Wait, you’re reading the poem in the wrong direction.
On the other hand, what a way w. words. It’s a miracle.
Again, it’s a waterfall, to red to blue to yellow, all
from green. This wheel, or even a glass, achieves
that the way would not actually warrant growth
in the path of the forward motion, it seems likely
one pattern after another makes a series of patterns,
meaning it doesn’t follow a narrative, but I believe
it’s dutiful, if otherwise the words aren’t followed
much now. When it began, I already knew that
if I didn’t gain more than I was expecting, I have
to lose. The old words still speak for themselves
after all this time. The kitchen is the hottest room,
as the reference point fades or changes orientation
to take the share of this savings account on loan,
I could almost say the parking was smaller, seeing
it was out on Troutman St., closer than it wasn’t.
Now what? Another obscurity of opportunity, to go
& ask the impression w. the so indicated period if
which of these clauses are the genuine article of it?
The length of the lines may expand or contract, as
the sentences act as an accordion, fitting them into
either this or that template. The procedure is as easy
as walking, & w. the direction intact, the pause being
a new terminal point of prosody that indicates that
the receiver isn’t aware of what is offered, but charts
an image of the spoken syllable. Look at it in writing.
I am up the river w. a paddle, & it’s about time for me
not to wait. Move. Stop. Take a political stance owing
another intention in mind. A barbed hook will spool
backwards into the open field, where a few are still
ice-skating on the depths. The horizon point’s limit
is the belief. The last handful goes into the oven first.
Wait, I am writing the poem in the wrong direction.
-- Allen Mozek
Thursday, July 31, 2008
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3 comments:
Poem was composed in the opposite direction, starting w. the final line & progressing upward, w. a handful of stable "posts" along the way providing fixity.
Next move will prob. be to compose backwards w.in the increment of the word, or the sentence, as I feel the current process perhaps places too much power w.in the unit of the line? Thoughts?
--allen
As sometimes happens with your poems, there is an extraordinary importance placed on process, how one understands the writing of the poem while reading it. To make an analogy, likely a poor one, a poem like this resembles a map. We have to read it as it dictates. However, what a map provides, which a poem seemingly cannot (or here, does not) is a key. It seems improbable that you'd like to aesthetically give a reader a key to each poem, but that is often necessary to the impact of the poem as it is read.
I like that you are weaving sonic threads in here: "a miracle. / Again, it's a waterfall, to red, to blue, to yellow, all." I find moments within the poem itself more powerful than the process, particularly "The old words still speak for themselves / after all this time." It matters not to me, during these moments, in which direction the poem was written.
I like that the poem is a kind of argument, but it's not an argument I can wholly follow. Since I am reading him, I am reminded of Odysseas Elytis, who is a maker of poetic arguments himself. He writes in one poem, "When we discover the secret relationships of meanings and traverse them deeply we'll emerge in another sort of clearing that is Poetry. And Poetry is always single as the sky. The question is from where one sees the sky." I never stop believing this is a poem, nor do I ever stop believing it is an argument for poetry.
I think several of your poems do this, argue for the possibilities of poetry. And that is a great thing. I become troubled by how lubricious the language of the arguments becomes. I want to follow, but the poem seems to resist this relationship. This is an odd sentiment to describe, as it points to success, but in and by that very success a failure, wrought by the experience of trying to read the poem.
You're never scant on plumbing the depths of some real and serious questions about poetry. Hats off to that.
Dann,
Your analogy of a map actually strikes me as an apt one! Instead of a map whose enjoyment hinges upon the application and codification of a key, I see the poem as a key without a map, or even better, a map without a place to which it is the referent. That is, the poem is the referent w.out an original reference point. The impact of the poem is not contingent upon the parsing out of a code, bc. nothing is there to be “worked out” in that manner. I’m certain many of us on ‘Duende’ took Kathleen McCormick’s class on ‘UIysses’ while at Purchase. It’s an amazing class, as anyone who took it would be quick to tell you, but I think the class focuses on only one possible method of appraisal – a more modernist critical approach that stalwartly believes that even an “impenetrable” text can be parsed. Stuart Gilbert’s guide to the book, as well as the annotated Rosemond-Gifford indicate that a “key” exists to break down the code. There is an alternative manner in which to approach “Ulysses-” as a multiplicity refusing codification, as a reflection of the simulation and dissonance of modern urban life. One of the poets in JG Ballard’s collection of short stories of futuristic artists & architects, “Vermillion Sands,” is working on a translation of Joyce’s “Ulysses” to an ancient Greco-Roman setting, in order to gauge its accuracy & effectiveness. The joke, of course, lies in the discrepancies. It’s the details isn’t it? Those details that simply don’t translate neatly are what provides a piece its friction!
I like how the Elytis quote you included hinges upon subjectivity – on perspective! Are separate poetries, different poetics & divergent traditions, all concerning themselves w. some self-same unifying concept of “Poetry?” Gertrude Stein writes that to experience a poem is to enjoy it, & to enjoy a poem is to understand it. If there is no “standard,” then, to judge a poem as “successful” or “unsuccessful” w.in the critical framework, which has been handed down from the New Critics to the very method of the contemporary writing workshop, then how is it possible to tell whether a poem is “good” or not? Well, the map is more important than the place, and the reading is more important than the writing. An apt progression of John Cage’s “I have nothing to say, and I’m saying it” would be “I don’t know what to write, but I know how to write it.”
I apologize for my lateness in responding to you! I’ve been very excited to write you back on this since you posted yr. response, & haven’t gotten a chance to do so until today (my day off). Anyway, thanks for the close, responsive reading!
Allen
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