Showing posts with label wishy washy explanations. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wishy washy explanations. Show all posts

Sunday, 22 May 2011

Nantucket II

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?

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

Monday, 13 September 2010

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

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."

Thursday, 29 July 2010

Property

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.

Tuesday, 10 November 2009

Holding a place

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.




Sunday, 3 May 2009

Perhaps I’m not making myself clear…

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.)

Tuesday, 24 February 2009

Wishy-Washy 101: A first thought about processes

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.