Sunday, January 15, 2017

Touch the Donkey : twelfth issue,

The twelfth issue is now available, with new poems by Gil McElroy, Colin Smith, Nathaniel G. Moore, David Buuck, Kate Greenstreet, Kate Hargreaves, Shazia Hafiz Ramji, Erín Moure and Sarah Swan.

Seven dollars (includes shipping). Take a bow, sugar beet.

Wednesday, January 4, 2017

TtD supplement #69 : seven questions for Oana Avasilichioaei

Oana Avasilichioaei’s poetic work traverses border spaces, textual architectures, multilingualism, sound and photographic translations. Her five poetry collections include Limbinal (2015), a hybrid, multi-genre work on notions of borders, and We, Beasts (2012, winner of the A. M. Klein Prize for Poetry) and her recent soundworks include THRESHOLDS (2015) and MOUTHNOTES (2016). Also a translator, she has published several translations from French of Quebecois writers and from Romanian of Nichita Stanescu and Paul Celan. She has given many readings/performances in Canada, USA, Mexico and Europe, and can be found at www.oanalab.com.

A short excerpt from her “Tracking D’s Animal (a survival)” appears in the eleventh issue of Touch the Donkey.

Q: Tell me about the work-in-progress “Tracking D’s Animal (a survival).”

A: “Tracking D’s Animal (a survival),” which is now actually titled “Track, Animal, Fellow (A Survival),” is a long poem inspired by Jacques Derrida’s influential essay L’animal que donc je suis (which is typically translated in English as The Animal That Therefore I Am (More to Follow). I, as a kind of “language animal,” track his use of the word “animal” to write a long poem that playfully yet responsively explores various borders between a physical animal and a metaphorical animal, between poetry and philosophy, between two languages (French and English), etc. In the landscape of the page, a subject literally follows D’s animal word in order to become the animal (according to the double meaning of the French word suis as both being and following) and free the word-beast from the philosopher’s argument, let it loose in a new forest of language, an aural wood of meaning’s animality. In the proximity and distance to the animal in the subject’s metaphysical core, in the porous place between two languages, “Track, Animal, Fellow (A Survival)” explores an animality of language and a language of animality.

This long poem is also part of a book-length project called EIGHT-TRACK, which will be composed of eight tracks (or series), each of which will investigate one of the various meanings of the word “track,” such as musical and cinematic tracks, speech tracking, animal tracking, human tracking and systems of surveillance. Some of the “tracks” in EIGHT-TRACK will also exist as an audiovisual installation and multimedia live performance.

Q: What prompted the shift in the title?

A: Some of my titles can be in flux for a long time. The initial title was a place holder, but I have also decided that I do not want to allude to Derrida’s name in the title itself. While my poem is inspired by his essay, I would like to be free to go beyond and outside of the philosophical ideas of his essay.

Q: I’m curious how you arrived at the poem as the form you use to respond to an essay. What do you feel poetry allows that other forms, such as critical prose or fiction, don’t, or don’t as easily?

A: I have long been fascinated by what happens when one takes aspects of one form into another form, by what kind of productive tensions and pressures that can create, what kind of possibilities that can open up, what trajectories in thought or happy accidents that can encourage. I like to explore, for instance, what happens when one uses the rhetorical turns of prose in poetry or the brevity and disjunctures of poetry in the essay form.

More particularly, there were several aspects that led me to respond to an essay with the “Track, Animal...” poem. One of the things I have always appreciated in Derrida’s writing is his deep investment in language, in this case the French language, in the unpacking and unfolding of the very nature of words and their meaning. I would say that there is a poetry to his philosophical meditations, a musicality that I find compelling. So I became fascinated with translating this poetical musicality not only into another language, namely English, but also into another form.

I’m also really interested in the gaps, leaps, disjunctive comparisons, oppositions, focused cluster of words that are some of poetry’s tools, as well as the tenor and amplitude of the space between the words, how not only the words speak but how this constructed and malleable space and the words speak together. I feel the voice thus created engenders thinking, but in a way that is somewhat different than an essay, for example. The space implicates one’s body and breath more—one reads in a more embodied way and one has to decide and learn how to read the poem—the sparseness of words makes one more attentive to the meaning of their sounds or of their visual arrangement, not just their denotative sense, and the focus and gaps/leaps in thought between lines or words requires one to fill in those gaps or make those leaps. While it is possible to read prose in a more passive manner, I do think that reading poetry requires active involvement, at least if one wants to enter into and immerse oneself in it.

Q: Over the past few years, you’ve been performing with looped audio, playing with overlapping sound in really compelling ways. How has sound and your use of multiple/overlapping voice impacted your work on the page?

A: Initially, it was the work that I had been doing on the page that inspired me to begin working with sound. I needed to find ways to translate the layered, architectural, multi-voiced page into a layered, multi-voiced oral/aural space. At first, I created audio-only performances, but later I expanded this to audiovisual performances (a mix of voice, sampled sounds, effects and visual projections, mostly collaborating with another artist, Jessie Altura, to make the visual projections).

So while I think that initially it was the page that was influencing the sound space, I do believe that now the sound/visual work is beginning to have some impact on the page. One of the more obvious influences is that this work has made me sometimes consider the page as a score, as though I might think of the words as similar to musical notes. Another might be that while I have long had an interest in the voice, I have felt even more pulled towards thinking about voices, voicing, dialogue, monologue, address, etc. when writing, and thus exploring various forms of voicing. And I sense too that I am paying even more attention to the musicality of a word or a phrase or a movement.

Though while the page and the stage, word and sound may affect one another, I also believe that ultimately they are very different arenas, and that their distinctions are worth exploring in themselves. I find that I think very differently when I work with sound than when I work with words. Soundwork involves intense listening, abstract structures, time structures, a great deal of repetition, sometimes a process of trial and error. In composing, I may try various things, listen (with my whole body) to how they are working, then remove, add, alter certain elements, listen to what effect that has, then alter aspects some more, and so on. This process can go on for months until I settle on a sequence that works and that may be only 10 min long.

Also when you work with sound, you have to retain that sound in your body memory, for once you make a sound, the next moment that sound is gone but it needs to maintain a relationship with the next sound. When writing, the words are right there on the page in front of you... the process is more material, while with sound it is more fleeting and abstract. Also, since I don’t use conventional musical notation, I’ve also needed to develop ways of “scoring” these sound performances, so that I can repeat them, which has been a fascinating aspect in itself.

But I also remain committed to the book as a form and wish to keep working with it, exploring its potential. The page is such an intimate and imaginative space; it is not a space I wish to lose as a writer and as a reader.

Q: Over the past decade-plus, you’ve published five trade collections as well as numerous translations. How do you feel your work has developed? Where do you see your work headed?

A: The translation work has certainly had an impact on my writing (and vice-versa in fact). Working in in-between spaces (between two languages) has made me increasingly interested in polylingual writing, in considering how thought works in different languages, in using aspects or structures of one language in another language, so these are definitely aspects I wish to keep exploring both in writing and in sound. I am also currently very interested in the transitional space between sense and sound, words and music, so playing with oral spaces that gradually shift sense words until they become music, and sound until it becomes sense.

Though for me, every new project (whether that is a poetry book, a soundwork, a visual translation, etc.) comes with an exciting and productive feeling of unknowing; it is a new attempt to reinvent what may be possible to do, to try forms or ways of composing that I haven’t tried before, to let the project show me what it needs to be.

Q: I like the idea of composition and translation as variations on writing-as-reinvention. What writers or works have prompted the biggest shifts in your own work?

A: Different writers have affected my work or thinking at different times. I tend to read works in English and in French, sometimes in Romanian, and across different genres. Some of the more recent ones may include (in no particular order) artists-poets like Carla Harryman, Caroline Bergvall, angela rawlings, Mina Pam Dick et al., Claude Royet-Journoud, Edmond Jabès, philosophers such as Hannah Arendt, Jacques Derrida, Georgio Agamben and Henri Meschonnic, and composers such as John Cage, Iannis Xenakis and Christof Migone. Also some of the writers I have worked with, like Erín Moure, or translated, like Nichita Stanescu or Paul Celan, have certainly also had an impact on my work. 

Q: Finally, who do you read to reenergize your own work? What particular works can’t you help but return to?

All of the ones mentioned above fit this category. My reading often tends to be polymorphous across many genres. I like to allow the work of the moment show me what I need to read, which may be a long work of fiction, or a poetic dialogue, or some philosophy. But I also draw much energy from other art forms, particularly the visual and sound arts (I not only see many art shows, but I also translate a great deal in the visual arts), theatre and music (in many forms, including electronic, jazz, chamber music, opera, etc.). The energy in the work stems from many areas and forms that I wish to keep discovering, that keep me alert and ever curious. 

Monday, December 19, 2016

TtD supplement #68 : seven questions for kevin mcpherson eckhoff

kevin (martins) mcpherson eckhoff is an unwieldily spirit. His most recent book is called their biography (BookThug 2015), which is “wide-ranging” and “fun” according to The Globe & Mail. You can watch him pretend to be a pathetic security guard in the film, Tomato Red. He is plays a pretty good daddoo and hubbub. He recently co-wrote this statement with Phinder Dulai and Robert Budde.

His poem, “an excerpt from… THE PAIN ITSELF,” appears in the eleventh issue of Touch the Donkey.

Q: Tell me about “an excerpt from… THE PAIN ITSELF.”

A: Lately, I’ve been trying to train my retina to ignore the foreground. In 2008, Caleb Zimmerman—I haven’t talked with him in probably five years—he was a good friend from the MA program in Calgary—you can read one of his short stories here—told me about lorem ipsum. I hadn’t heard about placeholder text before because I’m an amateur designer, but he had just got this job in the Communications and PR department at Trinity Western, and showed me samples of lorem ipsum because he thought I’d like it, and I did. It took me six months or so of researching and playing and gabbing with Nick Thurston before deciding that I should recreate the book of its supposed origin, Cicero’s On the Ends of Pain and Pleasure, which, in the 16th century, was published in Latin, meaning that, in theory, this placeholder text could be translated into English, which is what I did, in part, followed by a round of Word 2007’s spell checking for any untranslatables. In 2013, I emailed Tan Lin with a request to blurb what is now my most recent book because I really dig some of his notions about ambience and beauty, but never heard back from him maybe because my style was offensive or it went straight to junk or whatevs, I still like his work, and nevertheless the basic reduction of Cicero’s quarrel, as I understand it, seems like a miraculous analogy for the process of reading: the only reason anyone would willingly experience pain is to attain some ultimate pleasure. Or, as Tan Lin roasts it in Seven Controlled Vocabularies and Obituary 2004 The Joy of Cooking: “The problem is that most poems and films give off too much pleasure. They are not redundant or boring or ambient or generic or flat or iterative or fringe-like or soft enough” (164) and “Happiness is mildly generic or it is not at all” (143). I’m not sure whether my title, then, is cheeky or honest or broth, but I miss hanging out with Caleb and feel that the words within The Pain Itself are meant to be looked at—like panting or silage—as much as they’re meant to be unread (shadowed).

Q: Can you speak more to your opening sentence? I’m absolutely fascinated by the idea of working “to train my retina to ignore the foreground.” What do you consider foreground and how do you feel it has been impeding your work?

A: Maybe I was just trying to sound wily. Maybe it’s an idea in-very-progress. I think the relationship between foreground and background for me is political, insincere, deceptive, religious, embodimental. Foreground might mean “what wants to be seen” or “what wants to be seen as singular”, while background might mean “whatever is surrendered in the service of foregrounding”. Fig. 1. The stem only exists for the petals to be noticed. However, most writing—if it means to mean—reduces everything to foreground: in the flower example, a penlight shines on both stem and petals. Perhaps one way to think about it in language would be to focus on the more posterior parts of speech, like pronouns and prepositions. I feel this is, in part, how Stein’s writing generates an amplified background, by crafting densities of less tangible vocabulary. Another way might be found in Lyn Hejinian’s My Life or David Markson’s later novels, like Reader’s Block, which never really settle on a subject long enough for it to dominate the page, so that a sequence of diminutive foregrounds accumulate into some kind of total background.

I dunno. The purpose of placeholder text is to eliminate any semantic foreground in order to illuminate something that’s not always easy to perceive—design elements like margins, leading, gutter, etc.—and once the design is finished, the placeholder gets replaced. So, I guess the book’s original incitement involved shoving a background forward. And because standard lorem ipsum has a limited lexicon, something like 69 words, over the course of its 140 pages, The Pain Itself quickly begins to read like a cartoon backdrop that keeps repeating as it horizontally scrolls along.

I wonder if a text without foreground allows for apophenia: inventing/hallucinating a signal (subject) in the noise (scenery). Not sure why I value apophenia; perhaps I feel like it insists upon a reader’s agency or demands that comprehension becomes a collaboration. And I know this sort of reading usually feels uncomfortable, useless, and/or exhausting, but so does running on a treadmill or eating carrots everyday. Likewise, aiming my pupils beyond centre stage for more than a moment feels unnatural, which is why I trust it as meaningful action. It reminds me that looking is an active choice that can lend a kind of power to disregarded objects/ideas/people. It sort of reminds me, too, of John Cage’s 4’33. While the literary transposition of that score might seem best represented by a blank page, I suspect any writing void of anteriority would invite a like-spirited attentiveness to that which is easily taken for granted or surrendered in the service of foregrounding.

Q: Your work has become both increasingly conceptual and pastiche, working from found and requested materials. How did you get to this point? You mention Hejinian and Cage, both of whom make sense given what I know of your work, but who else are your models? What writers or works are you conscious (or unconscious) of when you are putting new work together?

A: How did I get to this point? Am I at a point? I guess everyone that you might guess: Gertrude Stein, Bern Porter, jwcurry, Lisa Robertson, bpNichol, Jonathan Ball, Sina Queyras, Moez Surani, Christian Bök, Sharon Mesmer, Jordan Scott, Helen Hajnoczky, Heimrad Bäcker, Rachel Zolf, and the of course bff, Jake Kennedy. But also other folks you that might not guess, like John Lent, Trystan Carter, Lindsay Thornton, Wesley Wills, my grandma, Tim & Eric, Cameron Shook, Trisha Low, and the Muppets. There have been other poets who pointed me to this get, as well, but who have become, at the moment, models of how not to engage with identity politics or to abuse my privilege/identity/power. As I approach new concepts/materials, I try to stay conscious of writers like Tan Lin and Erin Moure, who, for me, encourage progressiveness/experimentation both inside and outside the poems: the ethics of aesthetics, books as seepful products of social conditions, the authority of names, blurbs as reciprocal endorsements, the morality of the quotidian, etc. I dunno.

Q: Since you mention Jake Kennedy, what prompted your collaborative works? How do you approach your collaborative works differently than your own work, if at all? What do you see as the differences?

A: The smile faces that make ourselves in the real, we share and have shared, in the essence of joy, a soul for the same kinda of anguish that isn’t poetry, but which we call poetry! We just! It’s like, okay, see him? Now, see me? That’s it! Or haps or perhaps our collaborations are emboldened towards silliness as a ”pataphysical truth? As a twosome, we become somewhat institutionish, and as such, aim our folly lasers at the follicles of institutions of solemnity of course.

Q: It seems very much that you are a poet of projects, as opposed to one of individual poems. How many poetry manuscripts might you be working on at any given time?

A: Yeah. Pretty much. Including chapbook manuscripts?—between, say, two and five.

Q: I can’t think of any contemporary poets who work with so much energy and joy throughout their work as you do, and there’s something quite wonderful in seeing the kinds of permissions you allow yourself. I remember hearing at one point how there were so many influenced by the work of the late bpNichol, but almost no one allowed themselves the kind of real joy that came through in his writing (so many have actually been called too serious). How is it you are able to appear so openly joyful?

A: You shut your sic key-bored mouth, rob mclennan! This has got to be one of the most generous and exigent questions I’ve ever been asked about my stuff. I’m pretty sure any joyousness in my being or work arises by default rather than by design, and as such is inexplicable, ineffable, and influffable. Laurel suspects it might have to do with my faith in divineness and the freedom to be in this world, but not of this world, like, so little of this materiality really matters in the ends… or in the means. I’ve tried being serious and careerist, a foregrounder, but it just doesn’t vroom me. For the past couple of years, I’ve been trying to figure out how much of this permission and joy originates in my privilege as a white, hetero, cis-male. It’s been diamond to determine whether or not a lot of my work has been useless manifestations of such privilege, which is why I’m happy to occupy some background literarily, as a writer, and there’s a freedom in that, too, eh? Lately, I tell myself that I am a caricature of a white, hetero, cis-male poet, and that position sometimes feels valuable, almost like an implicit/fuzzy critique, and it allows for a kind of idiot-joy to fill my ions and vrooms me little longer/farther. 

Q: Finally, who do you read to reenergize your own work? What particular works can’t you help but return to?

A: This is a dumb question because I am so dumb at the moment and read so very little. Actually, poetry readings are typically major reenergizers for me because they feel like the anguish and objectionableness to most of my senses, but for now, let’s refer back to the folks I listed earlier, plus some others, like flarfers (i.e. K. Silem Mohammed, Elisabeth Workman, and ryan fitzpatrick); Malachai and Ethan Nicolle’s Axe Cop; Ai Weiwei’s work; Bad Lip Reading videos; Bern Porter’s collages; Soldier, Komar, and Melamid’s The Most Unwanted Song; much Trollthread stuff and GaussPDF things; Don’t Hug Me I’m Scared; and of course bff’s poetry/paintings/emails/skulptures/convos!

Wednesday, December 7, 2016

TtD supplement #67 : seven questions for Lea Graham

Lea Graham is the author of the chapbook, This End of the World: Notes to Robert Kroetsch (Apt. 9 Press, 2016), the poetry book, Hough & Helix & Where & Here & You, You, You (No Tell Books, 2011) and the chapbook, Calendar Girls (above /ground press, 2006). Her poems, translations, reviews and essays have been published in numerous journals and anthologies, including American Letters & Commentary, Best American Poetry, Milk, and Southern Humanities Review. She curates a series on poetry and place called “Boo’s Hollow” for Atticus Review. She is Associate Professor of English at Marist College in Poughkeepsie, New York when she is not on a bus in the Andes, hiking through Galicia or stuck in an airport somewhere. She is a native of Northwest Arkansas.

Her poem “Occasional” appears in the eleventh issue of Touch the Donkey.

Q: Tell me about the poem “Occasional.”

A: I wrote the poem back in 2012 after I was on a poetry tour for my first book, Hough & Helix & Where & Here & You, You, You (No Tell, 2011). I was travelling with the poet, Timothy Bradford (Nomads with Samsonite, BlazeVox, 2011), who lives in Oklahoma. Being from Arkansas and having gone to college in Missouri, we were able to put together a tri-state reading tour, so much of the poem has to do with that...what we saw, what we read to each other in the long hours in the car, what I was thinking about.

But even more than that, the poem is about my relationships with my own teachers and students. I have stayed in touch with and count as dear friends—even family—my former teachers, especially those in my undergraduate years. These are people who have known me since I was 18 years old and, despite my not being one of those perfect students, they seemed to always be interested in my mind and proud of what I went on to do in my work life (which wasn’t always as a college professor). I hope that I can pass on that great care and interest for my own students. Learning is such an amorphous thing. Who knows what will catch? Who knows when we/they will “get it”? Who knows when—and maybe this is the best of all—when what someone says, has us read, exposes us to something we didn’t know before will spark something that will send us all to an intellectual elsewhere? The patience that I was shown as a young person is something that I want to emulate in my own work as a teacher and something that I think daily about.

I would also just like to say that there are people included in the poem, like the prairie poet, dennis cooley, who I consider teachers, but who I never formally studied with. I feel very grateful to various people in my life who continue to teach me and keep interested, keep having faith in me.

Q: How does this piece compare with other work you’ve been producing over the past few years?

A: Well, I don’t usually publish occasional poems. I write them pretty often and am always amazed at how many I have, but they often seem to me “in passing” (which is interesting given that I’m working on a manuscript entitled, In Transit, right now). I have written a few epithalamiums for my dear friends’ weddings and then others for birthdays, but moreso, I tend to knead an idea or word or place or something for a long time. It’s what makes me a slow writer.

The last full manuscript I finished and which is short-listed for the Robert Kroetsch award as I write this, is about a hotel in Worcester, Massachusetts: the Hotel Vernon. It was built at the turn of the 20th century and was once an elegant place for politicians to do their back door deals. It slowly fell into dereliction through each decade of that century. I thought about it as a kind of metaphor for the U.S. and the history of our development and what we thought was important. The names of people, businesses, streets, etc., are only quasi-erased through time. The neighbourhood where the Vernon resides has been called “the Island,” “the Green Island” and now “the Canal District” (for the Blackstone Canal that runs under its streets nearby). So the names that are in that book: the Baker, the Warrior, Rafferty’s, Maurice the Pants Man and Rizuitti’s Goodnight Café, to name a few, are people and places that still give off an energy even after they have gone. But the main idea is that I thought for a long time about that place. I worked there. I did a lot of research in both reading and talking to people in the neighbourhood. I would sketch its space out. I kept the Keno (computerised betting) cards that anyone left. I took photos and read as much as I could about various aspects of the place—even down to its jukebox—a Rock-Ola! A Canadian company that made jukeboxes. This, I think, is a pretty different way of working than in the occasional.

Q: I’m curious as to why you resist the occasional poems, even as they insist on coming? I know more than a couple of poets over the years who have formed collections out of what began as occasional poems, whether George Bowering’s In The Flesh (McClelland & Stewart, 1974), Jay MillAr’s Other Poems (Nightwood Editions/blewointment, 2010) or even Jack Spicer’s “Book of Magazine Verse” (which first appeared as a whole in the posthumously-published The Collected Books of Jack Spicer, ed. Robin Blaser; Black Sparrow Press, 1975). Is this something you might consider for yours, or do you wish, for now at least, to remain focused on your book-length projects?

A: That’s a good question and one I haven’t considered so much. As I was writing out these previous answers, I began to think about why I tend to privilege the project-driven book over the occasional. But I think I have an answer: Occasional poems often come quick. For that reason, I don’t trust them. The “occasion” is really something driven by time, by the moment you get an assignment, a line in your head or some other cornerstone for the poem. I find that a bit harder to revise because I think that part of their energy is in the fact that it is inspired by that temporal particularity. I think with project-based poems you are dealing more head-on with the theory, the literary hoo-ha of it. I mean I was just talking about the palimpsestic nature of my Vernon Hotel book which of course, links it to back in the day when the scribes would scrape the animal skins to erase/partially erase whatever had been written to make way for what was being written in the present. (And yet, here we are back to the “occasional,” no?). Still, there seems to be a longevity to me about the project-based that is something in need of figuring out. Occasions seem to ask for a figuring out afterwards. But to revise them means are you going to rethink or edit out the energy of that moment you conceived of it, wrote it?

Honestly, though, I haven’t thought that deeply about it yet. I just taught some of Robert Kroetsch’s poems from Advice to My Friends. I love those poems for the way they include “his friends,” but swerve—mostly—away from any real advice. My students and I pondered this and we were suspended in the art, intelligence, but also warmth of those poems. I think those are occasional poems in some ways and I would love to do something like that which includes the energy of the moment, but goes beyond that.

Q: I have a recollection of Robert Creeley admitting that his entire career as a poet was in the composition of endless “occasionals” (of course I can’t recall where I read that). For an American poet, you’re quite open about your Canadian influences—Robert Kroetsch or Dennis Cooley—allowing them equal footing against mentors closer to home. Is your attraction to Canadian poetry tied to a specific handful of individual poets, or is there something unique you see in Canadian writing that attracts you?

A: There are so many ways to answer this. First, I met dennis cooley when I was teaching at Clark University in Worcester, Massachusetts, gosh...back in 2006 or so, I think. My chair, SunHee Kim Gertz, had invited him to give a reading as they were colleagues during summers in Trieste. I didn’t know a thing about Canadian poetry and very little about Canada. I think I had that comically totalizing view of Canada (via some Robin Williams routine) of its citizens poised at the border and looking over the border shoulder and into the raucous party of the U.S. I am embarrassed about that now, of course, but also remember that I didn’t grow up near the U.S./Canadian border or in the northern parts of the U.S.—that has all come since I’ve been well into adulthood.

In any case, dennis cooley is so smart, self-deprecating charming and warmly welcoming that I had to reconsider my ignorance. He invited me to present—no persuaded me, nearly harangued me (but, again, charmingly) into presenting at the Prairie Conference in the next fall. He encouraged me to read and present on the poet, Andrew Suknaski, who dealt so much with dialect. That appealed to me as a Southerner, whose dialect has often been trivialised. Going to that conference was when I got to see how serious and down to earth the CanLit world was. People educated me about things and writers I had never heard of, but never made me feel bad about what I didn’t know. I thought then—and I think I still do now—that there is an unabashed intellectual and artistic community in Canada that doesn’t seem to be anxious about recognition like there is in the U.S. I think someone else could take up this argument and go further, but that has been my observations through the last ten years or so. In the U.S. there seems to still be the dream of “making it” (ha! what a great cliché) through creative writing.

I think that being from Arkansas, I have both a good sense of humour about place, but also a sense of the underdog in me. I think that maybe that’s a sense of the west, what you are up against, a sense of the isolated or rural. I grew up partially on my grandparents working farm in Greenland, Arkansas where I had an acute feeling of how isolated I was from the rest of the world (meaning: the world of books). But also, I had these young uncles and an aunt who worked in my grandfather’s dairy barn and chicken houses—and who were always playing jokes on me and my brothers and on each other. They used to leave messages to each other written in soap on the bathroom mirrors. There was a toolbox of arrowheads, fish hooks, grinding stones and Civil War cannon balls under the sink in the bathroom. I have written of that image over and over again. The sense of the humorous and fleeting, but of the tactile and enduring, too. When I read cooley and Kroetsch, it felt like I was reading at least a part of my own family, but in the most intellectual and tricky ways. And to be geographically connective about it, my maternal grandmother was from the Dakotas and later Montana. Her mother was from Norway and had been a homesteader. She—Dagmar Zacharias—is the only one of my great-grandparents who was from the old country—everyone else was “American.” In any case, my maternal grandmother met my grandfather when he was an itinerant worker from Northwest Arkansas during the Depression and had worked his way up to Billings, Montana where he worked part of the week in a bakery and another part in a dairy. The bakery was in a basement, but had a window onto the street where you could only see people’s legs. He picked out her legs of all the young nurses on their way to school. This family story (or maybe the way I tell it), doesn’t seem far from the Canadian narratives I’ve read.

Q: With a handful of chapbooks and a full-length poetry collection over the past decade-plus, how do you feel your work has developed? Where do you see your work headed?

A: I think my obsession with place will continue and with a year like I had last year where I lived abroad in Italy and Ecuador, travelled in eight other countries besides and put everything I owned into storage my work will continue to think long about the specificities of geography and movement. As I said, my current poetry ms is called In Transit and it has to do with my own travels alongside the history of travel (so many interesting things I’ve learned so far!). Additionally, I have a book of travel essays, Curiosity Road, which is underway, and an older manuscript that I am slowly reworking that has to do with Arkansas and the intersections of histories, names and geography.

With that said, you have me now thinking about the occasional. What even constitutes an occasion? How long might that last? I love assignments so who knows?

Q: You’ve mentioned Cooley and Kroetsch: what other poets have helped shape the ways in which you approach writing?

A: Well, as you see in “Occasional,” Frank O’Hara is and has been a big influence in that he gives permission to include so much into a poem. But probably the biggest early influence was William Carlos Williams for his commitment to the American idiom. I think I share him as a kind of poetic genesis with a lot of Canadian writers, too. Dickinson was also there as an early influence and for the way in which she walks the perimeter of her focus (and maybe partially where I get the project-driven way of working).

It has been Michael Anania, my mentor and friend, who has probably influenced me most about being a project-driven poet. He had been a student of Charles Olson and so he thinks about place in that layered and complicated way. He is a poet you Canadians should know more about (!) as he is a westerner, who grew up in Omaha, Nebraska, the son of a German immigrant and a first generation Calabrian-American. If I ever want to go beyond my own poles of thinking about a place, I talk to Michael. He always seems to know what kind of dirt is in that place or what was produced from the place or something about its waterways, music of a particular period or its architectural changes. He sees all of that intertwined with language.

Poets who gave me permissions for the political early on were Carolyn Forche, Lucille Clifton, Etheridge Knight and Thomas McGrath. I would certainly add Pablo Neruda to this as well as other Latin American poets: Nicolas Guillen, Ruben Dario and Gabriela Mistral, who I translated early on. These poets I think have helped me to think more about what it means to be American and an American poet—and by that, I want to stress the whole of the continent from Murchison Promontory in Nunavut to Cabo Froward in the Magallanes region of Chile. I know that the U.S. has in my own lifetime been in a position of power—something that has separated us from the rest of the continent, but I am often reminded in the reading and travelling I do, that this wasn’t always the case. In preparation for a class I was teaching, I learned that Port Au Prince had been the wealthiest port in all of the Americas at one point during the 18th century. Upon visiting Haiti about four years ago, it was very interesting to see not only what we expect (as we’ve seen images on the news) of the deep poverty, but also the way that the Haitian Revolution (1791-1804) seemed like yesterday when you spoke to people or read the monuments and other markers. The pride and power of that enormous achievement still exists and is manifested in Kreyol, their language. So while this might not be answering your question about my “approach to writing,” I do think it answers it in terms of my approach to thinking about place and language.

I should finally add that the recently-passed Arkansas poet, C.D. Wright, gave me a very important permission to write—as she did for so many others. There is such a snobbery about place—still! While I live in upstate NY, I am often reminded of how hard it was to think that where I was from was a place where anyone would or could write from. In conversations about my home in Northwest Arkansas where much of my family still lives, I have been pitied, ridiculed and congratulated for getting out of there. Wright was unwavering in her connection to our home state and opened it up to show it for its interesting natures. Her early book, Tremble, was a very important book for me back when I was starting to seriously write.

Q: Finally, who do you read to reenergize your own work? What particular works can’t you help but return to?

A: I go through phases and will stay with a single author for awhile before moving on. That has been the case with Robert Kroetsch on and off since 2011. Another poet I always go back to and who helps me think about place is Thomas McGrath. I think his Letters to an Imaginary Friend to be one of the great 20th century long poems. Right now—and in preparation for my upcoming fall semester in Italy—I’m reading 20th century Italian poets (the anthology edited by Geoffrey Brock). Right now I’m on Salvatore Quasimodo and keep moving between the Italian (which I can only pick my way through, but love reading aloud using my half semester of Italian) and the translation in English by Charles Guenther. There is something about moving between languages that helps me go beyond thinking of words in a single dimension.

I always go back to C.D. Wright for her treatment of Arkansas, to Jack Gilbert’s Great Fires, to Sappho for the simplicity and leap, and to John Donne for all that he packed into a poem. Finally, I go back to Michael Anania’s work for the way he uses proper nouns and for his weave and shift of place and time.

Friday, November 25, 2016

TtD supplement #66 : seven questions for Norma Cole

Norma Cole’s books of poetry include Win These Posters and Other Unrelated Prizes Inside, Where Shadows Will: Selected Poems 1988—2008, Spinoza in Her Youth and Natural Light, and most recently Actualities, her collaboration with painter Marina Adams. TO BE AT MUSIC: Essays & Talks made its appearance in 2010 from Omnidawn Press. Her translations from the French include Danielle Collobert’s It Then, Collobert’s Journals, Crosscut Universe: Writing on Writing from France (edited and translated by Cole), and Jean Daive’s A Woman with Several Lives. A new translation of Daive’s first book, White Decimal, is forthcoming from Omnidawn. She lives in San Francisco.

Her poem “I Got Word” appears in the eleventh issue of Touch the Donkey. Another poem, “DISTRACTION,” appeared in the first issue of Touch the Donkey.

Q: Tell me about “I Got Word.”

A: Because memory is fiction, “the past” is suddenly very bright and horizontal. There was no impulse (genre, form, idea) behind this writing. I just had these three words in my mind after reading an email from Claude (Royet-Journoud) where he told me that Ludovic Janvier had died. I had met Janvier because Claude had put me in contact with him. When I saw that he had died I was “thrown back” to that moment (whatever moment means). Memory opened, opened me up to this moment now and I could write about that moment then. The words as thoughts began to branch out, rhizome-like (orchid/wasp) and I noticed that this is one way writing can happen.

Q: Have you composed other memorial pieces over the years? How do they differ from your other works? And how does this piece, if at all, fit in with the other work you’ve been doing lately?

A: I’ve done several memorial poems, for instance for Robert Duncan, Jacques Derrida, Leslie Scalapino, Hélio Oiticica. The Derrida poem was one I never imagined or though of, it just happened. They all “just happen,” but Derrida? It’s in my book, Do the Monkey, “In Memoriam Jacques Derrida” which also has my “Dear Robert.” “ESTAR for Hélio Oiticica” is in Spinoza in Her Youth. These poems are also in my selected, Where Shadows Will: Selected Poems 1988-2008 (City Lights). The poem for Leslie is in a journal but I can’t at the moment remember where, so I will enclose it here. But as you see, “I Got Word” is in a different register altogether from these poems.

When Push Comes To Shove
Elegy for Leslie Scalapino

Nevermore is just a word
The crease of life
Rain’s sweet scent or
The erasure of rain
Localized deafness—

As the wind folds other things
Go, go out and play
The nothing that stops
Time—check it

Fresh as rice powder
In the wind, perfect
Memento, remember
She lives

Q: I think the poems are best when they, as you say, “just happen.” But do you ever feel as though, when someone you admire dies, that such a poem is required, simply because you’ve done such for others? (The idea is reminiscent, slightly, of a quote I once heard about how Robert Creeley felt as though he spent the last third of his writing life composing obituaries for his friends.) Also: how and why does the tenor shift? I know Vancouver poet George Bowering has long worked an open-ended series of prose poems as tributes to poet friends, as has Toronto poet Victor Coleman. How have you managed to retain the individuality of such pieces?

A: To respond to the first part of your question, “But do you ever feel as though, when someone you admire dies, that such a poem is required, simply because you’ve done such for others” when a person dies, I always cast about in my mind to see whether I have something right there to say, to write. Usually, nothing comes to mind. It is not “required.” No requirement for the poem. Every conversation is so particular (poetry is a conversation), and the conversation I am having—still with that person—will occur, but when? That’s the weird thing about this piece, “I Got Word.” It was so immediate. Maybe because I was not exactly writing TO Ludovic Janvier, I was kind of writing, back-channelling, to Claude Royet-Journoud. Which brings me to your next question, “how and why does the tenor shift?” And I say because it is so individual. Your questions here had me thinking about “celebration poems,” to honor someone. You know, the poem for a festschrift to honor the poet’s 80th birthday or something. There, I do have a “usual” procedure, in that I go to the poet’s work, and I write from a book or even a single poem from that person’s work. For instance, “For Rosmarie Waldrop, Eighty Words from Splitting Image.”

For Rosmarie Waldrop, Eighty Words from Splitting Image [Zasterle, La Laguna 2005]

One heart conceals accuracy a line the snow very deep its views like beauty is felt out loud at angles grooves sound reflecting language as water like love structures time magical awkwardness

Blue apple make possible abstract values breath the gift signals letters jazz in collusion color stirs and time flying like overtones beyond sun edge moon mirror measure field of warm snow

Invisible images all forms each enable unraveling winged clarity

Q: I suppose the question I was asking did relate to the “celebration poem,” in that often the response to a poet’s death, other poets write poems in homage, or, as you say, conversation. Robert Kroetsch often referred to literature, including his own writing, as a “conversation.” Is there an element of that in the larger arc of your own work? Or only for those pieces composed for others?

A:  Robert Duncan spoke of poetry as a “serial collaboration,” and as a “grand collage.” Robin Blaser had his great companions. I have the on-going conversation, in particular, and in the larger arc of my work.

Q: You’ve published an enormous amount of work over the past three decades, from books and chapbooks of your own work to anthologies edited and numerous translations. With thirty-some years of production so far, how do you feel your work has developed? Where do you see your work headed?

A: I laughed out loud this time, truly I did, when I read your question, simply because I have no answers. The second question first—a case in point—at the turn of the year, 2015/2016, I had no idea, writing? It was a blank slate. I thought I would still be working on a book translation I hadn’t really begun. I wanted to write something from my recent trip to Southeast Asia but hadn’t. And then I wrote “I Got Word.” And rather quickly a lot of things happened. I was asked or invited to do things that meant different writing or translating, for conferences etc. And was asked to teach a seminar in June. Right now, I am writing a prose piece (there it is, more prose) for Art Practical, an online journal. The piece begins with my 8th grade English teacher. Never would I have thought of that, about starting there, if I hadn’t had this one moment sitting in a cafe last week hearing Miles Davis and my notebook on the table. And that popped into my mind and I started to write. I guess this is my way of saying it’s in the moment. Body/mind conspiring. Neuroscientists say that one begins to do something, anything, before one consciously knows. And the first question, how the work has developed, I would say “more mindfully,” but I don’t yet have the means to explain what that means.

Q: A worthy answer! More should simply admit when they haven’t a clue about a specific question or point. But to ask as follow-up more specifically: how do you construct your books? Is there a unifying theme or project-based structure that pushes a manuscript forward, or are books constructed entirely on a case-by-case basis? How do your books begin?

A: Case-by-case basis. But the books all begin with a beat, a syllable, a word, a fragment, more fragments, building a something, eventually a poem. And then another. When I have several, looking at them, I begin to grasp that they are telling something, telling me something. My friend the artist Stanley Whitney said something pertinent in an interview last year. “When you paint, you want to paint something you don’t recognize. But then, you don't recognize it, so it’s hard to see.” It might take a while. But we have time, we wait.

Q: Finally, who do you read to reenergize your own work? What particular works can’t you help but return to?

A: Someone just asked me (actually several people have asked this) if I went to writers’ retreats or artists’ colonies to “get away” and write. I’ve never done that. It seems that I like to stay with the familiar in order to go far away in imagination. As far away as can be. So I’ll take a walk, or go to a cafe to sit for a while. Sit for a while reading whatever I have on hand. It could be a book of poetry, old or new; or philosophy, neuroscience, a book about a painter, dancer, filmmaker. I am reading, slowly, Robert Duncan: An Interview (by George Bowering & Robert Hogg, 1969). About to read To Dare Imagining: Rojava Revolution, edited by Dilar Dirik, David Levi Strauss, Michael Taussig and Peter Lamborn Wilson (Autonomedia 2016) and Kapusta by Erin Moure (House of Anansi, 2015). 

It seems I go back to Forces of Imagination (Barbara Guest), Nathaniel Mackey’s prose (Discrepant Engagement, Paracritical Hinge) and Idea of Prose (Giorgio Agamben). And I’m reading for the millionth time Beckett’s version of Rimbaud’s “Le Bateau ivre.”