I am not a blogger: I neither have my own blog nor do I usually read blogs, with very few exceptions, so I hope you bear with me. I live in New York. (A lame excuse?) I tend to become engaged in a lot of community service and I have the sense that I belong in a number of communities at once (although perhaps they’re one and the same.) Attending certain events—readings, panel discussions, art openings, book launches and the like—in order to be supportive of my peers, under certain circumstances, could also qualify as community service. Who hasn’t had the unpleasant feeling that no matter what one must show up for one’s friends? If one has read to an almost nonexistent audience (I once had the great experience to read to two people at the St. George Theater in Staten Island, which can seat up to 3,000 people!) the sense that it’s one’s duty to be supportive of one’s peers can be even more of a burden . . . I have mixed feelings about what being a poet in this day and age requires, and think that the issue is complex enough to merit some further exploration. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy with what I do, it’s just that more often than not I can’t but wonder why we keep doing what we do when we most of us think that this era is particularly dismal in terms of the impact we have on society due to the monopoly that the entertainment industry has on people’s imaginations. Or has thinking this way become a generalized nervous tick? I was struck, for instance, by reading Jean Franco’s assessment of poetic practices in The Decline and Fall of the Lettered City. She argues that a critical minority of cultural producers has been “forced into artisan forms of publishing, into readings (that return orality to literature), or into the academy—although the academy is no longer necessarily a shelter for creativity,” and is “being torn by the same forces and the demand for performativity as the rest of society” (274). Although there is not much to debate regarding the panorama she fatally describes, overall my outlook on some of the issues she brings up is optimistic. Later in the week I’ll discuss the potential I see in micro-publishing and the innovative ways in which some poets in the U.S. and Latin America have found to engage with larger communities, aided perhaps precisely by poetry’s off-center position vs. other artistic practices. For now I’d like to bring up a series of poetry readings I recently curated with fellow poet Tonya Foster at the Bowery Poetry Club. Like the Segue Foundation that publishes Roof Books, the Segue Series is committed to innovative literature and has been running uninterruptedly for—believe it or not—25 years, having migrated from the Ear Inn in the far West Side to Double Happiness, a bar in Chinatown, to Holman’s BPC. There is a rotating group of eight volunteer curators that are paired so as to organize weekly readings for two months, from September to May. I suspect that if the series were to take place at a bookstore or a commercial venue, or were organized by a larger institution, it would have ended a long time ago. What seems to work very effectively is that unlike, say, readings at a Barnes & Noble, the history of the series and the loyalty of its followers provide a context for the work being read. Besides, the fact that each year new people join the pool of curators helps keep things fresh. One has the feeling that by reading there one is participating in a larger, ongoing, conversation. Reading at the Poetry Project is perhaps the epitome of this model, at least in New York. My experience working with Tonya could not have been better. I myself was introduced to some poets who I’m afraid I otherwise wouldn’t have encountered on my own, at least in the near future. We aimed at pairing authors who shared similar concerns but were coming at them from different angles, some of whom weren’t aware of each other’s work. One of the threads unifying our program was the junction of formal experimentation with a critical concern with minority and women’s issues. The incisive and dazzlingly inventive work of poets such as Evie Shockley, Latasha N. Diggs, and Erica Hunt presented models of ways to think of, and beyond, the African-American experience. Eliot Weinberger read an incredible essay on the rhinoceros in which a considerable portion of the text was in Hawaiian. The last reading with Carol Mirakove, who read from the recently released Mediated, and Lisa Robertson, who read from The Men, took place over a week ago. If their work doesn’t represent a new wave of feminism, then I don’t know what does. (For a while I’ve been pondering Robertson’s proposition that nature and femininity are but specters of the state imagination. Her conceptuo-lyrical ideolect is gradually taking over my mind. No one who reads Robertson is ever the same again, but that’s a different matter . . . ) Although originally we had the desire of having all poets engage in a discussion of poetics either after the readings or in the blogosphere, we lacked the extra time to organize that, since we’re both grad students who live in New York . . . (In case you’re interested: thanks to Charles Bernstein, who co-directs PennSound, audio files of all the readings will soon be available at http://writing.upenn.edu/pennsound.) To wrap up today’s perhaps contradictory entry I’d like to toss out some ideas. So we love poetry. We’re the ones who read it, buy it, discuss it, care about it. Is it my imagination or are we required to do much more for the sake of our disinterested love of poetry than other cultural producers, say, fiction writers? Ah, and the logic is perverse: the lower the stakes, the more there is required of one in order to sustain the community. (In this sense, Kenneth Goldsmith’s project Ubu.com, the most comprehensive free archive of 20th-century artistic production and avant-garde poetry, is a windfall.) Anyway, what exactly is it that we’re doing? Are we heroes, martyrs, cultish narcissists, or community activists? It depends on the nature of the activity we engage in. This brings up an issue that I’ve been thinking about for a while now and that I’ll try to address in the next few days: what is the nature of the poetic economy? I spend a lot of time thinking about economies: my own, the world’s. I’m fascinated by the workings of things that seem to defy the logic of late capitalism; they’re a bit like benign growths appearing unexpectedly, or like heterotopias (in the medical sense of the term)—normal tissues that are displaced, misplaced, or in abnormal locations within the body. More to the point, it seems that the more material obstructions there are to establishing a dialogue that bypasses commercial transactions, the more vehemently we adhere to our desire to exchange ideas for the mere sake of a vital, and sometimes even uncomfortable, conversation. Who would think, for instance, that at a historical moment in which books have been pronounced endangered species and successful businesses are those that emulate the Starbucks, Barnes and Noble, and Wal-Mart model, there would be a fervent resurgence of near artisanal, micro-publishing initiatives? Some of the most dynamic presses to appear in New York City recently have embraced marginality, capitalized on its most liberating aspects. Among many others, I’m thinking of Futurepoem Books and Ugly Duckling Presse (which has gone through different metamorphoses since its inception over a decade ago.) Some examples of their books: Shanxing Wang’s Mad Science in Imperial China, published by Futurepoem Books in 2005, and Jen Bervin’s Nets, published by Ugly Duckling in 2004. Both are on their way to becoming classics and I doubt that they would have found an established publisher had they gone through the traditional circuits involving contests and the stamp of approval of the ever-elusive boards of academic and independent publishers. Despite its conceptual succinctness, Nets—a series of poems written within 60 of Shakespeare’s 154 sonnets—tackles some crucial issues in the realm of poetics concerning authorship, appropriation, and art as process. It is potential literature at its best: one can never be done “reading” the book because as one reads, one is persuaded to find new poems within Shakespeare’s sonnets and Bervin’s own verbal constellations. What she manages to do is one of conceptual art’s highest achievements: her premise outlives the actual consumption of the work and haunts one’s approach to things beyond it. Wang’s book, on the other hand, defies poetry’s parochialism by collapsing genres in an effort to recover a self, through memory and the acquisition of a new language, in the aftermath of the trauma. The poet had to leave China following the massacre at Tiananmen Square. His writing in English, inflected by Chinese and his training as an engineer, can’t ever be severed from the experience that launched him into exile. Echoing Pierre Bourdieu’s dictum that no word is ever innocent, consider the following double-edged questions in the poem “Probes of Near-Field Optical Microscopy”: “How long is a long sentence? / What sentence are you referring to? / What’s the law dictating the sentence? / So he died? / What’s the point of repetition? / What exactly happened? / Did you see the carnage? / Are you still shaking? / When did it start? / Where is the price tag of freedom?” There isn’t an ounce of exploitation of otherness or cultural difference in this book. One wonders if it would have received attention at a mainstream press, where the implicit mandate is to represent those authors of diverse cultural backgrounds who willingly accept to represent themselves in the terms favored by the establishment, and hence contribute to increase niche consumption. The Subpress Collective, founded in 1998, is another good example of an anomaly according to capitalist logic: members are committed to donating 1% of their income to the press in order to support the publication of poetry books chosen by its participants on a rotating basis. The stunningly eye-catching War, the musical, by Rob Fitterman and Dirk Rowntree, is its most recent release. Four hundred pages in length, in part a lettriste flipbook with dozens of blank pages and an alphabet turned on its head, no economic rationale justifies its lavish design in radical defiance of, among other things, the industry’s standards. In terms of publishing, if some of the micro-presses I’ve mentioned are political, it is because they are trying out different modes of production. Other presses, though, are overtly engaged with the body politic. One such press is Factory School, which recently published Laura Elrick’s Fantasies in Permeable Structures in its Heretical Texts Series. The organization’s website refers readers to a wide range of activities including research, publishing and community service which are “concerned with public education as much as education in public, [and emphasize] the social and cultural reproductive function of the multiple media arts.” Readers of Elrick’s book might be swept by the high level abstraction of her verse, yet are recurrently jolted by the intrusion of the context in which both the poet and reader are going about their business (pun intended): […] (Truly, I wear my sleeve
I’m afraid at this point I have more questions than answers. Readers’ comments are most welcome. Tomorrow I will write about trends in some Latin American cities and the way poets are dealing with some of the issues I’ve brought up so far. One way to understand why often culture thrives in times of adversity is that artists are forced to acknowledge that complacency might bring about their demise and hence have no alternative but to take matters into their own hands. When there is a system in place to secure artistic opportunities, it’s easier to succumb to the temptations of navel-gazing. In the Mexico of the ‘90s, for instance, despite the turbulence of the post-Salina years; the appalling rise of crime and kidnappings, partially due to generalized corruption, the ever-wider gap between the have and have-nots, and to the drug trade; and the emergence of indigenous movements and the uprising of the neo-Zapatista army, it was hard to find poetry that addressed any of these issues either directly or indirectly. One would have thought the time was ripe for a new type of socially-committed work, yet what might have hindered this possibility was that writers of all stripes then had the possibility of requesting grants and publishing funds from the National Fund for Art & Culture (FONCA), and that a vast majority, at some point or another, received some kind of support. Nowadays Mexico might be one of the few countries where there are more writers than readers. It might sound like an exaggeration, but it is not unlikely to be under 35 and have 3 or 4 published books to one’s credit. Although the first democratic elections in over 75 years took place six years ago, since Vicente Fox was elected, things have slowly gone downhill in terms of governmental support for the arts. A lot of the people that were appointed to major positions at cultural institutions lacked experience and had little credibility amongst intellectuals and artists. President Fox’s most memorable faux pas was getting the first name wrong and mispronouncing the last name of the über-Latin American writer of all times: “José Luis Borgues,” he said, putting on airs. Luckily the long-standing tradition of not having to worry about whether writing and publishing poetry is financially viable continues. What has changed is the way people fund their projects. A noteworthy group of mostly women poets, led by Carla Faesler and Rocío Cerón, have greatly contributed to redefine poetic practice among a younger generation of poets in Mexico. Under the collective Motín Poeta (which, by the way, sounds better in Spanish than Poets Mutiny, its English translation) they have consistently aimed at pushing the boundaries of what poetic activity might constitute, acknowledging that being forced to operate under an alternative, even informal, economy can prove incredibly invigorating. They have embraced a new economy and have devised strategies to thrive in it. If distribution of books of contemporary poetry is not optimal, why not organize parties/ art exhibitions / book fairs/ electronic music extravaganzas every so often in order to give exposure to new titles? (A year ago I attended one of these all-day parties on the rooftop of a museum in Mexico City: many books I had been looking for in bookstores to no avail were there.)The scene is ultimately small, so it’s not impossible to congregate a vast number of the city’s musicians, artists, poets, and filmmakers at once. If Motín Poeta had a founding manifesto (perhaps they do, but I’m not aware of it), I imagine some of its exhortations would be of the following ilk: * Away with the victim’s rhetoric and the constant whining about the fact that people don’t read poetry! * Away with poetry’s inferiority complex! If poetry isn’t dance music, if poetry isn’t cutting-edge contemporary art, force poets to join the party and engage in cross-pollination experiments! So far, Motín Poeta has put out the CD Urbe Probeta pairing electronic musicians with poets in order to explore the mammoth city’s soundscape, and is working on another CD in which poets and New Music composers collaborate on pieces based on the different stages of life. Although there’s great energy behind the first CD, some of the pieces it features feel a little too much like superimpositions of musical tracks and recordings of poets reading in a conventional way. The second project seems much tighter in the sense that music and voice are integrated to the point that they become indistinguishable. Another project they are currently working on is the commissioning of collaborations between visual artists and poets for an art exhibition and book to be released next year. Perhaps the most relevant project so far in terms of its range is Rocío Cerón’s press El Billar de Lucrecia. Its mandate is to publish fifteen books (one per billiard ball) to be distributed in, among other countries, Mexico, Perú, Chile, and Argentina. Each one will be by a different Latin American poet born in the ‘60s or ‘70s, and is funded by corporations and private donors. Unfortunately this had been sort of unprecedented south of the Rio Grande, where poetry and even fiction books by contemporary authors that could be easily bought in, for instance, Buenos Aires, are rarely seen at Mexican bookstores, and if they are available, it’s at prohibitive prices. So far three titles have been released: Hatuchay by Argentine Washington Cucurto, Multicancha by Chilean Germán Carrasco, and Los amores del mal by Cuban Damaris Calderón. Washington Cucurto, whose outrageous pseudonym seems straight out of a García Márquez novel, is quite a dynamic figure in his own right. If you have doubts on a socially and politically-minded rhetoric and its translation into a practice that might actually have impact on society, he’s the guy to keep your eye on. Over three years ago he and a group of poets founded the press Eloísa Cartonera in Buenos Aires. Their motto: to fight against social exclusion. And their premise couldn’t be more exquisitely simple: during the direst of Argentina’s recent economic depressions, entire families were forced into alternate forms of labor in exchange for below-minimum wages. A trade that became popular was gathering cardboard and selling it for 30 cents per kilo to recyclers; those who engaged in this are known as cartoneros. The members of Eloísa Cartonera came up with the idea of having the covers of the Xeroxed chapbooks and books they produce be made of cardboard bought from cartoneros at a decent $1.50 per kilo instead. At the workshop where they assemble the books they also employ some of the cartoneros in the cutting of the cardboard and the hand-painting of the covers. (No two are the same!) So far they’ve published hundreds of books, many by emerging authors and many too by major Argentine writers such as the novelists César Aira and Ricardo Piglia and the poets Arturo Carrera and the amazing Néstor Perlongher, who once wrote that “in the market of linguistic exchanges, where meanings are accounted for in terms of fixed and legitimized signifiers, [poetry] alters everything, causes a brawl: as if a gypsy fair barged into the gray chaos of the stockmarket.” To finish up, a poem by Washintgon Cucurto which appears in Hatuchay and elaborates on the notion of poetry as an informal economy. (My translation.) All Colors, All Models, All Sizes These three things we’ve got to yell at them always Poetry is potlatch, is what Argentine Arturo Carrera puts forward in his most recent poetry collection titled Potlatch. Born in 1948 Carrera has authored more than 20 books and has gone through his share of 20th-century atrocities, the Argentine military junta for one. He outlived two of Argentina’s greatest poets of that generation, Oswaldo Lamborghini and Néstor Perlongher, and like them, developed a poetics responsive to the calamities and contradictions of the ‘70s. At the core of the following poem—a sort of ars poetica, perhaps—are the complexities of the constant give and take of personal exchanges. (My hasty translation.) Like Macedonio Fernández life received at no cost I receive according to my capacity —lest I belong Se be it, Macedonio: if there weren’t inability to give (he gave himself beforehand So the free toy Indifferent voluptuous emotion, and worthless too, Oh! less indifferent and of some worth Ay! we can’t afford the means A word on the voluptuousness at the beginning of the poem, a propos of the old battle between the pleasure principle vs. the reality principle. Since I read the poem in a book and it takes up three different pages, at first I thought the pleasure principle would win out . . . I bring this up because in the end if we write and read poetry and are not politicians or social workers or doctors or lawyers it must be because we take pleasure in stringing words and sounds together on the page and physically in our bodies (or as Barthes would put it, in the “rustle of language.”) A lot of the poetry published by Eloísa Cartonera, the press in Buenos Aires that I mentioned yesterday, besides being overridingly humorous, is unencumbered by conventionally “serious” matters. It’s almost as if doing something socially-conscious in terms of the books’ production gave them the freedom to write about whatever they wanted. I’ve read very few of these books, since to acquire them one has to go through people traveling to Argentina, but what I’ve read is hilarious in part because of its mock-confessional style. With a constantly shifting sexual orientation as the subject of much of the poetry, what is unusual is the lack of definition. Fernanda Laguna, Cecilia Pavón, and Gabriela Bejerman are three of the most active poets in the scene. Their poems embody sexual fluidity and are not more representative of a lesbian sensibility than a heterosexual one. They frequently use pseudonyms—as men often also take on women’s names—and conventional notions of femininity are crushed hopefully never to be resurrected again. A particularly potent example is Gabriela Bejerman’s book Pendejo, which feature pieces such as “No ves que estamos comiendo frutillas con nieve” (Don’t you see that we’re eating strawberries and ice-cream . . .), a love letter written to a boyfriend while the subject is in the company of two male lovers and regrets that he’s not there with them, and “Tu mamá quiere lincharme” (Your Mother Wants to Lynch Me) in which the subject complains that she can’t play with herself anymore because her boyfriend’s mother is going after her. An astounding number of other micro-presses have sprung out in Buenos Aires and also seem to be thriving. The titles of the presses themselves are good indicators of the attitude shared by the younger generation: Belleza y felicidad (Beauty & Happiness), Carne argentina (Argentine meat), El Santo Oficio (The Holy Inquisition), Huácala Capirote (no translation), La frambuesa perversa (The Perverse Raspberry), Los lanzallamas (The Fire-Eaters), Sisabíanovenía (HadIknownIwouldnt havecome), Tsé-Tsé, and Voy a salir y si me hiere un rayo (I’m about to go out and if I get hit by lightning) are but a few. (Someone should write a treatise on what names of presses say about distinct historical periods!) Not everyone has embraced the poetry of all these different groups. Critics and other poets tend to consider a lot of it frivolous and adolescent. Yet to these younger poets’ credit, they’ve accomplished something that tons of money spent on marketing and the development of audiences hasn’t managed to do elsewhere: they’ve made poetry be as sexy and cool as rock-n-roll. An aside for the sake of not giving in to historical amnesia: in the ‘70s in Brazil, at the height of the military dictatorship, poets were going about in a similar way. Poetas marginales is what they were called. Their poetry was intended to be minor, marginal, and this was precisely from where they derived their political punch. They wanted to tear down a centralized cultural model and their motto was “seja marginal / seja herói”: be marginal, which also means “criminal” in Portuguese, be a hero. If the dictatorship regulated all aspects of public and private life, and hypocritically promoted decorum and decency, poets who rebelled took pride in embracing indecency as a way of life. Things have certainly changed, though. To end today’s post I leave you with a found poem in Carrera’s Potlatch that certainly makes a case for the enjoyment of those petty things in life: Facile Calculations Not few are the children who daily spend their money on candy or 20¢ trinkets. The majority spends more. Those who get into this habit soon find their squandering insufficient and cease to enjoy their purchases, since with routine comes the inability to appreciate them, until the day comes when they can’t have them and they think of themselves as damned. If instead of getting into the habit of spending that sum in vain they became accustomed to depositing it religiously in the NATIONAL POSTAL SAVINGS BANK, while ridding themselves of their dissipated habits and getting used to controlling themselves and disciplining their wills—priceless bonuses—they would find themselves, in due time, in possession of a sizeable fortune […]. LET CHILDREN, AND ESPECIALLY THEIR PARENTS, REFLECT ON THIS. (From the school notebook of Paula Barrile.) It’s been great to be here at this virtual gathering post. When I began writing last weekend some of the first sentences to come to my mind were: If we were at a party I’d introduce you to some of my favorite people. (Some of them are dead, or almost, and some of the living I’ve never met myself.) Soon I deleted them since the first person made me a little self-conscious . . . Ultimately, though, that was what I sought to do here, and what has motivated me to do almost everything else I do: translate, curate readings, edit, and even do my own writing. There’s so much I’d like to help make more available to readers in the U.S. that a five-day stint was obviously not going to suffice. I barely scratched the surface. (I wish I were a more monogamous type of translator à la Clayton Eshleman, for instance, although he’s had his flings with Césaire, Artaud, and others besides Vallejo.) And something tells me that availability isn’t necessarily the issue. How much of a demand is there for it? (Did I mention that the reading I gave to an audience of two at the St. George Theater in Staten Island consisted of translations of Mexican poetry?) I recently watched a documentary about The Corno Emplumado/The Plumed Horn (directed by Anne Mette Nielsen and Nicolenka Beltrán), the legendary international magazine published by poets Margaret Randall and Sergio Mondragón in Mexico City from 1962 to 1969. For those viewers who can tell how the plot of a movie will unfold upon watching its first scenes, from the start it’s possible to guess why the magazine folded. Opening footage: soldiers and tanks flooding the Plaza de las Tres Culturas in the Tlatelolco neighborhood in Mexico City. The date: October 2, 1968. The voice-over: President Gustavo Díaz Ordaz speechifying so as to justify the military’s crushing of the student movement the time has come to stop the student movement (applause) the abuse of vehicles for expression and outreach has led us to libertinism (applause) we have been tolerant to the point of being criticized, but everything has its limits (applause) . . . Back then poetry was considered a threat, especially if it had been written by a Latin American poet since all of them had to be, at least, communists. The Mexican poet Homero Aridjis tells an unbelievable story about an anarchist poem that he published in The Plumed Horn in January of 1963. The poem is called “Desencapsulamiento” (De-encapsulating) and its first couple of lines read “Yo recomiendo el magnicidio. / Yo digo: asesinemos al poderoso, al que conduce, encauza, somete, habla por todos, y ha tomado los lazos y el látigo” (I recommend magnicide. / I say: let us murder the powerful, he who leads, dictates, subjugates, speaks for all, and has taken hold of the bonds and the whip.) The poem was translated into English and published in a magazine put out by the Organization of American States later that same year. Remember what else happened in the U.S. in 1963? A deranged senator was convinced that the poem had inspired Lee Harvey Oswald to assassinate JFK and wanted to pursue an investigation on the links between him and Aridjis. Fortunately his argument wasn’t very persuasive. Was this about the power of poetry or the paranoid legacy of McCarthy’s witch-hunting? Even the way the magazine started seems impossibly perfect. Philip Lamantia lived in Mexico City’s Zona Rosa. Any American poet traveling in Mexico would stop by at his house. Mexican poets stopped by at his house. It soon became a sort of salon where poets would read to each other and discuss the different contexts and traditions from which their work was coming. As Randall says in the film, they wanted to understand each other despite the language barrier, and, at some point, she and Sergio Mondragón realized that they had met enough people to start an international magazine. American poet Harvey Wolin came up with the name, a juxtaposition of the horn, the quintessential jazz instrument, and the feathers of Quetzalcoatl. The poetry was not published in translation, but in its original language, and was very efficiently distributed across the globe through the network of representatives that gradually began to take shape. If a poet in Finland was published in The Plumed Horn that poet became a representative who would place copies in a few bookstores and would get other Finnish poets to submit poetry. The pricing “system” was a true gem. In each country the magazine cost whatever the representatives thought poets in a given country might be able to pay for it, and therefore it was not in the least homogenous. The back cover of the last issue of the magazine reads: argentina: 150 pesos / australia: 7/6 / brasil: 1000 cruceiros / costa rica: 5.50 colones / chile: 2 escudos / ecuador: 6 sucres / guatemala: 80 centavos / españa: U.S. 1.00 / méxico: 12.50 m.n. / panamá: 1 balboa / paraguay: 50 guaraníes / united states: 1 dollar / uruguay: 15 pesos / venezuela: 1 bolívar A poem in itself. How different is this from the typical dossiers—“Eight Poets from India,” “Five Poets from Cuba,” “Three Poets from Bolivia,” “Two Poets from Luxembourg”—that we occasionally find in poetry magazines that sometimes choose to feature work in translation, often without providing any glimpse of the context of the poetry and hence blocking any real possibility for the creation of a community of writers transcending national borders. Then again, what poetry in translation magazines do is terrific. What Circumference does is absolutely commendable. It’s just that I long for something that does much more than that . . . Perhaps Roberto Tejada’s Mandorla, which he started independently and now is co-edited by him with Kristin Dykstra at Illinois State University is the closest to that ideal. For translation to be potlatch mere translation is not enough. Shouldn’t bodies be returned to the equation if true exchange is desired? (Jackson MacLow quizzically asked a propos of the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics at Naropa University: “Why not Embodied Poetics?” At this point of disembodied everything, I couldn’t agree more with him.) But what am I saying, myself disembodied like this in this virtual space? Anybody out there? ¡Adiós! |
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