"eventness"

I took part in a poetry reading last Friday and I think it went well. I had a wonderful time at the reading and met a lot of very nice people. Some of the things I read have left me with serious questions in my head about my writing, though. I read a mix of poems I’ve written in the past year that were composed without using any techniques that incorporate outside or found material, such as cut-up, flarf, etc. These were received well. I also read a series of poems I specifically composed for the reading that used a cut-up technique—sort of an equation, based on a modified version of a writing exercise Charles Bernstein created. Here’s the Bernstein exercise:

“Pick a book at random and use title as acrostic key phrase. For each letter of key phrase go to page number in book that corresponds (a=1, z=26) and copy as first line of poem from the first word that begins with that letter to end of line or sentence. Continue through all key letters, leaving stanza breaks to mark each new key word. (Cf.: Jackson Mac Low's Stanzas for Iris Lezak.) Variations include using author's name as code for reading through her or his work, using your own or friend's name, picking different kinds of books for this process, devising alternative acrostic procedures.”

For my version of this process, I specifically chose books with language I am interested in. I did not use any books of poems as source material. The idea of that bothered me. It seemed more interesting to me to use “non-poetic” texts as source material. I also played fast and loose with using the EXACT first word/phrase on a page that began with a letter from the title. At the reading, I made mini-broadsides of these poems on thick, cardstock paper and gave them away for free. I like broadsides and giving things away for free.

Part of me feels like these poems came off very much as a parlor-trick, or a game. I don’t necessarily think that’s bad. Honestly, I was very enamored of the process of making the poems. I think that might be a problem, though. The poems themselves, maybe because of the acrostic that gets created, might be received in strange ways. I’m not sure. Erin and I talked about these poems on our drive home. She prefers other things I’ve written. I think I might prefer other things I’ve written. I’m still on the fence. One interesting thing we discussed was how she finds the flarf texts I’ve worked on more interesting than these poems. Maybe I don’t have a whole, cohesive thought to tie this post together. I would just like it if some people commented on things like arbitrary structures in poetry, using formulas and equations, cut-ups and flarf. I would like this because I’m interested in thinking about these things. All of these techniques are very new for me, in any of my composition processes. The idea of being the “slide poetry guy” or the “cut-up poetry guy” in a sort of circus way feels very strange, since I’ve been writing poems for a long time, but haven’t incorporated some of these things until very recently. An old friend of mine, Matt, also read at the poetry reading. He asked me if I was going to read an older poem of mine that he said he really likes. I didn’t have it at the reading, so I’ll post the poem here for Matt. Also, here are links to three of the cut-up poems I read: “rise in balloons and drift over”, “or, like a gull”, “the crowd”. Maybe reading these different types of poems will give people things to comment about. Robert J. Baumann is one of my only commenters. He deserves a medal or something. Maybe another chocolate rabbit. Here is the older poem of mine for Matt:

The Tradition

And who’s that poet come in off the streets, with a look unleal and lour—
your boots are muddy, you son of a bitch, get out of our ivory tower.
--Thomas McGrath

I.

I said goddamn Eric,
where’s the writer in here
and moved into the den
where they sat
drunk and talked tenure
instead of shop,
with coeds in period dresses
while Billy Holiday
kicked the gong slowly
on the Hi-Fi, and no one listened,
and everybody lied.

II.

She asked me to gnaw
and whisper it,
in syllables like sinkers
pulling down her lobes
and licking the velvet
of her inner ear.

My poem, she said,
and my petit mort
was spent so cheaply
that I learned to hate
American poetry
and its usage.

III.

Every time the transformer hums
in a storm, I hold my breath
and hope the bolt will come tonight
and surge through silicon
in my molded, plastic box
and my verse will wail
its death rattle
in fiber optics and light
or be fused by Hephaestus
into my mother board forever.



IV.

In my dream the houseboat
is lodged on a spit
off Port Gamble. It rains
and I leave my Danner boots
and my oilskin
glistening like eels and slip
naked, into the harbor.

I swim for leagues like a Silkie
past dolphins and Leviathans.
When I drag myself on shore
no one speaks my language.
I get fat with an Abyssinian maid.
In our rowboat we drink Thunderbird
and trade stories with the locals
in gesture and pantomime.
My poems become rolling papers
as she blows smoke-rings from the stern.