pink floyd

E.T.

 
 

expressive cat ears

 
 

 
 

a thought that Ted Berrigan is certes a poet I would want the collected of. that the poem's essential event seems always assured in his writing. the other side would be Allen Ginsberg, whose collected has so many millstones. I would always want the collected of any poet that interests me. with Ginsberg, sometimes he's too ready to sweep things into his poem, you know, Blake, Buddha, his rather public interests. the self-conscious poet. of course there is conscious and there's conscious. Howl is self-conscious but undistracted. I guess that's the note I'm trying to ring. when self-consciousness becomes distracting, the poem starts looking for effects. Berrigan's hyperactivity (I don't mean that as a medical assessment) doesn't let him stay too long in his self-consciousness. that could be what he learned, what can be learned, from O'Hara: write it then leave it. that is, each word (this isn't a screed against editing). as in: don't go looking for weighty words, the ones with special pleas in them. as an addendum to this scribble, I want to say how intrigued I was by Ron Silliman's read of Jordan Davis' article on the generations of NY poets. the idea of cataloguing these writers. I honestly don't see the point, yet I like thinking of this New York cauldron. so many writers that I like, with some manner of aesthetic shared, if only the naked energy of the city itself. I remember the excitement of coming to these many readers in the early/mid 70s, while at the same time being confronted by LANGUAGE poetry, while also catching up on earlier poetry. my interst in poetry, you see, was zilch till I was 18 at least, even tho I began writing it when I was 16. it all happened at once, more or less. the receptivity of the NY poets (1st and 2nd gen), and their looseness, certainly wre beneficent influences for this tyro. and so on...

the last 2 years we've travelled to Beth's mother's place in New Jersey for Thanksgiving. this year, with a new place to enjoy, we stayed home. 5am, a few flakes of snow gently fell. by 7, when I walked the dog, there was modest accumulation, which was slippery when I later ran. determined to be fairly worthless for the day, I watched the Thanksgiving Day Parade. here's a fine example of the pure products of America going bonkers. it can't just be a parade, it has to be lip sync. there was a taped piece of bull crap that was oh my god so ridiculous. a Broadway style musical skit that apparently was about spelling bees. it featured people in their 20s and 30s pretending hopefully and quasi-cutely to be elementary school kids. how embarassing is that? they all had theatre voice, they all worked hard, they were all downright plucky. the dancing was faux clumsy, which you could associate with humour if you were bored enough. the choreographhy was the sort determined to make the performers look silly. it's so implausible. what's the aesthetic of Broadway singing anyway? well, it was jolly good fun watching these people and their lack of pride. a so-called country act called Big and Rich did what I assume is their big hit in a taped sequence on an aircraft carrier. aircraft carrier = support our troops, or trope, as the case may be. the band was fronted by 2 guys. one just sang, he was longhaired, bearded, wore a hat with LOVE on it, looked hippie-inspired. his mate was shorthaired, wore a cowboy hat, played one of those A-line Stratocasters, so he was mostly country but look at the rock guitar! the rest of the band hung in the background. it included a fiddler. there was a dwarf on crutches back there, seemingly part of the band. maybe he was to fill the role that Joe whatshisname filled for Kid Rock. too many mixed signs, at any rate, tho the song was catchy. the big news in the parade was that a balloon hit a light post, that sent a lamp into a crowd, injuring a couple of people and perhaps giving M&Ms the wrong sort of pub. Santa slid thru with a gang of elves, who wore stars on top of their heads, a fashion statement that looked both inconvenient and silly. what I really wanted to do was watch football. I've seen really only part of one game this year. I saw most of a crappy tussle between the Falcons and the toothless Lions. after that was a better game between the Broncos and Cowboys that I couldn't see the all of because we were going out to dinner. a repast at the Concord Inn, for which we dressed up. the inn is almost 300 years old and was once owned by Thoreau's father. Beth called a week or so ago, taking a flyer that we could get reservations. by crackie we could. I assumed it was one of those year-in-advance deals. the place was plump with people, many of them from the tweedy prep school squad that inhabits Concord and environs. the reservation desk was in a small, low-ceilinged room, something of a zoo. the guy in charge of reservations was a fussy, slow moving older fellow with 3 earrings who was clearly fed up. everyone was pushy, eventually even me, and he just wasn't built for the pace. he doled out tables as they became ready. a waitress periodically reported on the the table situation. I don't know if she misspook or he misunderstood but it came out that two tables for two turned out to be one for two. that required a rather lengthy expresion of his exasperation. I stayed near the desk so that I'd be ready. a little later the same waitress came back with knews of several tables open, one 2 and 2 4s. a woman enquired about when her table would be ready. he said he called 1/2 an hour ago. she was a bit irate that he hadn't come tell her, in the next room, where the bar could be accessed. he replied, well I couldn't very well leave this desk could I? point taken, tho indeed he did leave frequently. I somehow enquired for our table in between other people's interruptions (my interruption was more important than theirs). he slowly went down the list, checked us off and directed a frail, elderly woman to see us to our seats. he room was a-buzz but we could relax. it ws a limited menu. the waiter was friendly and efficient, and tho the pace was considerable, seemed unfrazzled. a big headed turkey entered the room doling out chocolates. I had turkey, the others pork loin. Beth cooked a turkey yesterday, to serve today, but I like turkey. the waiter not only gave Erin a 2nd dessert, he brought another to take home. on the way home we passed 2 houses already lit up for Christmas. like last year, both houses have as many lights and decorations as possible. one house is quite tasteful for all that. the decorative elements are nice ones, and there's some harmony to the lights. the other house is maxed out gaudy. all mny of Christmas gimcrack is thrown onto the roof, the trees, the yard. snowman and magi and Rudolphs and whatever. last year, the roof was lit with the display: Support Our Troops. a happy reminder for Santa. there's an airfield nearby, so truly, the message does get out. this year it's merely Seasons Greetings. I didn't mench that wednesday evening there was a bonfire, to rally the local troops against those footballing lads of Concord. yesterday morning the thing was still smouldering in the snow. thus the holiday, and Beth says she needs to go to the mall. I dunno if I will be part of that venture.

Jordan Davis thinks wistfully of having 4 hours a day to devote to reading. jinkies, me too! altho I suspect 4 hours for Jordan = 8-10 for this child. it's surprising that I've read as much as I have, when you figure in the sit still factor and the focus factor. for several years now, I've just about given up reading novels, not for disaffection, but that I cannot trust my ability to commit to long haul. I'm way so scattered. I am so utterly pleased to have purchased Ted Berrigan's collected, however. I disparaged Tony Tost a bit the other day (I know, like, who cares????), because of an oh no feeling that slipped over me as I read his spin re qu'est-ce que c'est flarf. shouldn't poetry be fun, or is it just something to place delicately between Harold Bloom's mandibles? dude, have you read Ted Berrigan's interviews????? they are the bomb, and not just a micro defense system. they are event. and his poems jostle along too. yesterday we went to Barnes & Noble, at the behest of Erin. I scanned the psychology section, like, as if that would've happened in my cherry youth. I like reading Jung. yes, he's a screwball, you got a problem with that? bought none of that ilk, tho. I'm in a room almost wll to wall with books: maybe I should read them. I scrummed with the poetry section a bit. Kenneth Koch's collected loomed large: multiple copies. I do enjoy Koch but I couldn't commit to the book. same price as Berrigan but the necessity not quite as decisive for me. I have to be chary with the lucre, that's an influence. Beth was intrigued by that millennial anthology by Rothenberg and Joris but I got a lot of its contents. I saw a couple of books by Mary Oliver, both with a picture of her (one young, one older, but so similar) on the cover. ach, thin books to cherish: no way, Jorge. I don't want to read her. when we met with the minster who would oversee my father's memorial service, he threw out M.O. as a writer who could be read. the link being she was from Provincetown, basically. I said no firmly, just as I said no to "O Captain, My Captain". no. I scanned the philosophy section, where I found The Sophist by Charles Bernstein. must be the publisher's (Salt, now: my copy is by Sun & Moon) directive. yeah, see, it's philopsophy, see. in the end, Erin got an Xmas present for us, Beth a couple of mysteries for light reading, and I went without. so what's all this about, Allen. oh, just reading and writing.

Jack Kimball gives advice tht may just make you uneasy. tally ho! given the general here's-the-latest-shovelful thrust of this blog, and most others, I still must admit--thru clenched teeth, of course--that Jack manages to post something worthy every time he hits that orange rectangle. that being said, where are Jack's report's of visuits to Denny's and Ikea????????? yes, it all balances out.

 
 

 
 

 
 

nice to hear Stephanie Young read here, and the discussion in the comments field. whereas there's a comment left by Tony Tost at Gary Sullivan's blog (ici)that seems so pointlessly puffy. I'm not sure why his comments irritate me so. it's not that they're dumb (I mean, they are not dumb at all), and it's not really that he's self-plugging (he is self-plugging, but that's part of the process and OK). he makes poetry sound drippy. I hate when that happens. back to Stephanie, she maintains an articulate bead on the thing before her, not merely a provocation of energy. I saw Noah Eli Gordon read last summer and at first was impressed but the more I thought about it, the more his performance just seemed ghastly. a mechanical delivery system fraught with evolved weight. Stephanie reads gently, without device upon the words. like water moving. device is okay, as frinstance Kasey Mohammad (at PennSound) modulating. what he's doing is leaning with the words. Gordon's bullying them. I guess I've committed a dazed post here, wandering from side to side, which will perhaps excuse its surperficialities. depth is on the surface, writes Shaun McNiff in my defense.