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July 29, 2004

Zukofsky - Mark Scroggins

Filed under: Uncategorized — Stephen @ 4:09 am

(I posted the following piece on the Buffalo Poetry list today, as well. It’s here in case you are not on that list and interested in Zukofsky. The piece on the ‘guard’ reading in Fridha Kahlo’s house precedes this entry - if that’s the one for which you are looking).

I’ve been reading Louis Zukofksy for almost 30 years now. Which is really not accurate. When I started with the small poems in the seventies, I found them ’slight’ - or I did not quite have the eye or ear to catch them, or think that they ‘delivered.’ By 1983, the UC Press edition of “A” was published and I began to take the bigger dive - admittedly under the influence of Lyn Hejinian, Barry Watten, Ron Silliman, Ron Johnson and Michael Palmer who were early local adepts in the Bay Area. The persuasion caught on. A-22 and A-23 become a much shaping force in my own writing - and yet, I would have been the first to say I had no real interpretative sense of what I was reading - other than the music and texture of the language was utterly compelling. Recently I decided it was important to take the reading into another level and started a small group to take on all of “A” ,one of two such groups of which I know in the Bay Area - in fact, as I get older I find critical groups as the best way to go into full immersion, at least with the idea of approaching an interpretive grasp, including reading related critical books, etc. (About four of us took two years to read Proust - which, as a proverbial poet slow reader - I would never have done on my own!).

So (as a related book) I recently got “Louis Zukofsky and the Poetry of Knowledge” by Mark Scroggins. (University of Alabama Press, 1998) What a delight to read! Comprehensive: (to paraphrase briefly and, perhaps, poorly) A history of the man, the writing, the politics in the context high modernism and 20th century history; the issue of language and the affirmation of knowledge; the word in relationship to the politics; the challenge of writing as a Jew in an anti-Semitic modernist tradition; a full discussion “A” in the context of musical form and knowledge; Z’s curious affinity with W Stevens; and, generationally, the heritage of the work’s relationship within the different perspectives of R Johnson, Taggart, Bernstein, Silliman, Palmer and others.

Obviously, at 397 pages, a very ambitious book in scope and attention. First it’s very readable and caring of its subject. Scroggins is convinced - as many of us are - that Zukofsky is arguably the most significant American poets of the 20th century. (I say that with the proviso I feel often majorly put off with hierarchal, canonizing statements - preferring , for example, the entire landscape, play and juxtaposition between the cumulative works of the several moderns - the various objectivists, Pound, Williams, etc.)

Part of Scroggins lucidity is his capacity to move from the large historical scope to the the play of immediate tactile elements of a poems’ language (pun, consonant, image, assonance, etc.) and do it for the most part without getting labored with an exhaustive analysis. In fact, as anyone familiar with the work inevitably appreciates, Z’s language does not invite critical closure - if you go one direction with a set of words, the next set may fully betray one interpretive target for another. As Scroggins argues at one point, Z’s transliterations from older texts - some operating one on top of another going down several layers of literary and other kinds of history(botanical, etc., etc.) - keep the work of reading quite open-ended. It’s Scroggins strength to be able open up and point to some of the layers and yet not close the reading process down & keep alive to the work’s internal music. (I guess one should normally give an example here, but, what the hell, trust me!)

I should say that Scroggins is also appreciative and inclusive of others who have written on Zukofsky, or poets (Palmer, Johnson, Taggart, Silliman, etc.) whose work has been shaped by Z. The book is good spirited in that sense, where like Z’s work itself, he brings his critical associates into play.

In any case the book has been a real helpful eye/ear etc. opener for me - and I suspect it will be for others, particularly with the upcoming Z September conference in New York - which I hope to be able to make. (By the way, since its publication in 1998, I have no idea of the book’s critical history, how it was received or whether some knocked it around, or pointed out its limits??)

One last question that emerges from reading “A” - while being led by association to other works of the period such as Patterson, the Cantos, the larger works of Reznikoff, Charles Olson - what was the (heroic?) nature of the American impulse to write the long, and historically comprehensive poem. In Mexico recently, I was also struck by the historic scope and ambition of Diego Rivera’s murals - he (a contemporary of these same folks), also, wants to encompass it all - from the archeological, pre-Columbian eras and depths up to the present contents of North America. In addition, how does the impulse and intention of these earlier twentieth century works vary from, say, those of Ron Silliman and Lyn Hejinian, among others.
Just a question.

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July 27, 2004

Fridha Kahlo - the house & the “guard.”

Filed under: Uncategorized — Stephen @ 3:23 am

There was the young woman “guard” - blue blazer & dress - in Fridha Kahlo’s wonderful house. She stood not far from Fridha’s bedroom. There was a death mask of Diego - a sculpture of his facing lying down flat in a downstair’s room; I cannot remember if was upon a bed or where it was positioned. The ‘guard’ was holding up a paperback and reading: The Art of Loving by Erick Fromm.

Given all that we know of the marriage, the affairs - the built-in whiplash of the whole relationship - the Fromm title, its optimism, is a sweet, sad irony. I suspect the ‘guard’ or anyone young working in Fridha’s house - and constantly made conscious of the pain and sadness in her love life - it would make sense to be personally looking for alternative “romantic directions”.

The ‘guard’ was not really guarding at all. With Fromm’s title in hand, it was as if she was holding up one, maybe not so subtle, big sign.

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July 12, 2004

2 week vacation!!

Filed under: Uncategorized — Stephen @ 12:50 am

Tomorrow. Monday, July 12, I and my partner, Sandy P, are going off to Mexico City and Oaxaca for almos two weeks - back here on July 24. Needless to say I cannot wait to embark and be “media free”, etc. And to let new, fresh - ancient and contemporary - materials come our way. As well as just have a good time.

Of course, feel free to visit the archives - hopefully many of those pieces, also, remain “fresh.”

Adieu/dios

Stephen V

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July 7, 2004

Sappho (Sleeping With) Translations

Filed under: Uncategorized — Stephen @ 5:16 pm

About 12 of my pieces from Sleeping With Sappho - a series of perhaps what some may call “transgressive translations” are in the new Shampoo #21:
http://www.shampoopoetry.com/ShampooTwentyone/shampooissuetwentyone.html

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Walking Theory #56 - 61

Filed under: Uncategorized — Stephen @ 6:23 am

Walking Theory #56

Go indigenous in a small country
Put brains to the desperate
Those who have built a house of cards
Watch them breathe guile & treachery
Threat & terror: wing the morning cup,
Word by word, foot by foot
The cards are falling like bullets
Note the Vice President’s eyes
Hysteria a wanton, unwanted character
Study the documents, the “material witness”
Enforce the constitution, take them out,
Vote by vote, hair by hair
Gather up as a storm, relinquish contempt,
We, citizens, democratic, harbor
Again it’s time: practice, enact, perform
We know – centuries past – gather up
Do it, do it with passion, the ancient – vote, elect –
Back on the job, go for it, to the streets,
Door by door, person by person,
Into line, into the curtained booth, choose, punch,
Go for it, the hard won, blood once everywhere spilled,
Enact, perform, I and you, everyone, on to our feet
We know the drill, it’s time:

Walking Theory #57

What whispers blue on the Coast?
It’s been three weeks since I have seen them,
Heard them – stream upon stream, whispering
- some vertical, some collapsed –sails transparent
Woven blue, silver skin as thin as silk
Lifted by the wind over succulent, slightly shifting
Thick, wet ink blue, iridescent lips
Thousands upon thousands twisted
Thick woven rubbery strands
Undertow, tide, wind-crossed driven
Into flattened curved streams
Over the low cut dunes against the roiling sea
The afternoon sun burning the white caps
The blind green in wave cup after wave cup,
“Vellea, Vellea” these once “By the Sea Sailors”:
Once upon the ocean, undulant streams, transparent flesh
Catch at what & what may
Listen to the whisper
Listen to the dead
They never leave
They never leave
Portals to the other side, whispers in the heart.

Walking Theory #58

She who lives beneath the City,
Under the hills, she who waits, emerges,
Dissolves: She who haunts on gray days
She who lays dormant, slant of light through fog:
She in the black gown & pink sash
Who on her shoulder carries the crimson bird
She who, she
Who neither walks nor talks
Tells me she’s my own:
Bread in a basket
Abalone neckpiece
Mute rainbow at her throat
Gold egg in each palm:
Who can decipher her ruffled face?
The ghost of “hello”, of no return
And while I am with you
Count the shifting letters in your palm:
Shake, stroke, flame
Sugar the sky
Stamp your feet
Pull out the empty book:

Mark upon mark
Word unto word
There one goes:
Flourish, flourish.

Walking Theory #59

A Conductor called Death
Picks them up and drops them off –
By trolley, by bus, by airplane, by balloon -
One does not even know or ask –
Each day, one by one, or more than one can count
Over the side each one goes
Solitary or communal one still
Neither asks or really knows-
But here we go, chatting amongst them
By shadow, apparition or voice
These presences – ultimate ancestors
Who charm, terrorize, amplify -
The way one looks at roses in the neighborhood
Or the fresh cones on the singular ponderosa
Or the pigeons who draw hay from the fallen grass
Each a various residence nested toward the sky:
One walks, makes clear, full witness:
Carriers, carriers

Walking Theory #60

Or we find the ancient
And the present snail
Is the metaphor for vagina
Amongst the Yoruba

Or the wonderful firm
And slippery grace
To be variously within you
Was it already this morning?

Walking Theory #61

Who can extinguish the spiral in a rose?
Season to season the inevitable rise and fall
The spiral tipped down, tipped up
Its relentless spin – sometimes so fast
Sometimes so slow
Into heaven or hell
Earth or sky
Each moment a petal
Then another: full or fallen
I wash my hands, I wash my face –
Yellow, red, apricot, white or peach –
In light or dark – to spin with grace.

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July 5, 2004

Walking Theory Void

Filed under: Uncategorized — Stephen @ 11:26 pm

Gosh - I opened up this blog site onto a blank page. An unfed whale is definitely a white one. I won’t even try to make connection between a whale and the walking feet - tho I think in grad creative writing school (yes, I once did that), I wrote a piece for Kay Boyle about a Whale who arrived off the coast here to walk amongst us.
She wanted us to write some kind of response to Moby Dick, I recollect.
Anyway several Walking Theory pieces are in the mix. I plan to have them up before taking off to Mexico City and Oaxaca for a couple of weeks next Monday.

Of which I just read the paranoid wonders of catching and surviving a cab ride - without getting robbed in Mexico City. Some infinitely complicated thing about checking out all the handles and locks on the doors before doing anthing else. I will appreciate hearing from anybody who can give me relief from this approach.
Yeah, be smart and tell us to walk everywhere!!

Other than vaguely hearing that Lynne Cheney is threatening to crush and scramble George Bush’s huevos if he eliminates Halliburton Dick from the VP ticket - it seems a quiet Monday in the Americas.

More Walking Theory coming - o well, a short M Goosey one:

Black patch on your gray breast
Little sparrow with your brown wing spread:
What did your mother do wrong?
What did your mother do wrong?

*

One of those crazy flash puritan thoughts
while walking by a tree and sparrow this morning.

Stephen V

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