. I am currently uncertain which is better, so hence I gawp and slack-jaw myself into invisibility.

(SIDE NOTE - Agnes Lehoczky's work is some of my favourite contemporary writing. Please don't mistake the (over) use of her name as anything other than a wayward tribute.)

Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!

2009-03-02T13:31:00.000-08:00

I visited the Sainsbury’s Centre today to have a look at the “China! China! China!” exhibition (its title is brilliant- though I can’t help but wish the next Francis Bacon retrospective would use “Bacon! Bacon! Bacon!”). The heavy leaning towards video art didn’t really appeal a great amount, and there was a strong overtone that the choice of works was limited by heavy censorship (critiques of the political systems in China were notable by their absence). The favourite piece, asides from a massive moon made out of light-bulbs, was a piece of performance art created by Qin Ga. ‘Hurray! Hurray!’ is a video capturing the artist clothed in a horses hide, chanting the exclamation over and over again. Although initially irritating, it rapidly takes on some kind weird hypnotic power. The repetition becomes a centre, a resonant prayer, or perhaps a lament. It’s reminiscent of Joseph Beuys, a primal ritual/action that pulls at old world mythology and collective history (Hurray is adapted from a Mongolian equivalent of amen apparently). Qin Ga seems to imply a defiant death cry - personally speaking I’ve always found Beuys’ work to be incredibly solitary- contrast it with that other notion of shared histories. Cheyne Stoking is a term I learnt thanks to this film, it seems curiously appropriate. I am still trying to find a way of including it in a poem of mine, more on which another time.

More to the point, the exhaustion of repetition is something I’d like to try with the poetry choir- maybe not with the word Hurray (though a sick, perverse part of me thinks that I could claim it’s a tribute to Qin Ga). The principle of taking repeated words, or musical phrases to their extreme is nothing new. In fact one could argue that it’s this shuddering constant that guides most club dj-ing, regardless of genre. Out of the poetry choir stuff, the museum piece and ‘go fly your kites’ already utilise repetition as a tool to help engage (smother) the audience- particularly ‘Go fly your kites’ which I often think of a sort of relentless yammering on the door. Anyway, I’m going to blog about this some more at a later stage- I just wanted to make a record of what ‘Hurray! Hurray!’ got me thinking about.

Some useful things to remember

2009-02-28T04:04:00.000-08:00

Hooo! What’s the beat of the day?

“The only principle that does not inhibit progress is: anything goes…without chaos, no knowledge. Without a frequent dismissal of reason, no progress…for what appears as ‘sloppiness’, ‘chaos’ or ‘opportunism’…has a most important function in the development of those very theories which we today regard as essential parts of knowledge…These ‘deviations’, these ‘errors’, are preconditions of progress.”
Paul Feyerabend (Taken from ‘Introducing Post-Modernism p.109, originally from ‘Against Method’)
"[A] Dada exhibition. Another one! What’s the matter with everyone wanting to make a museum piece out of Dada? Dada was a bomb ... can you imagine anyone, around half a century after a bomb explodes, wanting to collect the pieces, sticking it together and displaying it?"—Max Ernst, Quoted in C.W.E. Bigsby, Dada and Surrealism, ch. 1

Wishy-Washy 101: A first thought about processes

2009-02-24T13:19:00.000-08:00

So there’s this principle behind having this blog right? It’s intended as a catch-all for processes- you see I was having conversations a couple of times this weekend where the word process has come up quite a bit. This first was with Stephanie Leal, who has kindly offered up her own work and time to the poetry choir . She asked me mid-way through my particularly wishy-washy bit of explanation what exactly the long-term goal was. It took me back a bit, because I’ve only ever thought of the choir as an exploratory function- I mean, it has several positive focuses, but ultimately its great strength lies in the fact it doesn’t rely too heavily on a narrow set of parameters to define its success. I wouldn’t want to be part of it if our only aim was notoriety, the intention is to explore that magic word: Processes.

Ditto with this blog. Processes in writing are kept mysterious for the large part, because it makes people aware of the vulnerable flabby parts of the work- often, in my wilder moments I’ve named it as the Wizard of Oz complex truth be told we all like to keep hush hush. After all, how can an author maintain that sense of booming wilderness voice when they show everyone what they are up to? The reader’s reluctant too I guess, after all no one comes to see the stripper’s fillings, they come to see the show.

So the plan? Well I’ll talk some more about processes soon. I’ve got to go out for a walk and think some more.