Saturday, January 5, 2008
A fine poem from Kevin Young
Campbell’s Black Bean Soup
Candid, Warhol
scoffed, coined it
a nigger’s loft—
not The Factory,
Basquiat’s studio stood
anything but lofty—
skid rows of canvases,
paint peeling like bananas,
scabs. Bartering work
for horse, Basquiat churned
out butter, signing each
SAMO ©. Sameold. Sambo’s
soup. How to sell out
something bankrupt
already? How to copy
rights? Basquiat stripped
labels, opened & ate
alphabets, chicken
& noodle. Not even brown
broth left beneath, not one
black bean, he smacked
the very bottom, scraping
the uncanny, making
a tin thing sing.
The model, Frank O'Hara, suits Young's ability to catch the manic swerves of accelerated city speech and still have the precise phrasing a poem requires to be memorable. The conflations here, the puns, are electric and potent in the contradictory stances they bring together, a white art world and a young black artist trying to make a place himself amid the shilling, hype and inverse racism and still maintain his cultural identity. Would that he was this much on the beam much more often.
Friday, January 4, 2008
ACT NOW AND SAVE: minimalist misery
There is something to be said about being chintzy with the
number of words one puts on the page as one attempts a compact and powerful
expression of an idea that might otherwise be talked to death. "Less is
more", in the words of architect Mies van der Rohe's explanation for his
Spartan designs. In the builder's sense of the phrase, form follows function,
with the aesthetic of the structure shaped by the functions the building is
required to fulfill; the idea was to disabuse urban populations of the
decorated and sickly festooned traditions of the bourgeoisie that have gone before
and introduce a new set of relationship between human beings and the spaces
they inhabit.
The modernist poet, inclined to the terse and abrupt phrase,
the broken image, the elliptical sensibility, wanted to use words as if they
were objects to be arranged to achieve a specific effect; the aim in turn was
to discard several generations of accumulated rhetoric, not the least being the
argumentative digressions of the Metaphysical Poets and the shammed-up personas
presented by the most drippingly egocentric of the Romantics, and give us all,
rather, a direct treatment of The Image. A reader was to be made aware that
what they were bringing to the poem were associations already contained in their head; the poem, the
hard expression of the perception, stripped of the adjectives and qualifiers
usually the poet's ready, is meant to be seen in itself, isolated. One is
supposed to examine the conditions of their response and realize that it is they, the reader, who completes the poem upon reading. Williams, though,
considered his world rather concretely; there is nothing beyond the mist except
vacuum. Eliot is present, not at all for the obvious reason that Eliot and his
revamping of the Metaphysical Poet’s habit of poeticizing their philosophical
arguments weren’t principal sources of Young’s anxiety of influence. It’s
Williams, with his notion that poetry needs to be in the vernacular and that
the thing in itself is its own adequate symbol, whom Young has gone to school
on and is influenced by. You of all those here should know that not every poet
gathered in this generation of geniuses had the same view as to what poetry and
language must do. It has been said that there are as many types of modernism
as there are modernist’s exceptions, and this ought not be considered a claim that
the poets in America and England were on the same page, reading the same
paragraph, nodding their heads to an agreed agenda. The argument that Young
sides with, and which I find the most appealing, is the one Williams, Shapiro,
MacLeish (and Stevens, for that matter) make in their different ways, especially
in their Imagist experiments, was that what is need in poetry is a clear, hard,
material language where the things of this world can be treated directly. This
was the principle thrust of Modernism, however divided the schools were in
their particular aesthetic--to change the way the world was perceived and, as a
result, change the world for the better.
All this is fine as long as it works, which is to say in
each case that as long as the buildings are reasonably attractive or have
intriguing shapes in the city blocks where they've displaced older buildings,
and as long as the poem is , on its terms, making use of a language, sparse
as it might be, that gives one the phrase, the trope, the image, the spark that
will make the reader's mind engage the cultivated intuition which makes poetry
worth reading (and writing) in the first place.
But too often enough less is less, and this is what poet
Kevin Young has brought us, again, with his poem "Act Now and Save".
Young is one of those young poets whose work veers between genuine invention
and gimmicky application of line breaks and pauses lifted from WC Williams or
Archibald MacLeish; one wonders when he will stop trying to please his
professors and mentors and slip into something more comfortable, such as his voice. His previous poem here, Elegy, was nothing less than a
low-rise building under construction, bare girders and preliminary piping
through which a stiff wind blows. That's the point, I suppose, of a creaky
construction of unmoored signifiers requiring brick, mortar, lumber, wiring,
the placement of windows, so it can finally resemble something useful. It was so
bare that one might as well have been gazing at lone, gnarled steel rods
sprouting from the compact dirt at construction sites as they wait for the rest
of the building to appear, one rivet, welding spot and steel beam at a time.
There are better ways to make the mind do interesting things. Act Now and Save
has the same problem, a sequence pared back so far that there remains only a
gutted root of a poem. It's a sequence of unfinished sentences, declarations
that are choked off before the mind can convince the voice to finish the
sentiment and commit to knowledge that about the speaker's life
has changed. That ambivalence might be interesting had the verbal chunks
themselves, the smashed syntax, been interesting enough to have us imagine,
that is to say, finish the scenario, and alternative scenarios as well.
It's a wonder of the world
keeps its whirling—
How I've waited
without a word—
Staring where
the sun's no longer—
You gone
into ether, wherever
You want
to call it. Soon
Sun won't fight
off the cold
But today warm
even in the rain.
Whatever the well
you want me
To fall down I will—
Meet me by the deepest
part of the river
And we'll drown together
wading out past
All care, beyond even
the shore's hollers.
I can't for a moment find sympathy for this depressed person
who is standing by the river talking to another who is present only in memory;
"river", "drown", "rain" "sun" come off
as readymade words one selects from a write-your-own-free verse-poem list,
terms in themselves that when properly placed give us automatic evocations of
loss and the feeling that world is too complex and mean spirited to continue to
live in now that a certain someone is gone. Not that there is anything wrong
with these words as such, just as there is nothing wrong with the notes one
hears in a glutted guitar solo on a classic rock station. Context is
everything, a suitable melody for the guitar notes, and sharply drawn
particulars, details, in the case of Young's poem. It sounds hackneyed to say
this, but Young didn't make me care about this mumbling; one hears this stuff
on public transportation all the time, but the beleaguered there are not paid
four hundred dollars by Slate. Young at his worst sounds like he’s still trying
to prove himself to his elders . The essential point didn’t require a thorough outlay of the trends in modernist
poetry since the Jazz Age, since that would have been padding. I spoke to those
facets of modernism that are the models Young sees himself in line with. The
limits of empathy are tested and exhausted every day until the next morning,
and a professional like Young should give us more than this dress rehearsal.
It's opening night here, and his fly is open.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Exile on Main Street
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Jazz saxophone great Michael Brecker, 1949-2007
A belated word on the passing of Michael Brecker, a jazz saxophonist who, with this trumpeter brother Randy Brecker pioneered the use of horns in fusion and rock-accented jazz improvisation, passed away last January 13 of this year. Brecker , of course, was much more than a fixture on the fusion circuit; as with the case of guitarist Pat Metheny, another musician first associated with the narrowing dynamics of jazz-rock, Brecker made his mark as an explorer of form, fashioning a rich and full bodied tone and a supple, inventive style in the way he presented his formidable technique. The sound of his spirited solos has poured from my apartment windows for years, and his was an identifiable style that would get me moving my fingers as if I were holding an instrument myself, punching up and punching out the down beats and wrapping a thick, lacy set of ribbons around the busiest of bass lines. My heart sank when I read of his early passing, and from here, nearly a year after the fact, I offer a thank you.
Friday, December 28, 2007
TMZ bottom feeds its way to the top
Gossip website TMZ.com has been slinging the proverbial crap at celebrity fuck ups for a while now, and one needs to admit that it was guilty fun watching the overpaid get some come uppance as their missteps and errant thinking were held to saturation ridicule. But then the nausea set in, the sheer meanness of the enterprise; constant badgering and inspection of the doings of people of no real consequence just makes TMZ.com seem like a playground bully who is too much of a beef-brained moron to think of anything better to do. Now they have a television show, it's a success, and the New York Times covers them with a puff piece. The "newspaper of record" sounds like it's endorsing this televised goon show. The newspaper's lack of criticism or direct comment on either the web site's or the program's pernicious pandering seems a further stab as they reach for that large segment of their potential readership that's attracted to this sort of bottom feeding journalism. That's a tragedy in a sense, since it would be refreshing for someone to be the scold and demand that someone stop giving these paparazzi-enabling knuckle draggers free time on my television. It’s one thing for an Internet creation to break out into the mainstream, but the awful drag of it all is that it had to be a petty, smug and bullying infestation like TMZ.com. I realize that celebrities are an odd breed who are paid unreal amounts of money to fulfill audience requirements of glamour, power, beauty and grace and who are fair game when their lives go awry (or right, for that matter). But what TMZ.com does is just a shade shy of stalking, and the need for anything half-way resembling news about famous folks to fill their way web pages and TV slots, any snarky, sneaky, unfounded rumor to regale their audience with is mendacious pandering. Certainly the likes of Paris, Britney, Lindsey, Te al, have created their own catastrophes that are going to be played out in public, but the daily hammering these folks get goes far beyond someone getting their “just deserts”; the television version of the show especially is mean spirited and a superior tone that suggests a staff drunk on it’s seeming power to make or break reputations. The saturation is pornographic, honestly
Thursday, December 27, 2007
"Aftermath": an artful evocation of a difficult state of being.
The fawn couldn't stand
but raised its too-large head to gaze at you.
You were, as you said, already more or less
posthumous. You took each other in.
One of you before, the other beyond fear.
Two creatures, side effects on one another,
headed in opposite directions.
This is a nice play between the narrator and the doe and her new fawn, two examples of aftermath, the first being the reviewed results of a life nearing the end of it's term that teeters just a bit on a wallow, the second being the abruptness and pain of birth. One is an exit, the other an entrance, and there is the slightest suggestion of what might be larger stakes in this epiphany, the endless cycle of birth, life,death. It is a bit anthropomorphic, one would say, to suggest that the fowl and the narrator had a primal connection as this chain of life was pulled forward, one creature being pulled in while another is moved out, but it's a conceit that works simply because it isn't overworked nor used a license for a murky metaphysics; poet Roseanna Warren maintains brief, taciturn, fully aware that her task is to serve the image and it's subtle revelation.
Compare this with Norman Mailer's style of attributing human characteristics to a moon rock, observed through thick layers of compartment glass, in his wonderful book about the moon landing Of a Fire on the Moon; Mailer was at his loquacious best at the time, and had to extend several elaborate metaphorical constructions in order to get away with his suggestion that he was in telepathic communication with this lone, vacuum packed lunar nugget. Even Mailer partisans like myself wince when he come across this concluding passage,
and realize that the writing was more performance than insight; Mailer's rhetoric capsized any insight he might originally have had.
Warren , in contrast, is particularly delicate in her handling of an idea that would be ludicrous in left in in the hands of a less discriminating discriminating writer.That she resists the need to lather it up, lard it up or lord it up in her effort is evidence of someone who can mold language to fit a mood, to underscore a mood. The tone here is ambivalence which is marked by a paucity of qualifiers, and there is the sense that one is in a rarefied air , crisp and chilly, where a cold light is about to reveal an unadorned fact in your life. "Aftermath" is a gem, a melancholic but artfully restrained evocation of a difficult state of being.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
How God Created The World
waits for a chat
as he waits
in a garden ripe
with words that
are first in line.
There is no garden
until he desires fruit
rich in the taste
of particular soils,
there will be no desire
until he creates hunger
and the need to sit down,
there will be no table or chair
to put anything
that belongs on them
until he contrives the
things that go there
and makes it all look
like they've been present
for the ages.
There will be no ages
unless he makes things
with tongues, mouths,
tastes of all sorts,
something alive
with a memory of what's good
in this life they discovered along
the way as they experimented
with ways to talk to a god
who seems so busy
thinking things through,
he realizes
nothing will age
unless there are creatures
that die.
The god I know
thinks of big words
and broad strokes,
he's been asleep
since the beginning
time, which he invented,
he will wake up
and create, I think,
the cell phone, on a lark,
and will notice
at once
that his voice mail is full.
-
here