Tuesday, December 06, 2016

Ceithre Dhán in An Gael

Tá ceithre dhán de mo chuid san eagrán nua de An Gael (Geimhreadh 2016).  Is é An Gael iris oifigiúil Chumann Carad na Gaeilge, iris a dhíríonn ar phobal idirnáisiúnta na Gaeilge.  Is féidir an t-eagrán a cheannach agus/nó a léamh saor in aisce anseo:
http://www.magcloud.com/browse/issue/1197547

Thursday, December 01, 2016

Four Poems at Empty Mirror



I have four poems up at Empty Mirror.  They are titled “Homage to Yoko Ono,” “Elegy for Lou Reed,” “Elegy for Scott Asheton,” and “Homage to André Breton,” and can be read here:

Sunday, November 27, 2016

Maurice Scully’s 'Plays'

Plays is Maurice Scully’s latest chapbook, published in PDF format by Smithereens Press, and available to read for free, here.  Initially dense but, with a couple of readings, very rewarding, Scully’s sequence tackles epistemological questions about the relationship of art to the world around us.  Specifically, Scully seems to be asking whether we can ever truly know the material world through poetry (language), or even through the senses, perhaps even whether there is a knowable material world at all.  That sounds heavy, but this is still a poem, not a philosophical treatise.

It opens with “Path,” a poignant image of a lost dog playing with a ball on a pier, repeatedly letting the ball fall into the water then retrieving it: “A dog came up the steps with a ball in its mouth & / shook itself dry”. . . .  The full significance of this scene does not become clear until the end of the book, when it returns (then titled “Pith”), but the fact that, in the last line of “Path,” the dog is referred to as “our dog” suggests some connection between it and us (i.e. all of us, people, or whomever), lost, forlorn, going about our activities nonetheless.

“Placed” takes up the metaphor of the game of tiddlywinks, while also referencing Yeats’s poem “Easter, 1916” — an unexpected pairing, perhaps.  But maybe there is something to the juxtaposition of the fraught, rather random task of flicking small disks into a pot (“Don’t let / the cup / tumble”) and the propensity of a poet like Yeats to seek overarching myths (“Spread low / with many / mythologies // rippling / a language’s / underparts”).  That is, Scully is here deliberately working against such Yeatsian, mythopoeic strategies by deliberately focusing on the quotidian.  In turn, what seem like unimportant details can become driving metaphors themselves.

Scully’s pared-down lines are deceptively simple, containing a wealth of alliteration, assonance, and rhyme.  In this, he takes a cue not so much from the obvious twentieth-century models (WCW’s pared-down lines, for example), but from the soundplay and concise patterning of mediaeval Gaelic poets like Giolla Brighde Mac Con Midhe, who provides an epigraph (from his poem “A theachtaire thig ón Róimh”) on the inherent “falsity” of poetry.  The first line of the epigraph, “Gémadh bréag do bhiadh san duain,” might translate as “Though it may be a lie, being in a poem. . . .”  Such a theme recurs throughout Plays.

In fact, Scully seems to putting clear water between himself and much of twentieth-century poetry — both the modernists who were obviously at one time an inspiration, and a more reader-friendly poet like Heaney.  In “Pitch,” he parodies Heaney’s “Digging”:
 . . . a meaning-bearing creature digging
over vegetables flashing signals to
light-sensitive weed-seeds in the dark.
Between yr fingers & yr thumb, humble
ambition.
A little further on there is a knock against poetry critics: “the Taste Police quick to be invisible, are out & about / & busy over the generations ready to shame / us with a terrible pun.”  The ghost of Heaney looms over these lines as well, “shame / us” echoing “Seamus.”  A number of additional humorous poetic allusions are waiting to be found throughout the text.

However, it is in Scully’s subtle critique of Pound and imagism that he more specifically sets out his philosophical position.  That Pound actually appears here is debatable (I tenuously base this on Scully’s use of the word “cohere” in “Panel,” also famously occurring in Pound’s “Canto 116”), but Scully is clearly attacking his imagist principle of “direct treatment of the thing.”  Instead, he seems to argue that that is simply not possible.  There are images in Plays, of course, images galore, but Scully has all along been undermining the notion that they are in any way capable of giving us the thing itself.  In “Print” Scully has revealed the science behind perception:
The most energetic
rays that reach
the earth’s surface are
those to which

our eyes respond 
& we call
‘light’. Right.
Thus, the image is not the image.  Nonetheless the poet will write it and take great if ephemeral joy in the writing, as Mac Con Midhe did nearly 800 years ago.  And so, finally in the closing section, “Pith,” Scully revises the image of the dog playing with the ball, elaborating on it until the dog is no longer a dog, not even the image of a dog, and not even light-rays, but an idea in the poet’s mind: “An idea came up the / steps with another idea in its mouth & shook itself dry”. . . .

Does the repetition and revisiting of the scene imply a kind of pattern, à la the cycle of history in Yeats’s “The Second Coming” (also obliquely referenced here)?  That is hard to say.  Not in the Yeatsian sense, as he clearly rejects this.  But there is a tension between “laws” and “accidents,” which Scully explores, i.e. randomness v. pattern, repetition v. change.  It would be hard to say he comes to any final conclusions, however.  Knowing that his work consists of large, ongoing poems (perhaps it is all one ongoing poem), I have no doubt he will continue to render into poetry “bréagach” his continuing explorations of these and other questions.  Unsurprisingly, then, a note at the end of this chapbook informs us that Plays is excerpted from a longer work.. . . .

Monday, November 14, 2016

Gimme Danger: Jarmusch’s Stooges Film

Jim Jarmusch’s documentary on the Stooges, Gimme Danger, is most definitely the serious historical treatment that the band deserves.  It is interesting to me, a nearly life-long Stooges fan, to see how much the Stooges’ reputation has grown over the last couple of decades.  I bought my first copy of Raw Power at age 14, when I was just getting into punk rock, and then the two Elektra albums a couple years later.  Even well into the 1990s, the Stooges remained a solely underground interest, whose influence was understood by punks and certain rock cognoscenti, but definitely not considered important by the likes of Rolling Stone magazine or whoever was running the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.  Often, when asked my favorite band, and I inevitably replied the Stooges, I would be confronted by looks of confusion and be forced to contextualize them along the lines of: “Have you heard of Iggy Pop?  They were his band before he went solo. . .”  We all know the story now, though, how their reunification in the early 2000s sparked new interest among critics, their eventual induction into the R&R HOF, etc.  And as of 2016 there is this excellent documentary film, which should not only cement the Stooges’ place in history, but feels also like something of a victory lap.

What struck me the most about this film was its uncompromising point of view about art — shared by Iggy and the director Jarmusch — that despite adversity one should not give in to the temptation to produce lame, commercial schlock.  Iggy goes so far as to charge the record industry in the 1960s (and beyond) with “cultural treason,” for refusing to support the flowering of indigenous, local music, and instead seeking to impose a watered-down marketable version of pop.  As an example, Iggy disdainfully mentions Crosby, Stills, and Nash doing “Marrakesh Express.”  He doesn’t stop there, however, and goes on to point out that while we typically think of the “American Idol” sort of manufactured pop to be a contemporary phenomenon, it has been happening since the beginning of rock’n’roll, with the “replacing” of Elvis with Fabian, and was indeed also quite prevalent throughout the 60s, a decade many think of as a halcyon, creative time in rock music.

In a sense, this is the tension that has always been at the heart of rock: how to stay true to your own unique vision, your own art, in a world or at least an industry that seems only to value shallow hit-makers?  The dichotomy can be summed up in the title of Joe Carducci’s 1991 book, Rock and the Pop Narcotic.  It’s almost a cliché, the whole “authenticity” thing, and of course even the Stooges took influences from elsewhere — the blues, the Stones, free jazz, Harry Partch.  Having ingested them, however, they discarded them once they got going in 1968, choosing instead to beat on 50-gallon oil cans and put microphones into blenders (okay, so they kept the Partch influence, and the free-jazz impulse came back in a big way on Fun House [1970]).

All of this is entirely different from succumbing to record-label pressure to produce bubblegum, as so many do.  Even by the late-1972 recording of Raw Power, although as James Williamson claims the band was actively trying to have a hit record, they were only capable of making the music “that [they] liked.”  Iggy’s (and implicitly Jarmusch’s) argument thus still resonates — it is the artist who has the courage to suffer through the bottles being thrown at his head (as documented on the Metallic K.O. live album), or to find himself working a series of crappy jobs after the band has fallen apart (as Scott Asheton discusses in this film), who might nonetheless point the way forward and finally be recognized as having done the valuable work for all of our sakes.  As a film, Gimme Danger revivifies the authenticity narrative, at least as it relates to rock, and posits the Stooges as one of the few bands of their period, like the Velvet Underground and the MC5, who refused to give in to the corporate machine, even to their own detriment.  The results were not pretty.

Along the way of this nearly two-hour production, Iggy gets in a few responses to his critics, one of them being Johnny Ramone, who once reproached the Stooges for not wanting to please a crowd by playing the recognizable tunes from their previous album.  As much as I love the Ramones, I’ve always loved the Stooges more, partly because of their desire to be continually challenging, and not to be crowd-pleasers, to try to bring their audience along with them into new realms of sound (and implicitly into new realms of thought), to evolve, to throw away the old stuff and write all new material about once a year.  Think about it — in the course of their initial existence (1968-74), they changed at the speed of sound.  They went from being an experimental noise band in ’68, to doing the garage-y material on their first album in ’69 (which would essentially become the template for the Ramones), to taking a quantum leap in 1970 for Fun House, to writing the dual-guitar, ur-punk-metal material of 1971 (which is glossed over in this film), to the “I Got a Right”/“I’m Sick of You”-type stuff of early 1972 (Williamson’s first recordings as sole guitarist), to the Raw Power material of ’72-73, to their further, final development of late-’73-74 (perhaps, you could say, their “baroque” period).  That is a lot of evolving in such a short period of time, something worthy of Pablo Picasso or Miles Davis.

Yet, the Stooges were commercial failures.  One thing I like about this film, though, is that it makes the assertion that it didn’t have to be this way.  Jarmusch, through interviews with Danny Fields and Iggy himself, suggests that deliberate neglect by the record label (Elektra first, later Tony DeFries’ management and Columbia Records) was just as much if not more to blame than the Stooges’ supposed inability to appeal to the masses.  The band was drawing large crowds in its Elektra years and with a little boost from the company might have sold a lot more, thus helping the label to help itself.  The ultimate insult came in 1971, when Fields brought the label execs to hear the Stooges’ new material.  The response was, “I didn’t hear a thing.”  “That says it all,” Fields emphasizes, “I didn’t hear a thing.”  You’ve got Miles playing in front of you, say, and you don’t “hear a thing”; or you’ve got a Picasso painting on the wall in front of you, and you don’t “see” a thing.  As Iggy charges, cultural treason.  And so the Stooges’ 1971 set (of quite amazing material, for those who know it) was never properly recorded and exists only as a latterly released box-set of muddy cassette concert tapes.  Better than nothing.

There are a few flaws with this film.  Too often, Jarmusch plays a song and it doesn’t match the photo in terms of the time period.  Only a true fan would notice, I suppose, but why not try to be historically accurate in every instance?  As I previously mentioned, the 1971 era is glossed over, though band members Jimmy Recca, Zeke Zettner, and Bill Cheatham (the latter two from the late-1970 period) at least get a mention.  Iggy describes Ron Asheton as having “joined” The New Order after the Stooges broke up (instead of starting that band), but that could’ve been merely a slip in phrasing.  And, while the Ashetons’ sister Kathy is a welcome — even key — presence, finally coming to the fore in the telling of this story (she did also appear in the Legs McNeil/Gillian McCain-authored Please Kill Me book), it might have been worth it to round out the documentary with some further voices.  For that matter, I’d have liked to see even more of Ron, who did numerous on-camera interviews in his lifetime and is ultimately the soul of the Stooges.

Nonetheless, some of the archival footage that Jarmusch has accessed is invaluable — a show from 1970 in vivid, clear color, that I had never seen before, and a couple of clips from 1973 or so (including some very cool black-and-white film of James Williamson).  There’s a clip of Steve Mackay playing with Carnal Kitchen (I think).  The Stooges footage that was previously available has been cleaned up and looks great on the big screen, finally bringing to life a sense of the band’s live performances that so many (including myself, being too young) missed.  Iggy’s feral movement and physicality is on display here in un-ignorable fashion.  And while it may be a truism, it’s true — he invented the stage dive, and in the era of the big-time rock star, he was in among the crowd at almost every show.  Not only that, but, as Iggy argues, the band lived a truly communist existence, sharing everything, practicing the kind of life that the MC5 in their own late-60s radical period espoused, but without the need for any set ideology, doing it all intuitively for the sake of their art, which was in itself revolutionary.  Which in itself urges against easy formulas.  Which in itself strikes against the forces of cultural conservatism and small-mindedness.  Which in itself still points the way toward a mode of being that is needed now more than ever.


Wednesday, September 14, 2016

Calque Translations at Jacket2

My translations from Calque no. 2 (May/June 2007) of Aodhagán Ó Rathaille, Proinsias Nuinseann, and Mícheál Óg Ó Longáin, all 18th/early-19th-century Gaelic poets, are now archived at Jacket2, with issues available in PDF form.

http://jacket2.org/reissues/calque#no2

Thursday, September 01, 2016

Interview at The California Journal of Poetics

I was interviewed in the new edition of The California Journal of Poetics.  The interview was conducted a couple of years ago now by John Wisniewski.

Topics covered include my two Salmon Poetry-published collections, living in Ireland, Seamus Heaney, the Stooges, how music can influence poetry, some of my recent work, and more.

Read the piece here:
 
http://www.californiapoetics.org/interviews/7112/an-interview-with-michael-s-begnal/

Thursday, August 18, 2016

Two Poems at Public Pool

Walton Ford, Falling Bough (2002)
Two poems of mine are published over at Public Pool — many thanks to the editors.  The first one is “Walton Ford, Falling Bough,” an ekphrastic poem in response to the above Walton Ford painting (of a flock of now-extinct passenger pigeons).  The other is “Sonnet for Bernadette Mayer,” who is one of my all-time favorite poets.

Read the poems here:
http://www.publicpool.org/dope/micheal-s-begnal/

Thursday, August 11, 2016

My News for You: Irish Poetry 600-1200 (Shearsman Books)

Edited and translated by the contemporary Irish poet Geoffrey Squires, My News for You: Irish Poetry 600-1200 (Shearsman, 2015) is a refreshing translation of a range of early Gaelic poetry.  Some of the selections will be familiar to readers — “Messe ocus pangur bán” is one of the most well-known (the one about the white cat!), and one of the earliest recorded Gaelic poems.  Squires would have been remiss not to attempt it, and here he gives it new life.  The title poem “Scél lem dúib” may also be known to some, as it appears on a relatively recent t-shirt design.  It’s one I’ve actually translated myself, and I like how Squires has handled it.  The poem to St. Brigit (“Brigit bé bithmaith,” possibly incorporating language used for the earlier goddess Brigit?) is another that I recall reading, somewhere.  There is (arguably) an extract from the Suibhne Geilt series, some from Acallamh na Senórach, and so on, but also many that are lesser trodden.  Out of the hundreds of poems that could be included, Squires’s choices are excellent.  This will no doubt become a standard text for Gaelic poetry in English.  I can see it becoming as indispensable as Thomas Kinsella’s translation of The Táin.

Squires also provides excellent supplementary material — introductory essays on the history, landscape, culture, language, and poetics of Ireland in the chosen time range.  He goes into detail about his own approach as a translator, at one point verging into a broader manifesto on poetic form itself: “Since form is a key and sometimes contentious issue, it may be useful to step back a moment and ask the functional question: what is form for?”  Squires proceeds to answer his question in three ways, and his assertions are valuable reading for both poets and non-practicing readers.  It should be noted that Squires’s own work is often seen as being on the “experimental” side of the spectrum, and I think the perspective he brings to this earlier poetry, which often employed intricate or arcane modes of prosody, makes a lot of sense.  Viz: “each [function of poetry] can be performed in various ways and to varying degrees. . . . what matters is that the poem satisfies us in terms of recall, pattern and the fit of sound and sense.”

In terms of the content of this material, it is interesting that the anthology foregrounds the not so cut-and-dried shift in Irish society from pagan to Christian thought, and Squires points out that it was a gradual continuum, still going on long after the arrival of St. Patrick (who is referred to mockingly in a couple of the poems as “adze-head”), often with the two frameworks existing side-by-side in the same place and time, the native tradition hanging on strongly alongside the imported Christian influence.  One example is “Admuiniur secht n-ingena trethan,” attributed to Fer Fio, abbot of Comraire, who died in 762 (making this one of the earlier poems in the volume).  It invokes “the seven daughters of the sea,” “my silver champion / who has not died and will not die,” and “the Ancient One of the seven ages / whom fairy women suckled on their flowing breasts” — all of whom seem non-Christian personages — as well as a litany of metals upon which Squires remarks, “the general evocation of metals in this passage has a quasi-magical ring.”  A Latin, Christian ending stanza is tacked on, but there’s really no other way to see this than as a recycled pagan prayer.

Squires provides copious notes on each individual poem, often clarifying issues in the text or discussing his choices in translating particular words.  My only (minor) criticism in this regard is that we do not get the primary texts (except for seven out of the 81 selected poems), and so often cannot connect Squires’s discussion to the particulars of the Gaelic originals.  He does give an extensive bibliography and a number of websites/URLs where most of the sources are housed, but it would have been much preferable, I think, to have the format of facing originals and translations, side by side.  He defends his decision not to go this route, however, and so it is a choice he has made.

Whatever about that, My News for You: Irish Poetry 600-1200 should become a standard collection, a “go-to” book for any poet or reader, not only those Irish-focused.  In a comment on the language and style of the works herein, Squires observes, “I sense that economy of expression was highly prized among these poets, and it is no accident that when comparisons have been made, they have sometimes been with Chinese or Japanese poetry, rather than neighbouring European models.”  This is something that I myself have often thought, in my own explorations of Old Irish poetry.  Not all of the pieces here are short, jueju-, lüshi-, or haiku-like, but all similarly rich in images.  So, perhaps after your next reading of the of course also great Li Po, Tu Fu, Issa, or Basho, you will want to consider turning to the (unfortunately) mostly anonymous Old-Irish/Gaelic poets, who similarly speak to us, sometimes seemingly as if only yesterday, out of the mysteries of nature and the human mind.

Wednesday, August 10, 2016

Review of 'The Muddy Banks' at Sabotage Reviews

My chapbook The Muddy Banks is reviewed by Peter O’Neill over at Sabotage Reviews.  Concentrating especially on the first section, it is a perceptive reading (if I do say so myself!).  My thanks to Peter and all involved.  Read the review here:

Friday, July 29, 2016

Bynner’s Poem “Idols” (1929)

I’ve written recently about the overlooked but (more than) worthwhile modernist-era poet Witter Bynner.  I’m again struck by his brilliance and intensity in reading his 1929 collection Indian Earth.  I’m also in some ways ambivalent about it, as it takes as its primary subject “the other” — Mexican and Aztec culture in the first section, and Native American Pueblo culture in the second.  Written around the time of D. H. Lawrence’s visit to New Mexico and his and Bynner’s subsequent trip to Chapala, Mexico, the same material informs both DHL’s The Plumed Serpent (1926) and WB’s Indian Earth (Bynner in fact became a character in the novel).

Without getting into analyzing the whole collection, let me just briefly discuss one poem from it that I think in a way sums it up: “Idols” (pp. 56-57).  Macabre and inspiring at the same time, its first three sections describe the speaker finding an ancient clay figurine at a burial site in Chapala.  It is macabre because the poem’s speaker is essentially grave-robbing, pillaging: “every bone was fibrous like old wood, / And his moony skull came crumbling in my hand / When I removed the god that whispered there” (56).  I do not know whether Bynner was part of some sort of archaeological dig at the time, and whether this was acceptable practice, or whether such an incident ever even really occurred.  For the speaker, the premise of his being there is not in question; he is simply there and this is what he finds.

The incident sparks a meditation on religion and myth — what “surer god” could there be except “This idol made of clay, made of man, / This fantasy, this mute insensate whim / Enduring still beside its maker’s dust” (56-57).  Surely, in a modernist era enthralled with myth, this is the sine qua non of poetry, to romanticize or mythologize what might lie behind the burial?  After all, “this is the living thought / That make[s] man alive and alive again” (57).  Many poets would have ended the poem there, with the conclusion that through a god or perhaps even through the crafting of the religious idol of the god, one can in some sense live on.

But, though he engages in various forms of mythmaking throughout his work, including elsewhere in Indian Earth, Bynner does not do so here (except inasmuch as poetry itself is a form of mythmaking?).  Instead, the moment prompts a further meditation in the fourth and final section in which Bynner realizes that, for him, only poetry is capable of containing the kinds of feelings that others impart to religion or myth:

Lie close to me, my poem, and comfort me,
Console me with substance lovelier than mine,
Breathe me alive a thousand years from now,
Whisper — beside that rim of an empty moon,
Under the earth, the moon I thought with once —
That once to have thought, once to have used the earth,
Is to have made a god more durable
Than flesh and bone. Lie close to me, my poem. (57)
He does not fetishize the image of a pagan god, à la Lawrence; instead there is only the poem that can redeem, only the poem can “breathe me alive.”  The idea that “once to have thought, once to have used the earth” is enough to have made something durable, to become something durable — i.e. that to have lived once or at all means one has become part of the cosmos for all time — collapses time and metaphorically blurs the line between death and life, suggesting a view of death as only one part of something larger (which doesn’t have to be religious per se).  Only this can be comfort for a poet, or for Bynner anyway, that a trace of the act of making a poem, an act of living, can be contained in the words themselves and might survive in the poem.

That is the inspiring part, a view of poetry as enacting something rather than simply describing something, and potentially bringing one to a deeper sense of reality.  It is at the same time troubling that it is premised on the occasion of wresting an antiquity from an ancient corpse’s hands, seemingly randomly (i.e. seemingly not under the direction of a trained archaeologist; but who knows).  Macabre and troubling.  Metaphorically, this act of taking from what must be an Aztec Indian grave gets into the dynamics of colonialism and cultural appropriation that we are still dealing with today.  It speaks to the kinds of assumptions that even a poet with good politics brought to the table at that time in history.  It is not an excuse, but these are the things we confront, not only in Western society, but often throughout the whole world.

Saturday, July 02, 2016

Oblivion, February 1986, Philadelphia

A long time ago, I was a rock’n’roller, a punk, and a drummer, and one of the bands I was in was called Oblivion (which I’ve written about here, post includes video of the band).  Oblivion’s guitarist Steve Lukshides has recently posted another video, a set from February 19, 1986, at the Kennel Club in Philadelphia.

I am 19 in this video.  I actually remember a lot of this night, which as Steve explains included numerous delays, before we finally went on around 1:00 a.m.  Looking back, we were a really good band that should have had wider success.  I think we were too intent on perfection before releasing any material, when in retrospect we should have just put something out, a single or EP perhaps (we did record four songs in the studio), and see where it led.  At least, it would’ve been out there.  As it is, this video gives some idea of our sound and attitude as a live performing group in the year 1986, as the hardcore scene was winding down and bands, ourselves included, were trying to expand the limits of heavy/punk music.



Monday, June 20, 2016

Poem in Yellow Chair Review

I have a poem in the new issue of Yellow Chair Review (#7).  The poem is titled “Dusk Hit” and is from a series.

It can be read here.

Saturday, June 11, 2016

The Poet’s Quest for God anthology

I’m quite pleased to have a poem in the new Eyewear Publishing anthology, The Poet’s Quest for God.  Eyewear is an excellent poetry press based in London, founded by Todd Swift.  This anthology includes a stellar and wide-ranging list of contributors (see below).

My poem is titled “The Ewes at Imbolc” and takes up conceptions of the pre-Christian Gaelic goddess Brighid, or, in the wider sense, ritual or at least calendrical celebration, or. . .you decide.  It is a section of a longer, multi-part poem series on the filmmaker Stan Brakhage’s 23rd Psalm Branch (1967).  In his film, Brakhage at various points riffs on the Biblical psalms (or the 23rd one).  I thought to myself, if I’m not just going to copy him (even though it’s an homage to him), what religious counterpoint should be part of this poem?  And I thought of a poem to Brighid (“Brigit bé bithmaith”) as a starting point and went from there.

Please consider purchasing this book.  Here is the description from the publisher:

This major anthology, the first of its kind, gathers work from renowned contemporary poets from around the world.  Representative of poets from a wide variety of faiths – as well as agnostics and atheists – and introduced by renowned religious scholar Professor Ewan Fernie, the anthology includes work by the following poets:

M.J. ABELL •  SHANTA ACHARYA •  PAUL ADRIAN • NEIL AITKEN •   PATIENCE AGBABI •  ANTONIA ALEXANDRA • KAZIM ALI •  RICHARD ALI •  MAUREEN ALSOP • FRED ANDRLE •  MARIA APICHELLA •  ROBERT ARCHAMBEAU •  RAE ARMANTROUT •  DAVID BAKER •   JENNIFER BARBER •  RACHEL BARENBLAT • SEBASTIAN BARKER • BENNO BARNARD • MICHAEL BARTHOLOMEW-BIGGS • MICAH BATEMAN • SHAINDEL BEERS • MICHAEL S. BEGNAL • MARGO BERDESHEVSKY • CHARLES BERNSTEIN • ASHOK BERY • JOAN BIDDLE • MALACHI BLACK • JANE BLANCHARD • YVONNE BLOMER • MURRAY BODO • MICHELLE BOISSEAU • STEPHANIE BOLSTER • JEMMA BORG • TODD BOSS • PENNY BOXALL • ASA BOXER •  DAVID BRIGGS • TRACI BRIMHALL • JAMES BROOKES • JERICHO BROWN • N M BROWNE • DIANA FITZGERALD BRYDEN •  JACCI BULMAN • APRIL BULMER • STEPHEN BURT • CARMEN CALATAYUD •  JASON CAMLOT •  MELANIE CHALLENGER • KIMBERLY CAMPANELLO • JOHN CHALLIS • PATRICK CHAPMAN • SAMPURNA CHATTARJI • AYESHA CHATTERJEE • MAXINE CHERNOFF • CAROLINE CLARK • PATRICIA CLARK • GEORGE ELLIOTT CLARKE • GERALDINE CLARKSON • AIDAN COLEMAN • NANCY COOK • ALFRED CORN • RACHEL COVENTRY • CLAIRE CROWTHER • TONY CURTIS • PÁDRAIG J. DALY • CYRIL DABYDEEN • PETER DANIELS • COLIN DARDIS • GRAHAME DAVIES • HILARY DAVIES • JAN DEAN • NICHOLA DEANE • JOHN F. DEANE •  NATASHA DENNERSTEIN • DHARMAVADANA • U.S. DHUGA • JOSEPHINE DICKINSON •  EDWARD DOEGAR • SHARON DOLIN • TIMOTHY DONNELLY • MAURA DOOLEY • TIM DOOLEY • CAL DOYLE • IAN DUHIG • FRANK DULLAGHAN • SUSAN MILLAR DUMARS • JOE DUNTHORNE • ANNA DWYER • MICHAEL EGAN • SAM EISENSTEIN • ALISON ENGLEFIELD • FLORA DE FALBE • MICHAEL FARRY • JANETTE FERNANDO • ANNIE FINCH • ADAM D. FISHER • NORMAN FISCHER • CHARLENE FIX • SARAH FLETCHER • PIOTR FLORCZYK • JAMES FLYNN • JOHN FORBIS • CAL FREEMAN • PHILIP FRIED • OWEN GALLAGHER • GARY GEDES • DAI GEORGE • ANDRAS GEREVICH • CLARE GIBBONS • JOHN GLENDAY • SUSAN GLICKMAN • KIM GOLDBERG • KEIRAN GODDARD • JOHN GOSSLEE • CATHERINE GRAHAM • JOHN GREENING • NICKI GRIFFIN • VONA GROARKE • JAMES GRINWIS • PHILLIP GROSS • DAVID GRUBB • EVE GRUBIN • KATIA GRUBISIC • KATHRYN HAMANN •  TOM HAMILL • LUKE HANKINS • MORGAN HARLOW • ALEX HARTLEY • TERRANCE HAYES • KEVIN HIGGINS • NORBERT HIRSCHHORN • LINDSEY HOLLAND • ANNETTE HOLLANDER • PAUL HOOVER •  SHERRY HOROWITZ • FANNY HOWE • ANTHONY HOWELL • SUSAN IOANNOU • SALLY ITO • CHRISTOPHER JACKSON • MARK JARMAN • TROY JOLLIMORE • TESS JOLLY •  JILL JONES • LOIS P. JONES • MARY JONES • OLIVER JONES • FADY JOUDAH • ILYA KAMINSKY •  BRIGIT KELLY • ROISÍN KELLY • LUKE KENNARD • VICTORIA KENNEFICK • MIMI KHALVATI • JANET R. KIRCHHEIMER • CALEB KLACES • ANJA KONIG • YAHIA LABABIDI • ANDREW LANSDOWN • SHARON LARKIN • SARAH LAW • SYDNEY LEA • JASON LEE • JOHN B. LEE • MARY LEE • WES LEE • MELISSA LEE-HOUGHTON • DOROTHY LEHANE • PHILLIS LEVIN • JACK LITTLE • PIPPA LITTLE • MIKE LOVEDAY • HELEN LOVELOCK-BURKE • ROB A. MACKENZIE •  JEFFREY MACKIE • DZEKASHU MACVIBAN • MARY MADEC •  D.H. MAITREYABANDHU • ALICE MAJOR • CHRIS MANN • KIRYA MARCHAND • KATHRYN MARIS • JAKE MARMER • ALWYN MARRIAGE • BARBARA MARSH • TOBY MARTINEZ DE LAS RIVAS • NANCY MATTSON •  NYLA MATUK • BEN MAZER • ERICA McALPINE • SUSAN McCASLIN • MARION McCREADY • COLIN McDONALD • RYK McINTYRE • DORA E. McQUAID • LEONA MEDLIN • SIGHLE MEEHAN • DANTE MICHEAUX • ALICE MILLER • CAMERON MILLER • PATRICIA MONAGHAN • MILES DAVID MOORE • STEPHEN MORRISSEY • ANDREW MOTION • DAVID MUSGRAVE • KARTHIKA NAÏR • MADELEINE NATTRASS • STEPHEN NELSON • MICHAEL NEWMAN • C P NIELD • KATE NOAKES • DAN O’BRIEN •  NESSA O’MAHONY • HELEN OVERELL • JAN OWEN • WILLIAM OXLEY • RUTH PADEL • MANDY PANNETT • NOLA PASSMORE • MOLLY PEACOCK • PAUL PERRY • TONY PEYSER • JAMES POLLOCK • BETHANY POPE •  PHOEBE POWER •  ROBERT PRIEST •  CONCETTA PRINCIPE • MEL PRYOR • LIZ QUIRKE •  SUDHA RAO • SUSAN RICH • ROBIN RICHARDSON • JAMES RICHARDSON • CLEA ROBERTS •  JOHN ROE • ANTOINETTE VOÛTE ROEDER • JANET ROGERSON • PÁDRAIG ROONEY • BOB ROSENTHAL • JEROME ROTHENBERG • SARAH ROWLAND JONES • THADDEUS RUTKOWSKI • OMAR SABBAGH • EVA SALZMAN •  FIONA SAMPSON •  ROBYN SARAH • DENISE SAUL • LESLEY SAUNDERS • RONNIE SCHARFMAN • JACOB SCHEIER • MICHAEL SCHMIDT • MYRA SCHNEIDER • DAVID SCOTT • RICHARD SCOTT • REBECCA SEIFERLE • SUDEEP SEN • DON SHARE • SANDY SHREVE • MARTHA SILANO • KATHRYN SIMMONDS •  FLOYD SKLOOT • TARA SKURTU • JESSICA SLENTZ • EDWIN SMET • BARBARA SMITH • V.A. SOLA SMITH • ROSE SOLARI • ELIZABETH SPIRES • FRANCES SPURRIER • JOHN STILES • CHLOE STOPA-HUNT • LIANE STRAUSS • SEÁN STREET • MELISSA STUDDARD • COLE SWENSEN • MARGO SWISS • MICHAEL SYMMONS ROBERTS • MARIA TAYLOR • N S THOMPSON • RÓISÍN TIERNEY • RACHEL TOBIN • SAMUEL TONGUE • HELEN TOOKEY • ANGELA TOPPING • ALAN PATRICK TRAYNOR • ROBERT VAS DIAS • JANET VICKERS • VAL VINOKUR • G C WALDREP • RORY WATERMAN • LAURA GRACE WELDON • NAOMI WELLS • ANNE WELSH • SARAH WESTCOTT • ROWAN WILLIAMS • CLIVE WILMER • CHRISTIAN WIMAN • KAREN WINTERBURN • CAROLYNE WRIGHT • RODNEY WOOD • ATTALIA YACHOV-HAI • JEFFREY YANG • TAMAR YOSELOFF • C. DALE YOUNG • DAVID ZIEROTH

Friday, June 10, 2016

Michael McAloran’s ‘In Absentia’

Michael McAloran’s In Absentia is a short chapbook (25 pages or so) from Black Editions Press.  There is little preparation given to the reader for what is a dense but exhilarating work.  The press’s website describes the book as “An experimental prose poetry chapbook which deals with the body vocal, the none & the dissipated voice”; no more is in fact needed, as McAloran’s textured writing, on surface “nonlinear” and “avant-garde,” builds up layers of feeling and meaning in the experience of reading it (and, no doubt, writing it).

There is much sound- and word-play, even goopy texture of language, in the manner of Harryette Mullen.  A more obvious forerunner to McAloran, though, is certainly Samuel Beckett.  I’m thinking in particular of Rockaby or Not I, each play (or monologue) with its disembodied voice and similar disjointedness of words.


McAloran’s In Absentia too is about similar questions — the possibility of speech or utterance in a destroyed world, by a destroyed self (thus the title).  For example, a line in section iii. reads, “vocal adrift unvocal clarify till dredge what matter done/ collapse. . .” while in section iv. we have, “vocal crossed up in silence speech devoured by silence ever was. . .”  In contemporary Irish poetry, this is a rare stance; there is little to none of the common tropes, such as the landscape (except an exaggerated sort of devastated, post-apocalyptic one), little of overt politics (except the personal, rendered obliquely), little of an identifiable Irish history.

While the deliberate erasure of the oft-constructed poetic self (e.g. there is no author bio or photo, nor “I”-based speaker) could perhaps be suggestive of some sort of trauma (“recoil in absence unto self-mutilation within to parry in-isolate in-reek in turn. . .”) that itself ties into a wider history, it is not specified here.  Rather, McAloran puts forward an utter rejection of society, almost a kind of nihilism.

Yet even the rhetorical strategy of subverting the self is in a way an assertion of it, and for all the anxiety about whether speech is even possible, the poet has produced a quite sustained and compelling text, “ex-nihilo.”  Though the author may feel himself “in absentia,” through the writing comes a kind of presence.  There is even in part vii. a gesture toward an audience: “scarred unto point bled out vacuous murmurs beneath breath absent audience. . .”  Though characteristically rendered via the negative approach (the audience is supposedly “absent”), by naming it (i.e. giving it its word) the idea of audience too becomes present.

Ultimately, like Beckett, McAloran here seeks some way forward out of nihilism, or at least a coexistence with(in) it.  As the collection builds toward its close, he gives the line, “seeks sustenance in absence not a blinded by dark long shadow blight expel. . .”  The “blight” perhaps can never fully be expelled, but in this powerful poetry are, to use one of McAloran’s favourite words, “echoes,” echoes of something, a kind of sustenance, however fleeting?

Thursday, June 02, 2016

Witter Bynner, The New World (1915)

In many ways, I can’t help but read Witter Bynner as against Ezra Pound, who Bynner saw as a rival (most likely, Pound didn’t see Bynner in such reciprocal light at all, though the two knew each other and maintained a correspondence).  When we think of innovation in modernist poetry, Pound is inevitably at or near the top of the list, and there is the typical narrative of his Imagism and related poetics breaking open the staid conventions of fin de siècle verse, etc.  It is true in many ways, but recent scholarship, especially that of John Timberman Newcomb and that of Suzanne W. Churchill (to mention two critics offhand), has done much to complicate this picture.

One reason I have sought out the work of people like Bynner, Haniel Long, Marjorie Allen Seiffert, Orrick Johns, and others is that they were doing extremely interesting things during the early American modernist period (1910s) contemporaneously with Pound, et al. (Long active at this time, but really coming on in the 1930s); yet they are mostly not tainted with Pound’s elitism, fascism, and anti-Semitism.  There were so many original poets in this period who have been virtually written out of history until recently — it was not all Pound, Lowell, Eliot, and the New Critics.  WCW, Mina Loy, and others have justly been posited in the last few decades or so as counterpoints, but whither Bynner and the rest?

Bynner’s The New World (published by Mitchell Kennerley in 1915) is a now-obscure long poem, but well worth reading.  Though Bynner also wrote in free verse, this work (like Pound’s “Hugh Selwyn Mauberley”) is rhymed (irregularly, along the lines of abbbaaba. . .).  Unlike most of Pound, it limns a Whitmanesque, democratic vision of America that welcomes immigrants and aspires to equality of all people:

What is this might, this mystery,
Moving and singing through democracy,
This music of the masses
And of you and me —
But purging and dynamic poetry! — (page 25)
Here the rhyme is a bit heavy-handed, but the passage sums up Bynner’s perspective (and his repetition of rhyme is often meant to work as emphasis).  Though he does not articulate a codified system (aside from the broad strokes), he does intend to take a political stance, having asserted at the start of this section, “‘Beauty,’ they ask, ‘in politics?’ / ‘If you put it there,’ say I” (23).

Bynner’s political stance also includes gender equality (Bynner was an early supporter of women’s suffrage):

To stop the wound and heal the scar
Of time, with sudden glorious aptitude
Woman assumes her part.  Her pity in a flood
Flings down the gate.
She has been made to wait
Too long. . . . (37)
Here, the rhyme is more subtle, with enjambment and the near-rhyme of “aptitude / flood,” even as the message remains stridently egalitarian.  Bynner makes similarly strident statements about wealth inequality and war, while avoiding the ideological approach we sometimes later see especially in the poets of the 1930s — Bynner was not a Marxist, but more a radical progressive, albeit when the term still had something of a party-political connotation.

At times, The New World verges into mysticism, something like Whitman’s deism (or perhaps unconsciously Taoist) — but, depending on your point of view, of the clear-eyed, refreshing sort (and who’s to say mysticism is inherently bad, anyway?), often bound up in visions of earthly unity (however idealistic they may have been).  For example:

Let me receive communion with all men,
Acknowledging our one and only soul!
   For not till then
Can God be God, till we ourselves are whole. (39)
There are some weaknesses here, though; sometimes Bynner’s frequent talk of the “soul” or “joy” becomes a bit too indistinct or clichéd.  Pound, with his Imagist principles, had a point in this regard, the better strategy often being to avoid or at least critique such abstractions.

There is also the larger question, which attaches to Whitman as well: doesn’t this celebration of America as “the new world” bring with it a host of colonialist assumptions?  That is, while Bynner on one level welcomes immigrants (good), he still sees America as a place for all where travelers from distant countries should “Go find the new world, win the shores / Of which the old books tell!” (11).  Where does that leave the Native people, then?  Certainly not “win[ning] the shores”. . .

Bynner would later move to Santa Fe, New Mexico, where he would engage with American Indian (and Mexican) culture on a deeper level.  This is not to say that he ever fully shed the biases that had been inculcated in him, but here we find a poet who was at least trying to propound a genuine democratic vision to the extent that he was capable, at a time when many of his (now-canonical) contemporaries were putting forward elitist, nativist, and/or jingoist positions.  Soon after publication of The New World, Bynner produced (with Arthur Davison Ficke) the pseudonymous anthology Spectra: A Book of Poetic Experiments (1916, as Emanuel Morgan and Anne Knish respectively), which led to a rethinking not only of his poetic style, but seemingly of his own artistic and personal identity.

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

Two Short Films by R. Allen Kirkpatrick

R. Allen Kirkpatrick (b. 1937) is an American experimental filmmaker who was active in the avant-garde film scene beginning in the late 1960s and primarily in the 1970s, in New York City. His first major 16mm film, Orange Jesuit (uploaded here) is dated from 1972. Neon (also given here, first) is from 1971. Orange Jesuit deals with conceptions of religion, demonstrated primarily through juxtaposition and contrast (the title itself is inherently paradoxical), informed to some extent by Mao’s theory of contradiction. It is also informed to a degree by Gerard Manley Hopkins’s poem “Hurrahing in Harvest”: “The heart rears wings bold and bolder / And hurls for him, O half hurls earth for him off under his feet” — with the filmmaker himself, who appears as the protagonist throughout, seen “off under his feet” at the conclusion. (Kirkpatrick began his artistic career as a poet before moving into film.)

When these two films were transferred to video in 1990, Kirkpatrick added a description on the box that reads:

NEON
Jupiter
Times Square
and Beyond

ORANGE JESUIT
Symvisionary, lyric orange priest
unfrocked, unsprung at the very least
a churchly tiger without cage
restraint commingled with outrage

After these, Kirkpatrick’s next film was Naples and I Must Supply the World with Noodles (1973), which takes up issues of political violence and narcissism. An error in DVD transfer means that an incomplete version of this film (only a few scenes) comes after Orange Jesuit (which ends around the 18:00 minute mark).

Kirkpatrick’s “masterpiece,” not given here, is perhaps Adrenalin Devours the Blood (1975), which includes live footage of Lou Reed. Other titles in his oeuvre are Against Nature’s Silence (1969), which deals with Chinese history and Maoist philosophy, Green Bay Packers (1970), and Local Tyrants and Evil Gentry (1971).

Some clear influences on Kirkpatrick’s work are Stan Brakhage, Kenneth Anger, Jack Smith, and Jonas Mekas. All visual effects in Kirkpatrick’s films, the filmmaker points out, were done in the camera itself, with only cuts, splices, and sound being added later.

Kirkpatrick showed his films at, among other places, Penn State University in 1973. On April 10, 1976, he had a major showing at the Millennium Film Workshop when it was still in Manhattan at 66 E. 4th St. (then curated by Howard Guttenplan) of Fight Song, Neon, Orange Jesuit, Naples and I, and Adrenalin. (He later won two Emmy Awards for his work as film editor of the PBS TV show The Big Blue Marble.)

The early films — Against Nature’s Silence, Fight Song (a.k.a Green Bay Packers), Local Tyrants and Evil Gentry, and others — are 8mm. Neon, Orange Jesuit, Naples and I, and Adrenalin are 16mm.

The digital transfers of Neon and Orange Jesuit uploaded here come from a VHS transfer that was made in 1990, then a more recent (2009 or so) digital transfer from that VHS onto DVD. Adrenalin and Naples and I, though not available online, have been similarly digitized in this less-than-ideal mode. None of the others have yet been transferred and exist only on the original film reels, which are all extant. (The soundtracks for the 8mm films were originally created on accompanying reel-to-reel audio tapes, since transferred to cassette tapes. The 16mm films embed a soundtrack synched to the visual.)

Neon and Orange Jesuit now make their first appearance on the internet (albeit in second-generation transfer) in the hope that these long-obscure works of art may find a new or further audience, having previously been known only to a small group of cognoscenti. They are copyright © R. Allen Kirkpatrick and uploaded with his permission.

Wednesday, May 18, 2016

John Menesini’s Gloom Hearts & Opioids

John Menesini’s new book Gloom Hearts & Opioids is now out, published by Six Gallery Press.  It can be ordered here.

I wrote a brief intro for it:

“Who eats a face?” John Menesini asks in “Bathsalt Vaudeville.” Menesini himself eats a face, metaphorically speaking. Read these poems and find out in the reading; don’t take my word for it.

I’m writing this from a very subjective point of view. I know John and have been digging his poems since we first met in 1998. In Ireland then, his stuff struck me as a strange gust of “home,” whatever that is: “cracked macadam basketball courts / knee-high weeds in tangled clusters” or 4th of July parades with “hordes of drunken / volunteer fireman.” Or “Psychobilly Novaboys,” the first one of his I ever read, I think.

The range of his poetic insight, however, is long, much longer even than a shit-town inscape. Samurais sometimes lived a life of “archaic working-class toil”? Yes, I guess so. The idea connects them to the figures of old Pittsburgh in “Black Cemetery Wall.” I like the sweet elegy for Lou Reed (and Sterling Morrison) and the strange images of “Black Snow”: “cry black tears / sharp shards / become puddles”

Reading these again (and some for the first time) reminds me how good Menesini is — as if I needed reminding. I won’t go on, except to say that he is a poet of singular intensity and a complex sensibility who should be read.

                — Michael S. Begnal, Pittsburgh, July 2014

Friday, May 13, 2016

‘The Muddy Banks’ is out

My new chapbook is out — titled The Muddy Banks, published by Ghost City Press, it can be ordered here: 

http://ghostcitypress.tumblr.com/gcp011 

Please order a copy; I would really appreciate it

Please contact the publisher and/or myself if you would like to do a review of The Muddy Banks.

I’m quite happy with how this little book came out.  Ghost City did a very good job on the layout and printing. The poems are a series, taking up the city of Pittsburgh.  Or as the back-cover description says, “The Muddy Banks is a series of interconnected poems engaging the city of Pittsburgh as a postindustrial landscape, simultaneously having one foot in its rather strange and unique past and the other in a contemporary space, both physical and psychic, where gentrification and decay coexist. Taking a cue from the now-obscure modernist-era poet Haniel Long’s Pittsburgh Memoranda, The Muddy Banks mixes forms and modes. It is at once regionalist and continental, micro and macro, lyric and narrative, documentary and dada, living inscape and necropastoral — an homage to a city’s ghosts, who haunt hotel rooms, empty flats, bridges, banks, riverbanks, stadiums, and straggly streets.”

My thanks to Ghost City, and to John Menesini for the cover art and the blurb.

Saturday, April 30, 2016

Oíche Bhealtaine / May-Day Eve

Hawthorn in bloom (via irisharchaeology.ie)
I don’t think I’m especially insightful in noting that holidays are culturally constructed, that there is nothing inherently holy about one day as opposed to another.  Solstices and equinoxes do mark significant turning points in the cycle of the year, and are thus worth observing.  The four primary Celtic holidays, however, fall between the solstices and equinoxes, and tonight/tomorrow is one of them: Bealtaine.

In Gaelic and other Celtic cultures, Bealtaine is essentially the first day of summer, the brighter part of the year.  Though I’m not going to be driving my cattle (or even my cat) between any purifying bonfires, I choose to notice the day that’s in it.  Holidays can be nice, and maybe even more so when you decide for yourself which ones you like. Oíche Bhealtaine shona dhaoibh go léir.


A Scottish Bealtaine festival, a few years back (via http://nva.org.uk/artwork/beltane/)

Tuesday, April 05, 2016

Review in Poetry Ireland's Trumpet

My review of recent books by three Irish poets — Trevor Joyce, Christodoulos Makris, and Peter O’Neill — appears in the new issue (5) of Trumpet, Poetry Ireland’s critical review.  The publication is available in hard copy up until a new issue comes out, at which time it becomes downloadable as a PDF.

Poetry Ireland describes the magazine like this: “Reviews, opinions and essays on poetry and the arts in a bite sized literary pamphlet.”

Here are some snippets from my essay.  The whole piece runs to 1735 words, so these are just teasers:

Trevor Joyce’s booklet Rome’s Wreck is a translation of Edmund Spenser’s sonnet sequence Ruines of Rome (1591), which itself is a translation of Joachim du Bellay’s Les Antiquités de Rome (1558). . . .

Where Joyce’s primary formal restriction is his use of iambic tetrameter, Christodoulos Makris, in his second collection, The Architecture of Chance, employs all manner of controlling devices. . . .

In contrast to the ironic humour that Makris deploys, Peter O’Neill in his third collection, The Dark Pool, is nothing if not serious. . . .