Harriet

Archive for June, 2008

Reginald Shepherd

Avant-Garde and Modern, Part Four

Like the previous post, this fourth and final post on this topic was largely prompted by Brent Cunningham’s comments on the second post. Some of it will be more clear if readers refer back to that post and its comment stream while reading this entry.
I like the terms “Modern” and “Modernist” because of their bare descriptiveness: they make few claims but the chronological, their efflorescence coinciding with the transformation of western culture and society into what we now call the modern world. Modern art is the art of the modern world: perhaps one could call modernist art the art that is self-consciously so. Though Bürger undoubtedly means a disparagement in comparing avant-garde and modern/modernist art, the art that has lasted has been that which, like Cubism (again, his example) has set itself to explore the possibilities of the medium.
If by “experimental” one means “trying something out to see what happens,” then that still seems useful as a term and a procedure. Wallace Stevens wrote that all good poetry is experimental poetry; that may be an overstatement, but there is a great deal of truth to it. It’s when the term “experimental,” like the term “avant-garde,” begins to be used evaluatively rather than descriptively that it becomes problematic. The attitude and activity of exploration and experimentation was and isn’t restricted to those who either proclaimed themselves or were proclaimed to be “avant-garde.” As Henry Gould has pointed out on a different post’s comment thread, much of John Berryman’s work is in style and attitude as wildly exploratory as anything in The New American Poetry, about which there was so much discussion some time ago.

Michael Marcinkowski

From Peter O’Leary: Poetry of the 1970s, Day 2

Thursday, June 12 began with me waking up at 6am as the light slanted through the blinds in my gulag-like but nevertheless comfortable dorm room on campus. Despite staying up late, and despite being away from my kids, who wake me up every morning at the same time, I couldn’t sleep any later. Instead, I sought out some breakfast with Ross Hair, who was still addled with jetlag, and then took a walk in the fabled Maine woods that surround the campus at Orono. We saw cedar waxwings, bluebirds, goldfinches, a great blue heron, many crows, and a deer grazing in an opening.
And then hit the ground running in full-on conference mode. One of the challenges of attending a conference such as this one is deciding which of the panels to attend. I’m generally motivated by the desire to hear a talk on a topic or poet I’m interested in, but I’m also drawn to seeing friends present work on the topics they’re thinking about. I’m not particularly a devotee of Ashbery’s work but was lured to an Ashbery panel because, as a result of a couple of cancellations, my friend Tom Fisher, who like Joel Bettridge had come in from Portland, Oregon, was presenting his talk on Bob Kaufman.

Mark Nowak

Office of Insular Affairs = Poetry?

It’s not every day that a poetry collection I write a blurb for appears on the U.S. Department of Interior “Office of Insular Affairs” website. OK, so I’m one of those US poets imbricated in party politics: I read on a 2004 Democratic campaign stop with former VP Walter Mondale and then VP candidate John Edwards (though Edwards’ plane, perhaps foreshadowing the 2004 election results, was delayed for nearly two hours to clear airspace for current Vice President Dick Cheney’s Labor Day arrival for a Republican crowd here in ’Sota). Additionally, I used to be a writer for local Green party campaigns and was chair of the Political Issues committee of the National Writers’ Union Local (and its representative at the Minnesota AFL-CIO convention in the first years of this new century, back in the Paul Wellstone days). Maybe we can talk about the over-riding contemporary separation of poetics (church) and politics (state) at some later date…
A poem from this poetry collection announced on the Department of Interior website, Emelihter Kihleng’s My Urohs, opened XCP no. 14 and I’ve been a fan of her writing ever since, watching for its appearance in such innovative journals as Tinfish, boundary2, Chain, and others. Here’s what I wrote when she approached me to pen something about her first book:

Travis Nichols

“Think of the Stamps!”

With Andrew Motion’s tenure as Britain’s Poet Laureate coming to a close next year, there’s been active campaigning for the post to be filled for the first time by a female poet.
The post—formerly held by Ted Hughes and Ben Johnson, among other dudes—involves a five thousand pound salary, free sherry, and an obligation to write poems for state occasions. While the idea of a female laureate has gained wide support, three of the leading female contenders have caused a minor kerfuffle by shrugging off the honor in advance.

Michael Marcinkowski

From Peter O’Leary: Poetry of the 1970s, Day 1

olearyraworthcoolidge.gif
Your guest blogger with Tom Raworth and Clark Coolidge, Orono, June 2008”
The day before I left to attend the “Poetry of the 1970s” conference held every four years by the National Poetry Foundation at the University of Maine, I was asked whether I wanted to cover it for Harriet. Mos def, I thought (in the words of D’Angelo Barksdale), settling things on Wednesday morning, June 11, in a phone call to Nick Twemlow while standing against the wall in Helmut Jahn’s cavernous, light-filled United C-Terminal at O’Hare, where Eno’s “Music for Airports” should be on a permanent loop. When I went to my gate, C-20, I saw people lining up to go to Singapore. I’d misread my seat number, 20C, for the gate, and needed to dash back to the B-Terminal, where I found my traveling companion, Chris Glomski, relieved to see me. In a clockwork schedule, we were flying together and renting a car from Boston to Orono, picking up some other mates along the way – Ross Hair in Boston (who was flying in from Southampton, UK), and Joel Bettridge in Portland (who was flying in from the other Portland in Oregon). Chris doesn’t have a cellphone. Running idly through his mind as he waited for me to show was the thought, What if O’Leary misses the flight? But I showed, we bought some sandwiches, and were soon seated in two rows entirely to ourselves, a bonus of traveling mid-morning on a Wednesday.

Reginald Shepherd

Avant-Garde and Modern, Part Three

I’d like to thank everyone who has commented on “Avant-Garde and Modern, Part Two.” This piece began as a response to Brent Cunningham, those scruples and whose comments are both appreciated—I do indeed enjoy principled disagreement, and am getting to the point in my recovery that I can again take pleasure in such meetings of the mind. But as it expanded I decided it would be better positioned as one or two additional posts.
As I made clear in the first part of my post, in which I discussed Peter Bürger’s idea of the historical avant-garde, the term avant-garde can be useful as a historical term referring to some movements, mainly Dada, Surrealism, and Russian Constructivism, which, however interesting in themselves, failed (inevitably?) in their aims to unite what Bürger calls the institution of art and the praxis of life. Their attempts to produce such a sublation or reconciliation revealed and helped make possible the false achievement of that aim through capitalism’s attempted subsumption of semi-autonomous art.

Travis Nichols

w00t vs. harumph

Galleycat wonders ablog if social networking sites like Goodreads can supplant the studied expertise of professional book critics.
Martial Flourish

VS.

Or something like that.
It’s an interesting question not just for the Steinbeckian pre-teens in the UK or dead Russian novelists, but for the contemporary poetry tribes, too, since poetry criticism in major media outlets is pretty slim, and seeming to get slimmer or more fatuous by the year.
I get emails every day from people asking me to connect with them on Goodreads, to look at their updated Goodreads page, or to just read a goddamn book already. But I have yet to get involved because I have nagging icky feelings about the whole process.
I’d rather ask someone face to face what she’s reading than go check online, but I also like to forage for berries after a long morning of waxing my handlebar moustache, so perhaps I’m not so au courant.
Talking with a friend at Open Books the other day, we both agreed it would be nice to feel like we could ride the crest of the present’s wave with a giddy optimism, but most of the time our little rafts feel swamped.
But as I type this, I think I should go check out my dormant Goodreads account to find out what my friends have been reading, how many stars they’re giving what, and if they’ve uploaded a super cute picture to their profile (OMG! They totally have!)

D.A. Powell

Banal Probe

The Blogosphere is, as they say in stand-up comedy, a tough room: so many audience members seem to have shown up just to heckle. It’s strange how people lob remarks from the void—I wonder, often, how those same people might behave at parties.
Of course, a healthy dose of criticism is good and necessary. And it may even be useful to call out the romantic banalities when you see them—though I think anyone who tires of banality should probably avoid the arts altogether.

Alan Gilbert

Philip Guston and the poets

Guston1.jpg
Philip Guston was a lifelong friend of poets—from his teenage years in Los Angeles, to his time as a member of the New York School of painting, to his move to Woodstock. His famous—for some, infamous—switch in the late ’60s from abstraction to figuration lent itself to collaboration with various writers. The Morgan Library’s current exhibition of Guston’s drawings prominently features a number of works with accompanying text by poets such as Clark Coolidge (that’s one of them above) and Guston’s wife Musa McKim. (A selection of the Guston-Coolidge collaboration was published back in 1991 with the title Baffling Means by Peter Gizzi’s o-blek editions.)

Mark Nowak

NAFTA Superhighway Poetics

NAFTA-highway-725530.gif
Driving the width of USAmerica from Minnesota to Texas and back as I did the past two weeks (and may again later this summer), I began to imagine somewhere in Kansas or Missouri what a tri-national, social, cultural, and politicized middle North American poetry and poetics would look like, sound like, and read like. It’s a thought I return to with some regularity–child of rust-belt Buffalo, educated on the outskirts of Toledo, sequestered the past two decades at the western edge of the Great Lakes, or, as Lorine Niedecker called the region, “North Central” (though that’s perhaps a more apt moniker for Thunder Bay or Nunavut than south-east Wisconsin). Having read and studied the New York Schools and San Francisco Renaissances of the previous century, as well as the countless other coastal poetry and poetics communities of eras far and close, I can’t help but try to imagine a geography of North America poetry production centers recalibrated along a North-South Central axis.
Try to imagine a continuum that begins with Magnus Einarsson’s Icelandic Canadian Popular Verse composed on farms north of Winnipeg and ends with Subcomandante Marcos’s versification at the Zapatista Encuentro “for humanity and against neoliberalism” in Chiapas in 1996; try to imagine “the port of Kansas City” (as some of the NAFTA superhighway literature describes) and its potential poet laureate Diane Glancy–her book Claiming Breath is central, I think, to any reading of what, here in the US nation-state, we might imaginatively dub an emergent US-35 literary tradition.

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A selection of new work from Dorothea Grossman; new poems by Lavinia Greenlaw, David Yezzi, A.E. Stallings, Gerald Stern, and Dan Gerber; translations of Carlo Betocchi, and Mahmoud Darwish; an Editorial on Ruth Lilly; an exchange between Ilya Kaminsky and Adam Kirsch; an essay by Chen Li; and a review by Daisy Fried.

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