Have we entered a version of silent disco in which the primary experience of the poem is as received signals rather than noise?
For a poem to operate as a poem must it now be concentrated on the idea of itself, must it appear to be either the square root of poem or hardly a poem at all?
What’s a disco? asked my American penpal in 1974. She also sought clarification on ‘jumble sale’ and ‘youth club’.
Silent disco: I thought it was the most miserable thing I’d ever heard of (a room full of people with headphones on, dancing alone and in silence) until one night a year ago in Nova Scotia when there was well and truly nothing else to do. Someone described me as looking joyful. It’s not often I get called that.
Hm. I never thought of my bus ride as a silent disco before. But so it is!
A winter night in Nova Scotia spent at a silent disco, prelude to hibernation.
sounds haiku-ish, Jane.
“What is the state capital of Nova Scotia?” — John Ashbery
Have we entered a version of silent disco?
. yes, yes, of course the silence of the experience is primary experience and the poem is a jumble of signals not received per se, vis a vis whatever noise in a poem as poem is operating on the concentration of a squares head man.
. yah, yah, blow Jackie baby, Ginsey and Newton John gettin loud ‘n doorty wiv the idea of Dublin Poetry itself, must,must be either appearing as the square ball route to D – I – S -
C – O – D
i – S
C – O poetries, all lurve asking mah Americoin peeps to pal around wiv S – A- R- S
A -
I – D
S C O, singing disco, singing Frisco ‘74, a race Al and Auden also fought in, for the clarification of thespandex flip back hep cat hip Liverpool sale of the jumbled youth of John and Paul singing disco, yo blow Jack and Ginsey at the studio in ‘54, Greg just owta chokey, Neal a prophet on the road, rock ‘n roll da Dub club of Desmond Swords.
Fab lurve in the lavs with Jack K and George, blowin up the green lore, Amergin berthed in ollamh, Taliesin in Annwnn, Ceridwen in Bala, beneath the vil the coll nuts fizz, in Segais where poetry lives..
gra agus siochain