are featured on Other Clutter starting now. The site is curated by Jenny Sampiris, a Toronto poet and the co-ordinator of the Scream Literary Festival.
The pieces featured are 1. school of A fish; 2 jelly fish; 3. C-horse and 4. B-fish.
i'll post more in the alphaquatics series soon.
thanks for reading in 2007 and a happy 2008 to you!
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Thursday, November 15, 2007
upcoming chances to hear me read
Thursday, November 22, 7:30pm, i open with Clare Latremouille for Anne Le Dressay; i plan to read a bit of my chapbook Eleanor and some new work on Kiki of Montparnasse.
Sunday, November 25, 2pm at Sasquatch, Royal Oak II; Roland Prevost and I are co-features. it starts with an open mic. i plan to read the whole of Eleanor and that will likely be it.
at both locales i'll have copies of Eleanor (above/ground press) and my AngelHousePress chapbooks available for sale.
hope to see you there!
Sunday, November 25, 2pm at Sasquatch, Royal Oak II; Roland Prevost and I are co-features. it starts with an open mic. i plan to read the whole of Eleanor and that will likely be it.
at both locales i'll have copies of Eleanor (above/ground press) and my AngelHousePress chapbooks available for sale.
hope to see you there!
Monday, October 08, 2007
untitled
there are those of us who look for light
or the absence a shadow makes
a feeling inside the heart that listens
that is vacant
and it’s hard to explain
emmett took photographs of light
and stark trees standing in front of this light
vic wrote songs about it too
today it’s foggy and there is a sort of no light / greyish light
and that’s ok
because the fog is exactly what i mean
or the absence a shadow makes
a feeling inside the heart that listens
that is vacant
and it’s hard to explain
emmett took photographs of light
and stark trees standing in front of this light
vic wrote songs about it too
today it’s foggy and there is a sort of no light / greyish light
and that’s ok
because the fog is exactly what i mean
series number yellow
today i partake of yellow
chamomile tea, honey, chardonnay
light to swallow float away on
where
are other pairs of filling eyes
what cannot be contained
overflows
in pursuit of yellow
the obvious candle
in a glass, lemon overhang
Verdi’s adagio for trumpet
a watered down pernod conversation
unconsummated maps
pound cake
egg yolk
lassitude
running from yellow
eagles pierce air with brass calls
of need
hunger sleep
cadmium eyes empty of all but prey
chrome talons poised and gleaming
against blood ochre sun
the yellow phrasebook
how are you ? feeling ochre thank you
the sun shines and the sky also shines
did you know it is impolite to say yellow for hello
what colour are my eyes says the cat
we’re expecting a full moon tonight
please tell mr. smith i will meet him in the front lobby with some yellow
i wish to return these yellow apples. they are stale. please purchase some new yellow apples
yellow neighbour words in the websters ninth new collegiate dictionary
yegg yelper yenshee yenta
yardstick yataghan yeah yeanling yeah
flashcard yellow numbers
i say 8 you hold up YELLOW
the month after may is YELLOW
the smell of jasmine is YELLOW
if you add eight plus one you get YELLOW
ouch YELLOW
chamomile tea, honey, chardonnay
light to swallow float away on
where
are other pairs of filling eyes
what cannot be contained
overflows
in pursuit of yellow
the obvious candle
in a glass, lemon overhang
Verdi’s adagio for trumpet
a watered down pernod conversation
unconsummated maps
pound cake
egg yolk
lassitude
running from yellow
eagles pierce air with brass calls
of need
hunger sleep
cadmium eyes empty of all but prey
chrome talons poised and gleaming
against blood ochre sun
the yellow phrasebook
how are you ? feeling ochre thank you
the sun shines and the sky also shines
did you know it is impolite to say yellow for hello
what colour are my eyes says the cat
we’re expecting a full moon tonight
please tell mr. smith i will meet him in the front lobby with some yellow
i wish to return these yellow apples. they are stale. please purchase some new yellow apples
yellow neighbour words in the websters ninth new collegiate dictionary
yegg yelper yenshee yenta
yardstick yataghan yeah yeanling yeah
flashcard yellow numbers
i say 8 you hold up YELLOW
the month after may is YELLOW
the smell of jasmine is YELLOW
if you add eight plus one you get YELLOW
ouch YELLOW
daphne’s hair burns yellow
as she blazes
her call
down the branches shrills
goddess into laurel
tree tear off in the fire
heated rivers striate fields
scorched hornets nest strands
of wheat burnish skies with
simmergold sizzled sheaves
her call
down the branches shrills
goddess into laurel
tree tear off in the fire
heated rivers striate fields
scorched hornets nest strands
of wheat burnish skies with
simmergold sizzled sheaves
a siren's villanelle
a siren’s villanelle
what compels a tangle
hurricane shouts over lullaby
turbulence troubles a rhythm
come for me in the deep, still water
follow the nature of shifting sand
what compels a tangle
i am knotted in seagrass and anemones
strip yourself bare to enter the ocean
turbulence troubles a rhythm
disguised as downpour i fell against your window
you pressed your hand against the shining wet
what compels a tangle
wind builds waves to crescendo
abalone shells glisten in the swells
turbulence troubles a rhythm
come before night pulls down the sun
swim, swim toward me now
what compels
a tangle
turbulence troubles
a rhythm
what compels a tangle
hurricane shouts over lullaby
turbulence troubles a rhythm
come for me in the deep, still water
follow the nature of shifting sand
what compels a tangle
i am knotted in seagrass and anemones
strip yourself bare to enter the ocean
turbulence troubles a rhythm
disguised as downpour i fell against your window
you pressed your hand against the shining wet
what compels a tangle
wind builds waves to crescendo
abalone shells glisten in the swells
turbulence troubles a rhythm
come before night pulls down the sun
swim, swim toward me now
what compels
a tangle
turbulence troubles
a rhythm
abt eggs & eggscrement
fold nto bowl
n o n s e n s e sizzles
ovr easy wth a side of whys
staggering works of yolk
breaking genie US
n o n s e n s e sizzles
ovr easy wth a side of whys
staggering works of yolk
breaking genie US
wolf
wolf
an ocean to his singing
octaves dampening my bones
the sand shifts as the waves rock
the dock forth and back to worship
each note as it rolls
along stone covered sea bottom
an open window, an open wing, an echo
the storm rushes through
made of sound, of water
as if there are no such beings as humans
allowed to exist
not with a voice like his
an ocean to his singing
octaves dampening my bones
the sand shifts as the waves rock
the dock forth and back to worship
each note as it rolls
along stone covered sea bottom
an open window, an open wing, an echo
the storm rushes through
made of sound, of water
as if there are no such beings as humans
allowed to exist
not with a voice like his
flight
i want no structure no
bridge over to be suspended
between absolutes and mid air
i seem to land on broken
things cutting claws on jagged rock
to walk you must love solid ground not
struggle against forces that weigh you
the bubble, the leaf, the ripple
over water, the moving
shadow, the shift
of feathers on
open wing
bridge over to be suspended
between absolutes and mid air
i seem to land on broken
things cutting claws on jagged rock
to walk you must love solid ground not
struggle against forces that weigh you
the bubble, the leaf, the ripple
over water, the moving
shadow, the shift
of feathers on
open wing
Thursday, October 04, 2007
occasional vees and bees
[another workshop exercise to discuss remarkable letters; has prompted me to begin the above series, photos of the letters v and b as depicted in nature and human nature]
V voluptuous velvet heart shaped chocolate box
vivacious mosquito killer buzzzap arc electroredblue
vee - red orange sunrise popsicle melt of heat between
b chew the mint leaves, taste, chew, taste
seagreen ocean gathering waves
bee - scarbob cufflinks lacquer reflected
hum of beetles clicking against june brick
green petals plucked from a burgundy tea rose
vivacious mosquito killer buzzzap arc electroredblue
vee - red orange sunrise popsicle melt of heat between
b chew the mint leaves, taste, chew, taste
seagreen ocean gathering waves
bee - scarbob cufflinks lacquer reflected
hum of beetles clicking against june brick
green petals plucked from a burgundy tea rose
CUNT
[inspired by a workshop exercise to write about a single word]
CUNT
begins with a hard c followed by a guttural staccato one syllable nasal grunt and ends in an explosive t gasp for breath.
the convex consonant pushes itself into the concave vowel which opens itself to an erect t.
the word CUNT is powerful, misappropriated as an insult. it shocks and evokes emotion, it’s political, sexual, and taboo, evoking secret pleasures we’re not supposed to talk about. as a noun, CUNT has 16 different meanings.
[if you haven’t seen Eve Ensler’s the Vagina Monologues, you should go see it or read it. Ensler acts out real women’s stories of intimacy, vulnerability and sexual self discovery]
Cunt: A Cultural History
http://www.matthewhunt.com/cunt/index.html
begins with a hard c followed by a guttural staccato one syllable nasal grunt and ends in an explosive t gasp for breath.
the convex consonant pushes itself into the concave vowel which opens itself to an erect t.
the word CUNT is powerful, misappropriated as an insult. it shocks and evokes emotion, it’s political, sexual, and taboo, evoking secret pleasures we’re not supposed to talk about. as a noun, CUNT has 16 different meanings.
[if you haven’t seen Eve Ensler’s the Vagina Monologues, you should go see it or read it. Ensler acts out real women’s stories of intimacy, vulnerability and sexual self discovery]
Cunt: A Cultural History
http://www.matthewhunt.com/cunt/index.html
To Shave or Not to Shave
[based on a few requests to post, after my discussion of the word "cunt" in my poetry workshop; originally published in John Barlow's "Pyschic Rotunda IV/V", with a little help from Shakespeare]
To shave or not to shave,--that is the question:--
Whether tis nobler in the pussy to suffer
The nicks and ingrown hairs caused by dull blades,
or to take razor against a sea of pubic troubles,
And by shaving end them?—To let them die,--to choke cunnilingualists,--
No more; and by not shaving to say we end
The cunt-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wisht. To cut,--to shave;--
To shave! perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that smooth dream what dreams may come,
When admirers have shuffled off this bare and mortal cunt,
Must give us pause: there’s the fear
That makes a hairy pussy of so long life:
For who would bear the nicks and cuts of blades,
The shaver’s wrong, the proud woman’s hairy,
The pangs of despised hair, the lover’s delay,
The insolence of unshaven pussy, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unshaved takes,
When she herself might her coitus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat over a hairy snatch?
But that the dread of hair in the teeth,--
The undiscover’d wiry pubis from whose bourn
No sexual adventurer returns,--puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those hairs we have
Than shave the ingrowns that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of smoothed pussy
Is sickled o’er with the dark cast of follicles;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their razors turn awry,
And lose the blade of action,—No longer soft you now!
The fair Ophelia!—Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my skin remembered.
To shave or not to shave,--that is the question:--
Whether tis nobler in the pussy to suffer
The nicks and ingrown hairs caused by dull blades,
or to take razor against a sea of pubic troubles,
And by shaving end them?—To let them die,--to choke cunnilingualists,--
No more; and by not shaving to say we end
The cunt-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wisht. To cut,--to shave;--
To shave! perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that smooth dream what dreams may come,
When admirers have shuffled off this bare and mortal cunt,
Must give us pause: there’s the fear
That makes a hairy pussy of so long life:
For who would bear the nicks and cuts of blades,
The shaver’s wrong, the proud woman’s hairy,
The pangs of despised hair, the lover’s delay,
The insolence of unshaven pussy, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unshaved takes,
When she herself might her coitus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat over a hairy snatch?
But that the dread of hair in the teeth,--
The undiscover’d wiry pubis from whose bourn
No sexual adventurer returns,--puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those hairs we have
Than shave the ingrowns that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of smoothed pussy
Is sickled o’er with the dark cast of follicles;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their razors turn awry,
And lose the blade of action,—No longer soft you now!
The fair Ophelia!—Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my skin remembered.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Saturday, September 08, 2007
wrap up of august poetry postcard fest
August’s Poetry Postcard Festival revitalized snail mail for me. I’m an Internet enthusiast, always finding new ways to communicate, collaborate and connect with people. I particularly appreciate the irony that the PPF was organized and initiated through the Internet and couldn’t exist without it. That’s what I like about this era: you can use the typewriter and then scan the piece for electronic distribution. you can take a photo with a digital camera and then add blots of paint and use a brush pen to enhance it. Today we are not restricted to any method.
I enjoyed receiving cards from poets I didn’t know and was fascinated by the various styles of writing. I wouldn’t like to choose a favourite, they were all compelling in their own ways. I didn’t receive postcards daily but in exciting bursts. My mailbox would be full of brightly coloured missives with text that defied the plodding linearity of credit card bills, the jingoistic pamphlets of political propaganda and the obnoxious cliche-ridden advertisements i usually receive in the mail.
From a writing point of view, I found the activity ritualistic and meditative. it was something i did every day for almost 31 days; sometimes, i found myself writing more than one at a time. i tried in my creation to find out a little something about the person i was writing to and incorporate it into the text. i’d google my recipients and if they had poetry on line, i’d use something from that; if i found a bio, i’d try to include a detail from that. failing all else, i’d put something in about a commonality of our geographies, but i tried to find some common ground to establish a connection. in order to document the work, i took photos and added little bits of my own mischief to the flotsam. this was fun too, but time consuming. in the future i will probably just let the cards be and enjoy the rituals. i plan on keeping a stack of cards and postage available for any old time when i want to touch base with someone.
the internet is quite wonderful and i don’t see myself returning to the mail in any full time way, but from time to time, it provides a languid and patient pause that i find restful and mysterious at the same time. i’ve always loved the Griffin and Sabine books by Nick Bantock, in which he artfully documents the imaginary correspondence of two people. the postcard festival reminded me of that only on a larger scale. wouldn’t it be fun if we published a book!
thanks to Paul Nelson and Lana Hechtman Ayers for their initiative and dedication to this project. i'm sorry i won't be at the reading; i'm sure it will be splendid. do send me a card and tell me how it went ;)
I enjoyed receiving cards from poets I didn’t know and was fascinated by the various styles of writing. I wouldn’t like to choose a favourite, they were all compelling in their own ways. I didn’t receive postcards daily but in exciting bursts. My mailbox would be full of brightly coloured missives with text that defied the plodding linearity of credit card bills, the jingoistic pamphlets of political propaganda and the obnoxious cliche-ridden advertisements i usually receive in the mail.
From a writing point of view, I found the activity ritualistic and meditative. it was something i did every day for almost 31 days; sometimes, i found myself writing more than one at a time. i tried in my creation to find out a little something about the person i was writing to and incorporate it into the text. i’d google my recipients and if they had poetry on line, i’d use something from that; if i found a bio, i’d try to include a detail from that. failing all else, i’d put something in about a commonality of our geographies, but i tried to find some common ground to establish a connection. in order to document the work, i took photos and added little bits of my own mischief to the flotsam. this was fun too, but time consuming. in the future i will probably just let the cards be and enjoy the rituals. i plan on keeping a stack of cards and postage available for any old time when i want to touch base with someone.
the internet is quite wonderful and i don’t see myself returning to the mail in any full time way, but from time to time, it provides a languid and patient pause that i find restful and mysterious at the same time. i’ve always loved the Griffin and Sabine books by Nick Bantock, in which he artfully documents the imaginary correspondence of two people. the postcard festival reminded me of that only on a larger scale. wouldn’t it be fun if we published a book!
thanks to Paul Nelson and Lana Hechtman Ayers for their initiative and dedication to this project. i'm sorry i won't be at the reading; i'm sure it will be splendid. do send me a card and tell me how it went ;)
Friday, August 31, 2007
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Friday, August 24, 2007
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Friday, August 17, 2007
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Monday, August 13, 2007
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Friday, August 10, 2007
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Monday, August 06, 2007
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Saturday, August 04, 2007
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
August 23, 2007 reading at Factory Reading Series
i will be reading with Marcus McCann and William Hawkins. we are all launching chapbooks published by the wonderful above/ground press.
Factory Reading Series
Ottawa Art Gallery
Arts Court
Thursday, August 23, 2007
7:30 pm
at some point, Marcus and I will be on Susan Johnston's Special Blend show on CKCU. i'll put up a notice.
Factory Reading Series
Ottawa Art Gallery
Arts Court
Thursday, August 23, 2007
7:30 pm
at some point, Marcus and I will be on Susan Johnston's Special Blend show on CKCU. i'll put up a notice.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Thursday, July 26, 2007
August Poetry Postcard Fest
i signed up for this neat thing, better explained here
here are my first three. all the postcards are works of art from canadian artists
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Friday, May 25, 2007
tales from the end of our world
reynold throws stones at the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse apartment. water sluices from a functional sculpture, tumbling over paddle wheels, splashing on black rocks painted with the words “joy,” “gratitude,” and “sky.” a stunted bonsai lies on its side in the corner beside a lacklustre rubber tree plant. sometimes reynold hits. glass shatters, disturbs the sound of water, the gentle background music, the still leaves of the dusty plants.
denise likes to eat french pastry from larks, the latest trend in high fashion eating. you fill you cheeks with soft yellow cream and chocolate profiteroles, pause and spit. the thin and stylishly dressed waiter to your right holds a bucket and wipes your mouth when you’re done. you feels as if you’ve indulged in gustatory excess, yet when you leave you are empty. strangely empty.
zoe rides a harley hog across california’s coastal highway number one and listens to the grateful dead. she wonders about her mother, ashes and bone finally cold in an urn on her mantle in the family home where zoe dreamed of escape. she’s given her mother everything she wanted: non stop big screen colour television and the security that nothing will ever change.
bridget’s eye is still bruised from the old lady’s fists. she wouldn’t have sex with him, the man her mother sold her to. she discovers a gray army blanket and an old box of crackers. for the first time in weeks, bridget sleeps. in the morning her body is so frozen with cold she can’t feel her toes, her fingers. there’s a hole in the roof of the shed where she’s run to. winter light melts the ice. she opens her mouth and gulps.
david composes text on a typewriter, blots empty spaces with gray smudges caused by eyes that refuse to remain dry. he takes a sip of his morning martini and watches the words blur out of sense. a long list slides slowly down the refrigerator door, its overwhelming and impossible to complete obligations too heavy to be held by magnetic force. david shoots out six typewriter keys and saves the last bullet. t h e e n d
cassiopea makes the best pizzas in the city. the teenage boy watches the curves of her body bounce as she twirls another circle of dough in the air and laughs like she means it. his mother kicks him under the table and tells him to chew his food and stop gaping. his father folds the pages of the business section until the creases are so sharp they cut. while his mother goes to the ladies room and his father pays the bill, he steps through the kitchen and out the back door, a still warm ball of dough cradled in the palm of his hand.
denise likes to eat french pastry from larks, the latest trend in high fashion eating. you fill you cheeks with soft yellow cream and chocolate profiteroles, pause and spit. the thin and stylishly dressed waiter to your right holds a bucket and wipes your mouth when you’re done. you feels as if you’ve indulged in gustatory excess, yet when you leave you are empty. strangely empty.
zoe rides a harley hog across california’s coastal highway number one and listens to the grateful dead. she wonders about her mother, ashes and bone finally cold in an urn on her mantle in the family home where zoe dreamed of escape. she’s given her mother everything she wanted: non stop big screen colour television and the security that nothing will ever change.
bridget’s eye is still bruised from the old lady’s fists. she wouldn’t have sex with him, the man her mother sold her to. she discovers a gray army blanket and an old box of crackers. for the first time in weeks, bridget sleeps. in the morning her body is so frozen with cold she can’t feel her toes, her fingers. there’s a hole in the roof of the shed where she’s run to. winter light melts the ice. she opens her mouth and gulps.
david composes text on a typewriter, blots empty spaces with gray smudges caused by eyes that refuse to remain dry. he takes a sip of his morning martini and watches the words blur out of sense. a long list slides slowly down the refrigerator door, its overwhelming and impossible to complete obligations too heavy to be held by magnetic force. david shoots out six typewriter keys and saves the last bullet. t h e e n d
cassiopea makes the best pizzas in the city. the teenage boy watches the curves of her body bounce as she twirls another circle of dough in the air and laughs like she means it. his mother kicks him under the table and tells him to chew his food and stop gaping. his father folds the pages of the business section until the creases are so sharp they cut. while his mother goes to the ladies room and his father pays the bill, he steps through the kitchen and out the back door, a still warm ball of dough cradled in the palm of his hand.
the end of our world-a poem cycle
big bang theory: countries broken
views of earth from space
as viewed from earth from space from earth
close up where planets splinter
genealogy over atom
stratified centre of quake
birth monsoons
tsunami
before burn
wax effigy packs for apocalypse
carries child raggedly unstitched
plays radio
severs surgeon hand
speeds train
throws bird over cliff
plummets diver
swallows an open mouth
begs an answer
saving the world
wanted—
fuel efficient
fish that flies
and leaves no ecological footprint
afterwards you can eat it
without ingesting mercury or depleting
scarce ocean resources
is powered by hot air
converts noxious bleats into energy
you if ever travelled by fish
know about economies of scale
turntables rewind empathetic breath
until tuesday the stars
rescind hills folded over egg
whites of rivers, eye lids
shutter before after
yolk rises in the east
sets elsewhere
eel or jelly crust unbaked
stuck to the bottom of
bellows suck and fan
the blastfire
finale
the prince counts hands in the valley
while his wife searches for shoulders
in the kitchen
and the butcher needs meat to chop
gristle for the chattering teeth
chew 32 times a feast of galaxy
burn wholes in celeste’s brand
new night table cloth
the dog ticks frenzies from his collar
hind leg thumps to the renaissance
beat of under
again a question breaks the window
views of earth from space
as viewed from earth from space from earth
close up where planets splinter
genealogy over atom
stratified centre of quake
birth monsoons
tsunami
before burn
wax effigy packs for apocalypse
carries child raggedly unstitched
plays radio
severs surgeon hand
speeds train
throws bird over cliff
plummets diver
swallows an open mouth
begs an answer
saving the world
wanted—
fuel efficient
fish that flies
and leaves no ecological footprint
afterwards you can eat it
without ingesting mercury or depleting
scarce ocean resources
is powered by hot air
converts noxious bleats into energy
you if ever travelled by fish
know about economies of scale
turntables rewind empathetic breath
until tuesday the stars
rescind hills folded over egg
whites of rivers, eye lids
shutter before after
yolk rises in the east
sets elsewhere
eel or jelly crust unbaked
stuck to the bottom of
bellows suck and fan
the blastfire
finale
the prince counts hands in the valley
while his wife searches for shoulders
in the kitchen
and the butcher needs meat to chop
gristle for the chattering teeth
chew 32 times a feast of galaxy
burn wholes in celeste’s brand
new night table cloth
the dog ticks frenzies from his collar
hind leg thumps to the renaissance
beat of under
again a question breaks the window
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
rob's assignment on sound poetry
for this week's workshop class, rob asked us to go to the website PENNsound and listen to bpNichol and Steve McCaffery and write something in response. my response is below and the poem cycle i wrote is the entry after this one.
Sound Thoughts
Steve McCaffery - love his language, it goes all over the place. with his work i like to read and hear it. silly at times, such as “what as poetic”:
“the rain in spain falls mainly on mark twain” “an avant garde a kierkegaard”
just so full of rhythm and implausibility, fantastic. absurd “poetica, helvetica, ars poetica.” “when i grow up i want to be a version of a virgin of a brain surgeon” all kinds of unlike ideas put together. “a walnut covered walrus” what happens when you let your mind run free in association with sound? [on a side note, i enjoy also his idea of poetic research being different from other kinds of research in that it is a reaction or response or inspiration rather than necessarily a comment on it, pataphysics, beyond the metaphysical and a parody of science...all fun! love his seven pages missing volume one.]
in bpNichol’s sound poetry, single syllables are emphasized, his word associations are based on sound rather than concept, there’s often strong & sing song rhythms to his poems and he also plays with pitch. some of his poems are like tongue twisters.
also Bill Bissett’s Lullaby from Motherlove-love the language of an unknown or invented language; see how sounds alone can create an atmosphere; this is soft, repetitive like a lullaby.
the addition of sound effects is so much fun; shows you there really are no limits; folks like antonin artaud and william s. burroughs played with all of this years ago, yet it’s still treated as something new. they played with sounds alone, added effects, slowed down and lengthened discrete sounds, distorting them. to me it’s like going deep inside language to really consider it and analyse it in depth, slowing down each individual sound like an isolated moment. this to me is what poems are...the isolation of a unique moment and its articulation on paper or in the air. today folks like max middle and jw curry here in ottawa, a. rawlings in toronto and others all over the world are creating sound poetry. it’s as exciting to me as visual poetry and every other media being used.
i dig the idea of removing and or playing with expected patterns of meaning. seems to me that changing languages is one way of doing so. i fell in love with words for their sounds more than their meaning. i have always spoken my poems out loud and the poems of others. as a child i would repeat and still do, little phrases and words, such as “the theory of plate tectonics” my favourite phrase and “lugubrious.” I love what these sounds do to my tongue, how they fill my mouth, how they resonate in my brain: “the murmuring of innumerable bees”-Tennyson.
in one of the music classes i can still remember from grade school the teacher has us listen to peter and the wolf and tell her what we were hearing without knowing the story. i was fascinated by the way music and sound alone could convey mood and tone, could tell the story without words.
i have always played with language, inventing my own as a child. this exploration of sound has brought me back to that playfulness and the idea of invented languages.
in this poem cycle, “8 planets speaking in tongues,” i’ve chosen vocabulary from existing languages and also added my own invented words. i haven’t chosen the words for their meaning, but rather for their sound. the sounds are meant to have onomatopoeic associations with specific atmospheres...let me know if they do...
Sound Thoughts
Steve McCaffery - love his language, it goes all over the place. with his work i like to read and hear it. silly at times, such as “what as poetic”:
“the rain in spain falls mainly on mark twain” “an avant garde a kierkegaard”
just so full of rhythm and implausibility, fantastic. absurd “poetica, helvetica, ars poetica.” “when i grow up i want to be a version of a virgin of a brain surgeon” all kinds of unlike ideas put together. “a walnut covered walrus” what happens when you let your mind run free in association with sound? [on a side note, i enjoy also his idea of poetic research being different from other kinds of research in that it is a reaction or response or inspiration rather than necessarily a comment on it, pataphysics, beyond the metaphysical and a parody of science...all fun! love his seven pages missing volume one.]
in bpNichol’s sound poetry, single syllables are emphasized, his word associations are based on sound rather than concept, there’s often strong & sing song rhythms to his poems and he also plays with pitch. some of his poems are like tongue twisters.
also Bill Bissett’s Lullaby from Motherlove-love the language of an unknown or invented language; see how sounds alone can create an atmosphere; this is soft, repetitive like a lullaby.
the addition of sound effects is so much fun; shows you there really are no limits; folks like antonin artaud and william s. burroughs played with all of this years ago, yet it’s still treated as something new. they played with sounds alone, added effects, slowed down and lengthened discrete sounds, distorting them. to me it’s like going deep inside language to really consider it and analyse it in depth, slowing down each individual sound like an isolated moment. this to me is what poems are...the isolation of a unique moment and its articulation on paper or in the air. today folks like max middle and jw curry here in ottawa, a. rawlings in toronto and others all over the world are creating sound poetry. it’s as exciting to me as visual poetry and every other media being used.
i dig the idea of removing and or playing with expected patterns of meaning. seems to me that changing languages is one way of doing so. i fell in love with words for their sounds more than their meaning. i have always spoken my poems out loud and the poems of others. as a child i would repeat and still do, little phrases and words, such as “the theory of plate tectonics” my favourite phrase and “lugubrious.” I love what these sounds do to my tongue, how they fill my mouth, how they resonate in my brain: “the murmuring of innumerable bees”-Tennyson.
in one of the music classes i can still remember from grade school the teacher has us listen to peter and the wolf and tell her what we were hearing without knowing the story. i was fascinated by the way music and sound alone could convey mood and tone, could tell the story without words.
i have always played with language, inventing my own as a child. this exploration of sound has brought me back to that playfulness and the idea of invented languages.
in this poem cycle, “8 planets speaking in tongues,” i’ve chosen vocabulary from existing languages and also added my own invented words. i haven’t chosen the words for their meaning, but rather for their sound. the sounds are meant to have onomatopoeic associations with specific atmospheres...let me know if they do...
Monday, May 07, 2007
8 planets speaking in tongues
to be published by my self-publishing imprint Angel House Press and to be launched at the ottawa small press fair along with two other chapbooks on june 16, 2007
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Saturday, April 28, 2007
what if there’s nothing more beautiful
than this about to be
what if i can never look in your eyes without the dominos of all our histories
downing the centuries of every thing discovered not as important as this
you and i at castles moated between us no fire greater than the inner dragon wind
travels the taut wire sings our bones
walls of roman ruins and tarnished armour carved statues of ghosts and rusted red wine staining silver chalices i’m eager to touch the legend of you if that’s all i will ever
some have found prophesies written in the sacrificed petals of flowers torn apart
fingernail scars on the moon fanatic latched onto
in this life understand what’s meant and what’s not to be
you’ll allow spark to lightning but never to ground
than this about to be
what if i can never look in your eyes without the dominos of all our histories
downing the centuries of every thing discovered not as important as this
you and i at castles moated between us no fire greater than the inner dragon wind
travels the taut wire sings our bones
walls of roman ruins and tarnished armour carved statues of ghosts and rusted red wine staining silver chalices i’m eager to touch the legend of you if that’s all i will ever
some have found prophesies written in the sacrificed petals of flowers torn apart
fingernail scars on the moon fanatic latched onto
in this life understand what’s meant and what’s not to be
you’ll allow spark to lightning but never to ground
Monday, April 23, 2007
your histories i dare not
fall into
fingers fumble through electric compositions and fret
board under your hands i’ve imagined how they’d find me
a pattern beneath all the eras
eros eros rose sees seas seize
scar of lightning written over bones
is all i need
it’s windy the clouds i can taste the coming storm
you the ocean nothing more
one glance reveals infinity
fall into
fingers fumble through electric compositions and fret
board under your hands i’ve imagined how they’d find me
a pattern beneath all the eras
eros eros rose sees seas seize
scar of lightning written over bones
is all i need
it’s windy the clouds i can taste the coming storm
you the ocean nothing more
one glance reveals infinity
believe unbreakable
hand wedged between soap
bubbles and narrow water glass
body within a morning’s yellowgreen
the simple act of washing over re
washing daily in the early hours
constant hymn of swallows in prayer overhead
folds into routine unnoticed
always present
an act of forgiveness
your blood receives
before feet press down onto solid
the day begins with this
bubbles and narrow water glass
body within a morning’s yellowgreen
the simple act of washing over re
washing daily in the early hours
constant hymn of swallows in prayer overhead
folds into routine unnoticed
always present
an act of forgiveness
your blood receives
before feet press down onto solid
the day begins with this
Monday, April 16, 2007
two untitled poems
(1) friday's poem
on these nights
better go hungry
know exactly what misses
you leave the water on the table in its empty glass
wait and listen sound of
you could talk the constant the surround the hum
wonder does anyone?
feel it there a pulse that drives
yesterday there was lightning thunder
response yes exactly
only the cold air can understand
only the spring green tree blur can understand
to clarify a hot air balloon made of tissue paper set on fire
there is no voice for this
tune guitar the in-between
the waves will tell
so the whisper it’s taken so long to find it the secret so this is
leave lose in paper shuffle yet in pulp scrape over you can still discern
the travel of what’s left unsaid
(2) monday's poem
snow thinks of you
sky merges land
the quiet ly
falling fall
day where nothing matters
but white
whets appetite for
the cold is
silence that never before existed
the morning an answer
on these nights
better go hungry
know exactly what misses
you leave the water on the table in its empty glass
wait and listen sound of
you could talk the constant the surround the hum
wonder does anyone?
feel it there a pulse that drives
yesterday there was lightning thunder
response yes exactly
only the cold air can understand
only the spring green tree blur can understand
to clarify a hot air balloon made of tissue paper set on fire
there is no voice for this
tune guitar the in-between
the waves will tell
so the whisper it’s taken so long to find it the secret so this is
leave lose in paper shuffle yet in pulp scrape over you can still discern
the travel of what’s left unsaid
(2) monday's poem
snow thinks of you
sky merges land
the quiet ly
falling fall
day where nothing matters
but white
whets appetite for
the cold is
silence that never before existed
the morning an answer
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
secret
please distract me
its true your words go directly
and i shouldnt
but do
want
if this the only conduit
i accept
speak general
careful unspecific dont for granted take
vicarious thru your words not meant for me
not meant
i close and your eyes simultaneous
ly river ly stars ly flow from to inadvertant ly
touch your something language with my body
syllable i could devour each
will subsist on nothing but word scent
on wind
its true your words go directly
and i shouldnt
but do
want
if this the only conduit
i accept
speak general
careful unspecific dont for granted take
vicarious thru your words not meant for me
not meant
i close and your eyes simultaneous
ly river ly stars ly flow from to inadvertant ly
touch your something language with my body
syllable i could devour each
will subsist on nothing but word scent
on wind
notes from my response to hannah weiner's poems
hannah weiner’s little books/indians came along when i’ve been feeling frozen by the cold beauty of the perfect. writing like hannah’s seems closer to the bone, more real to me than the writing of someone like don mckay lately. a good friend suggested it’s all about timing and what we need at a particular moment. at this moment i am not inspired by beauty but by messes, holes and ambiguities. i don’t want a writer to fill in all the blanks for me, i want her to leave the space open, so i can breathe.
hannah addresses herself directly, makes colossal typos and spelling errors, changes apostrophes to esses, fucks around with subject verb agreement and linearity. nothing is sacred. within all that is a painful honesty. she makes up words, she references other writers, like ron padgett. she sticks in clichés, she messes with the order of ideas, and even splits words apart.
she began writing poems in her mid 30s, no reason why she waited until then, just twenty years went by. she went to the new york school and was bored to tears by the poetry of writers like kenneth koch. her most well known book was the clairvoyant journal. she saw words on people, on things, giant 8 foot words. in an interview with charles bernstein for penn sound, she said:
capital words give instructions
italics make comments
ordinary type – me just trying to get thru the day
more stuff from the interview and other sources:
are you ever embarrassed about the triviality of thought – cb?
i don’t have time to be embarrassed
i bought a typewriter; i had 3 choices ordinary words, italics and capital letters, that settled it
how can you not be avant garde if you’re the only person in the world who sees words.
cb says that “One of Hannah’s most enduring achievements as a writer was her unflinching, indeed often hilarious, inclusion of what, from a literary point of view, is often denigrated as trivial, awkward, embarrassing, silly, and, indeed, too minutely personal, even for the advocates of the personal in writing.” jacket 12
http://jacketmagazine.com/12/wein-bern.html
it’s not easy to go thru her writing. at times she loses me with all the stretching and playing around but i don’t mind that. it’s good to be lost and i know i can go thru her stuff again and notice different bits.
at the same time i’ve been going thru steven ross smith’s book flutterlongue-the book of games. not only does he play around with sound, but he also messes with form and linearity. in some interview i listened to on line, steve mccaffery said that when you take away cues for literal meaning, it forces your reader to look for other patterns of meaning, such as sound. i’m excited about this idea. i think it also extends to form. when you take away linear patterns, how does that affect how readers read your poems? folks like weiner and ross smith are opening up poetry for me, making me want to throw some sand out of the sandbox too.
hannah addresses herself directly, makes colossal typos and spelling errors, changes apostrophes to esses, fucks around with subject verb agreement and linearity. nothing is sacred. within all that is a painful honesty. she makes up words, she references other writers, like ron padgett. she sticks in clichés, she messes with the order of ideas, and even splits words apart.
she began writing poems in her mid 30s, no reason why she waited until then, just twenty years went by. she went to the new york school and was bored to tears by the poetry of writers like kenneth koch. her most well known book was the clairvoyant journal. she saw words on people, on things, giant 8 foot words. in an interview with charles bernstein for penn sound, she said:
capital words give instructions
italics make comments
ordinary type – me just trying to get thru the day
more stuff from the interview and other sources:
are you ever embarrassed about the triviality of thought – cb?
i don’t have time to be embarrassed
i bought a typewriter; i had 3 choices ordinary words, italics and capital letters, that settled it
how can you not be avant garde if you’re the only person in the world who sees words.
cb says that “One of Hannah’s most enduring achievements as a writer was her unflinching, indeed often hilarious, inclusion of what, from a literary point of view, is often denigrated as trivial, awkward, embarrassing, silly, and, indeed, too minutely personal, even for the advocates of the personal in writing.” jacket 12
http://jacketmagazine.com/12/wein-bern.html
it’s not easy to go thru her writing. at times she loses me with all the stretching and playing around but i don’t mind that. it’s good to be lost and i know i can go thru her stuff again and notice different bits.
at the same time i’ve been going thru steven ross smith’s book flutterlongue-the book of games. not only does he play around with sound, but he also messes with form and linearity. in some interview i listened to on line, steve mccaffery said that when you take away cues for literal meaning, it forces your reader to look for other patterns of meaning, such as sound. i’m excited about this idea. i think it also extends to form. when you take away linear patterns, how does that affect how readers read your poems? folks like weiner and ross smith are opening up poetry for me, making me want to throw some sand out of the sandbox too.
[click on pic to enlarge poem]
space junk circus act
he a high wire artist who loves
distance between trapeze
and audience
you someone who holds fistfuls
of air
he glides all business
like across enthusiasm you as
net
here is tennis between ceiling
and floor
your words ricochet relay
bounce off silence
vertical’s a virtuous border
with enough gap
to keep him safe
not from falling
but from falling in
thru
one way
telescope he is the man
in moon
where he escapes gravity
and the unavoidable drop
you remember a juggler
incapable of throwing fire
without burning
distance between trapeze
and audience
you someone who holds fistfuls
of air
he glides all business
like across enthusiasm you as
net
here is tennis between ceiling
and floor
your words ricochet relay
bounce off silence
vertical’s a virtuous border
with enough gap
to keep him safe
not from falling
but from falling in
thru
one way
telescope he is the man
in moon
where he escapes gravity
and the unavoidable drop
you remember a juggler
incapable of throwing fire
without burning
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
she sells fruit and memories
brown eyes gold flecked reflected
seed
devoured inflection
possibility of taste
hands tender lift apple from basket
the old man who no longer hungers
wants a bite
squeezes ripe in palm
sweet plum scent of longing
clings like remembrance
seed
devoured inflection
possibility of taste
hands tender lift apple from basket
the old man who no longer hungers
wants a bite
squeezes ripe in palm
sweet plum scent of longing
clings like remembrance
ode to late night conversations
winter has emptied the pub
a snowplow scrapes away what remains
another scheme creative dream unfolds
i think of a song in italian
che so bello da morire
you’re so beautiful i might die
between hands i hold the need
to touch his fingers
i take his words lovingly inside
plate scraping substitutes
for a full meal
when the meal is done
this morning i wake late
the sound of his voice in my dreams
i am so hungry
a snowplow scrapes away what remains
another scheme creative dream unfolds
i think of a song in italian
che so bello da morire
you’re so beautiful i might die
between hands i hold the need
to touch his fingers
i take his words lovingly inside
plate scraping substitutes
for a full meal
when the meal is done
this morning i wake late
the sound of his voice in my dreams
i am so hungry
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
notes from juliana spahr's response and a poem
in our last workshop, rob mclennan had us go to http://www.ubu.com/ubu/ (a great site for post avant stuff) and choose a collection to read and respond to by means of a poem. i chose juliana spahr's response (i've read and felt affected by spahr's writing already):
in her poems, spahr describes a series of scenarios where someone's truth is questioned: the torture of military prisoners, the self stalking of a woman with disassociative personality disorder, the abduction of people by aliens.
in her introduction, she discusses the difficulties of representing what's real and what's not through patterns, through art, through history. my poem was triggered by her use of abstract language, her method of including everyone by not being specific in naming, her occasional use of very complicated sentence structure, her simple language and the following excerpts:
"some co-opt this language and paint a series of meticulous and beautifully colored (sic)
monumental images of people imprisoned alone and at the edge of a
tedious despair."
"some [refigure [refuse] respond] call out for an end "
"rewritten the goal of the artist is to present reality in a true and concrete manner"
"another [generic human figure] says passionately we express ourselves in a lan-
guage of regulations. Symbols and numbers best convey our ideas."
"a voice stutters in the background of our waking mind"
"in the narrative she finds herself floating up and out of the bed"
"i can't say this happened to me and expect to be treated in the same way again"
"you keep shaking the secrecy tree
hopefully something drops out"
"as we try to look with eyes better than what we've had before"
"when terrible things happen they must be witnessed"
"how much of self can be removed and the self remain?"
and all of this VIII from page 79
"an attempt to speak to the human moment will occur
in these moments someone touches someone
someone claims to love someone
someone moves closer to someone in prelude to a proposition
someone waits outside for someone to come by
someone becomes unable to live his/her life and succumbs
this is information that might be left out of witness
yet it has a bearing that is all the more strong
it speaks to the safety of immunity that does not exist
to the various kinds of immunity that do exist
such as an emotional immunity to the world
a quarantine of engagement
a feeling of safety
which do you believe?"
untitled poem by me (amanda)
these pages are intentionally left blank
any attempt to find meaning
here is fruitless
abstract does not equal concrete does not produce sound does
not translate
into utterances decoded by ear
there is no evidence to suggest that saying no does not eliminate occurrence
or re o cur rence
to engage in hypothetics is incorrect
muscle memory is a myth
to obey / respect conspires against
solve this problem
where x is father
and y is mother
and z is child
x + y = z
x + z =
there is no answer
solve for why
in her poems, spahr describes a series of scenarios where someone's truth is questioned: the torture of military prisoners, the self stalking of a woman with disassociative personality disorder, the abduction of people by aliens.
in her introduction, she discusses the difficulties of representing what's real and what's not through patterns, through art, through history. my poem was triggered by her use of abstract language, her method of including everyone by not being specific in naming, her occasional use of very complicated sentence structure, her simple language and the following excerpts:
"some co-opt this language and paint a series of meticulous and beautifully colored (sic)
monumental images of people imprisoned alone and at the edge of a
tedious despair."
"some [refigure [refuse] respond] call out for an end "
"rewritten the goal of the artist is to present reality in a true and concrete manner"
"another [generic human figure] says passionately we express ourselves in a lan-
guage of regulations. Symbols and numbers best convey our ideas."
"a voice stutters in the background of our waking mind"
"in the narrative she finds herself floating up and out of the bed"
"i can't say this happened to me and expect to be treated in the same way again"
"you keep shaking the secrecy tree
hopefully something drops out"
"as we try to look with eyes better than what we've had before"
"when terrible things happen they must be witnessed"
"how much of self can be removed and the self remain?"
and all of this VIII from page 79
"an attempt to speak to the human moment will occur
in these moments someone touches someone
someone claims to love someone
someone moves closer to someone in prelude to a proposition
someone waits outside for someone to come by
someone becomes unable to live his/her life and succumbs
this is information that might be left out of witness
yet it has a bearing that is all the more strong
it speaks to the safety of immunity that does not exist
to the various kinds of immunity that do exist
such as an emotional immunity to the world
a quarantine of engagement
a feeling of safety
which do you believe?"
untitled poem by me (amanda)
these pages are intentionally left blank
any attempt to find meaning
here is fruitless
abstract does not equal concrete does not produce sound does
not translate
into utterances decoded by ear
there is no evidence to suggest that saying no does not eliminate occurrence
or re o cur rence
to engage in hypothetics is incorrect
muscle memory is a myth
to obey / respect conspires against
solve this problem
where x is father
and y is mother
and z is child
x + y = z
x + z =
there is no answer
solve for why
