As she puts it in a 2008 interview with Lynn Keller, Myung Mi Kim approaches writing as a notational process, “working through accretion and sedimentation of material.” Penury is a text (and language) of lived experience that emerges through the dynamic sequences of motion and change, thus providing a space for the (re)telling of multiple narratives. At times, it feels as though Kim writes from the space of liminality — from an outside that was once inside. The emerging self is continually transformed and reformed by the implicit sequences that compose the hegemonic, patriarchal system in which they function.
In fact, Kim has acknowledged the generative potential in poetic sequences that keep “reconfiguring a series of correspondences and relations,” as she tells Keller. Ideologies are like this — fusings of collective memory that work to inextricably tie signifier and signified into cultural mythologies. Thus, there is a constant perpetuation of the hegemonic discursive structure. There is a subversive nature to traditional ideologies: their existence between the known world and the fabricated consciousness work to indirectly perpetuate notions of self and identity. There is a constant process of negotiating and redefining in order to safely and functionally live within the established normative structure. Myung Mi Kim explores the manifestations, effects, and consequences of the performance of an artificial self. Not only does she ask what is authentic, but questions whether that aspect of self is even accessible.
Disjunctive narrative and a place for artifacts
Although Penury is divided into six sections, each demarcated by three colons (: : :), it is by no means a work that follows the traditional concept or structure of narrative. The work moves through associative images and locations, a movement which speaks to the mutability of the construction of the self. The narratives exemplified in Penury are each enactments of possible truths, those that are unable to fit into an absolute representation of self. This design is based on a generation of self that relies on the external forces of a dominant discourse enveloped in a patriarchal system. A construction such as this does not have the capacity to represent selves who reside in the margins. That constructed self performs in a nonlinear sequencing of a multilayered narrative.
The aspect of Kim’s narrative that I will address is the interspersed appearance of what can best be referred to as “historical documentation.” Throughout the work, these artifacts (three transcripts and one tablet panel) presuppose the presence of an omniscient narrator or voice as is commonly found in traditional narrative structures. Conventionally, this voice acts as a documenter, a guide who leads the reader through the linear sequencing of a story. It must be noted that this storytelling is formed within a linguistic structure that, by its very function, privileges a certain discourse. That language has the ability and, most importantly, the power to present an empirical reality. And the transcript becomes a product, an objective and textual representation of a self. Documentation is a scientific endeavor meant to embody an “I,” yet this process simply does a disservice to the self by essentializing it.
Kim takes the very normalizing idea of documentation and unhinges it. In that way, the text exists as a dynamic document: one which performs and embodies a physical self as subject rather than an archetypal symbol. The reader is presented with a sparsely written and abstract document — a text that is difficult to pin down — that is labeled as “transcript” or “panel,” implying that these are factual illustrations.
In a twist of preconceived notions of documentation, Kim allows these pieces to be self-generating and self-propelling. Within the transcripts, language is based on the logic of an internal guiding principle. The “I” created in this space is one that rebirthed itself, emerged from deep inside the linguistic body. What was once marginalized is now mainstream — it is an upending, a reversal of the dominant discourse. The creative potential is within language, but in Penury, language is, itself, a reconstructed self:
you speak English so well transcript
In a conventional sense, these letters could represent a person’s initials — abbreviations of a name. With this interpretation comes the automatic power association: are these names products of an ascription, or are they the result of an enacted agency, a renaming and reidentification? Yet the last line queers this reading by calling into question our conceptualizations of language systems. None of the letter couplings is an accepted English word. That is to say that these couplings are not found in the dominant discourse. However, the final line, in its understood objective authority, labels those very letter pairs not only English, but commendable examples of it.
Abstractions and linguistic turns illustrate an infinite parsing of language to create new meanings. Learning language is not simply a matter of learning words, but of relating those words to the things and happenings for which they stand. Once we accept the idea that language acquisition is about learning the relationships between words rather than simply the meanings of individual words, we can shred language to recreate it in our own poetic formulation. Kim speaks about the plasticity of language, suggesting that language is
a social practice rather than any sort of intractable given, and once that rift enters your consciousness, it allows you to have an interrogative relationship to language. You have questions about what language is, what it performs, what it means to get recognized as a speaker of a particular language. This reflexivity prepares you to be an acute listener. This transitive space is a translative space — both linguistically and, I think, in terms of the person, the subject, if not spirit. This opens up multiplicity, plurality, in social and personal conceptions of language.
There is a sense of indeterminacy and ambiguity that, strangely, also works towards achieving something more permanent. But what is extracted, what comes out of this linguistic structure, could not be called whole. It’s the stripped-down remnant, a skeletal structure that is left from the disintegration/destruction of an I. Ironically enough, the coupled letters take the shape of the letter “I” on the page. By virtue of this visible presence, the conceptual idea of the self also remains with the reader.
Kim, in effect, creates an alternative narrative by challenging the normative both in her abstraction of the linguistic construct and in her use of the white space of the page. This forges a space for alternative cultural production and alternative epistemologies — different ways of thinking and knowing that are crucial to creating a counterhegemonic worldview. In order to change conventional ways of thinking about language, we must recognize that within a written work, as bell hooks writes, “there will be fragments of speech that may or may not be accessible to every individual.” Those who benefit from and function fully within a hegemonic structure have taken their understanding and use of that structure’s language for granted.
Kim’s narrative is structured as a layering of sorts. Within a sequence, the layers serve to qualify, reinforce, or alter the parts that precede and follow. Each part is both complete and incomplete, leaving the reader with a feeling of absolute uncertainty:
At the quarry
Leaving the Quarry
Bringing hand tools
Approaching the river
The workmen are prisoners
A chariot is pulled by two servants
At the left heads are counted and the booty is piled in front of clerks
who are recording the details in a book and on a scroll
Tablet VI Panel 53
One can examine this through a lens of social and cultural production: the observer has partial power over what is being viewed. Our interpretation is controlled/ordered by some unknown prison guard or master. The presentation is both complete (conveying the artist’s point of view/perspective) and incomplete (each observer has interpretive power). The narrative of Penury is made up of diffuse, multiple narratives that are gathered, briefly encapsulated, and repositioned in a transformational sequencing that gives the self a sense of agency.
There are also narrative moments where Kim seems to lift the language off the page, away from concrete connections or associations and toward a continual abstraction. In each of the pieces, both labeled as “One Arrow transcript,” the sparseness of the textual elements is very striking. Although the nature of the transcription is to accurately represent an event, these sections perform an incomplete gesture. One feels as though there will never be a complete picture or succinct narrative representation:
The said release annexed surrendered
Majority of members
In consideration of lawful money
The said water frontage and the above described lands
Rolling country small poplar bluffs
One Arrow transcript
Kim is gathering the splintered elements — bits of letters, fragments of words and sentences — and resequencing, restructuring. The act is a gesture of “re-,” of appropriating a linguistic system that failed to communicate all aspects of a being — constructing the self in terms of that once-silenced self. The self, as performed through the disjunctive and queer narrative, is nearing not an absolute, essentialized version, but rather a representation of authenticity — an implied narrative (a combination of an event’s presentation, the documentation of that event, and its spatial interpretation). Kim “queers” the page in Penury by highlighting the plurality/alternity of identity, disrupting traditional narrative, and deconstructing language through formal and sonic structures.
Action follows image which leads to another action:
wild scythe swing
vehicles in and out
One Arrow transcript
The narrative is disjunctive, yet the movement and momentum of the piece is continuous. Like the swinging of the scythe, the motion is steady. But the effects are ominously reverberant.
Formal and sonic structures
Throughout Penury, Kim alters the performance of language by utilizing traditional typographic markers in uncommon ways. Kim’s work not only linguistically queers the page, but also examines the hegemonic discourse of this position through the uncommon use of visual elements for both their symbolic and sonic effects. According to Derridean philosophy, in the aftermath of the tethering of word to thing, signifier to signified, we are left with the trace — a sort of odd entity. This trace lies outside of the normative discourse but within the literal white space, the silence, of the page. It may also lie in symbolic elements — sonic formulations which cannot be spoken in the conventional sense but that are, themselves, linguistic constructs.
One of the most striking examples of Kim’s use of symbols in Penury occurs on page 104 with the use of the forward slash:
/ / / / /
/. / /
/ / / /
/ / / / / / /
/ / / /
/ / / / / / / /
/ / / /
/ / / / / / /
Kim asserts that this piece is an attempt to “render rhythm, word, syntax, pitch, graphic presentation, and so on” without the intentionality that language implies; thus, it “rotates in and among and unsettles those categories by which we participate in sense-making.” This speaks to larger ideas about poetry. If one considers language to be a sense-making system, poetry is a means to work within that system. What Kim is doing is utilizing the master’s tool to disassemble the foundation of the master’s house.
The sonic qualities and visual structure of this piece are translated into a textual representation on the facing page:
bliss and tenderage
kind property brew speech rose
such errant rapt
errant rapt refraction
kind speech bliss
flur also thist
beris beryl barris rose
This section is speckled with English words and unrecognizable discourse. The piece performs and represents a textual body in its very cadence, suggesting that meaning can be gained through other systems of communication.
Kim also takes symbols from both computer programming and mathematics and places them within her text. One such symbol that she uses throughout her poetic sequence is the pipe or vertical bar, which appears both singularly ( | ) and doubly ( | | ). The pipe first appears on page 5 (“the calf stranded across the creek | that bellowing”). One could argue that this symbol visually mimics the action which it is meant to represent — it creates a literal barrier between words on the page. Here, the pipe figuratively serves as a wall that separates the animal/object from its action. Again, Kim introduces the idea of shifting agency — power and control are constantly redistributed among bodies. This visual illustration could imply a subjective compartmentalization — the agent distances herself from her actions or from her performance of those actions. It may also represent a bifurcation that leads to objectification — if we separate the subject from the emotive quality of her (re)action, then it is easier to see her as a thing and not a self.
However, there are points in Penury where Kim uses the pipe as a connective unit:
goods have mutual fit martial hand
In linking these linguistic chunks, Kim’s poetry suggests an implied connection between the concepts they represent and the self they describe. The flow of agency is bungled: an act of animalistic violence in the first line visually ties to the functional benefits of the second line. The end is a harsh but willful sense of allowance.
To extend the possibility of interpretive abstraction, one could examine how the technical definitions of these symbols relate to the figurative usage. In another context, a single pipe functions to represent a “temporary section of computer memory capable of linking two or more computer processors, increasing the overall efficiency of the computer.” In this way, Kim’s pipe walls become necessary structures. They may appear to prevent movement and transition, but are elemental to the subjective whole. At other points, Kim uses the double pipe to link portions or lines of text. These symbols often represent a Boolean statement of logical truth values. From this perspective, Kim not only connects textual bits, she equates them. It is interesting to note that the pipe is utilized so frequently that the letter “I” could easily be mistaken for this symbol and visa versa. Kim could be inferring that the “I”/self could easily be its own hindrance and its only hope.
Another interesting combination occurs when Kim uses both the colon and the pipe:
: | Tree frog toads
: | I send them candy wrapped in socks
: | The extent of the land that must be cleared for tank traffic
: | Boulders hang from my shoulders
: | Scorched earth tactics
: | Nights spent askew in a cauldron
The colon can be seen as a figurative gate, inviting one to continue into a quartered area. However, these colons are followed by vertical bars. The colon-gate may open, but the metaphorical pathway is visually blocked by the wall of the vertical bar. Whoever resides on the other side of the colon-gate does not have access to anything beyond this barrier. By titling this section of her poetic sequence “(for six multilingual voices),” Kim seems to imply that these voices are somehow silenced, either by force or situational circumstance.
It is possible that Kim is using the visual and sonic qualities of symbolic language to deconstruct and then reconstruct a textual body that is inadequately represented by dominant discourse. In altering this dominant linguistic system, the performance of the self becomes unsettled — a queering of the subject. Through this convergence of symbol, signification, sound, and performance, one can illustrate the infinite expansion of language to create new meanings.
Also, it could be argued that certain forms of communication may reside outside of a culturally bound linguistic system or national borders. By blending symbolic languages, a distinct vernacular emerges, and, by direct consequence, the self is affected in its re-presentation. In this way, Kim’s writing is imbued with a different standard of power, one that “forges a space for alternative cultural production and alternative epistemologies — different ways of thinking and knowing that [are] crucial to creating a counter-hegemonic worldview.”
Kim’s work problematizes and questions the construct of a self as it textually performs its existence. In particular, she addresses the ways in which authenticity and agency operate in the constant evolution of a self. Penury is a sparse and ever-shifting collection of poetic performances that are under continual construction. Languages are tools, systems used by the dominant majority to construct a valid reality. Understanding that limitations and perimeters inherently exist within and among our communicative endeavors, we also must acknowledge that these codes can be mutated and reappropriated. The page can also be a site of rebellion, a space where ideologies and practices are upended and queered. Language can begin and perpetuate these aberrant acts of regeneration and outsider agency.
Kim has written that poetry should serve as a call to action, a means with which we “mobilize the notion of our responsibility to one another in social space.” With Penury, Kim is enacting that very idea. The textual construction itself is a representation of the plurality of identity. By challenging our traditional conceptions of self, Kim emphasizes the need for acknowledgment. This awareness of the other has the potential to transform our relationship to that/those other(s).
One method of escaping the confines of a dominant and inadequate linguistic paradigm is by conforming language to the truth of our many selves: as bell hooks argues, language can be a site of resistance. Linguistic hegemony cannot be achieved if the dominant group does not convince others to accept their language norms and usage as standard. Language should be used to disrupt, to decenter and unfetter one from complacency. By doing so, the self is able to continually reconstitute its identity.
— Three Desks —
Myung Mi Kim said, “Let’s make lists of all of our discursive writing and look at those lists.” I began a list soon lost under piles. In the intervening years the bit of edification, the muzzle, gag and tethers of training that determined much of what fell to that list have remained of interest while the sign of the “discursive” under which the list accreted has become increasingly perplexing.
There are daily occasions that provoke response or invitations that require address. Vigilant against the learned behavior of automatic response yet immersed also in a porous need-world in which adrenaline calls the mother, whether or not she has children, before or after, to tend to the call.
The call is not the song. The Latin obaudire, hearing from below — obeying.
— George Albon
Here enter the imaginal and actual laws that authorize kinds of public discourse by kinds of public bodies. The bit and muzzle and their company surface at the moment of the call, as if address requires some kind of redress too: obedience. The writing that escapes seems to be poetry.
Years ago, unable to confine myself to the dissertation writing at the computer on my desk, I put a table to my right and another behind me. The one to the side was a repository for writing related to the topics of the dissertation but occurring in an idiolect different from that of the academy. What I recognized as poetry, sometimes related to the dissertation topics and sometimes not, fell to the third table behind me.
Starting before the occupation of the dissertation chamber and continuing long after that triangulation, an attempt to repeatedly take resistance and desire, to write not only about them, not issue only from them, and also not ignore them.
I am interested in what prompts and makes possible this process of entering what one is estranged from — and in what disables the foray.
— Toni Morrison*
Perhaps for some an academic discourse is native, without ambivalence, or easy to learn. For me it was none of those.
Help arrived as the learning and re-learning, the consecutive and simultaneous ordering and disassembling of one posture after another — perhaps a brain patterning via the body? — of the t’ai chi form:
Question 4: To withdraw is then to release, to release is to withdraw…but what is “in discontinuity there is still continuity”?
Answer: Discontinuity is the physical form and continuity is the i (mind). It is like a broken lotus root with the fibers still connected. In Chinese calligraphy the stroke may be broken, but the mind is still connected.
— T’ai Chi Classics
T’ai chi arrived as a kind of third apprehension: not poetry, not academic discourse — but linking and partaking of some of both of these, and more. An embodied instruction in sequence and phrase that is and is not sequential. No surprise when you think of the Greek for discourse invoking the body in the act of twice bringing or throwing the discus, thus as a measure, like foot size, diskoura δισκουρα of distance. Or if you listen to the many contradictory definitions for the word discourse in the OED, some excoriating, some invoking the body and the household. Or think of diosakis διοσακις, poet., adv., twice over.
That worked and later unworked — re-broken lotus root with the fibers still connected — writing that became the dissertation, later became a book — not of — but partaking of poetry. The hope to address the requirement and desire to learn a particular vocabulary, taxonomy and comportment of thinking and speaking with its rules of inclusion and exclusion and to simultaneously consider the valences of silence and other kinds of thinking and utterance — these efforts to practice forms of discontinuity in continuity continued beyond the three-desk scene. Training to become an academic or a car mechanic or a ten-year-old cotillion dancer requires practice in particular etiquette, ethics and manners. Usually training to become a specialist makes one a specialist in correct etiquette. Once in a while someone also becomes thoughtful and curious, or a bacchic dancer within or beyond the waltz.
WHAT IS IT YOU HAVE COME TO TELL ME?
Ultimately, the good reason of our refusal to censor or to “correct” is that we seek not to get rid of what embarrasses us or what does not seem true to our lights but to go beyond embarrassment — beyond shame or disgust or outrage — to imagine in an other light, to see in a larger sight what we had rather was dismissed from view.
— Robert Duncan
We might wish for a fugitive writing but all writing, including poetry, must contend in some way with the reign of the discursive — even if only to attempt to ignore or subvert its rule.
Yet maybe this institution and this inclination are but two converse responses to the same anxiety: anxiety as to just what discourse is when it is manifested materially, as a written or spoken object.
— Michel Foucault**
In the realm of our current academic or medical or legal discursives, in which “proceeding by reasoning or argument” is the prevailing use of the word, one who refuses or is unable to be trained to tolerate the rigors of correction, the bit of edification, is often viewed as deficient — or she is regaled as a “real” Poet, having “escaped” via a royal road called “inspiration.” This divide we inherit and in which we live takes me back to one of its origins in the Ion: “for not by art does the poet sing but by power divine … God takes away the minds of poets.” The current discursive trains for meaning minus exhilaration. Thinking minus music.
Poetry and music are both patterns of sound drawn on a background of time. … Whatever refinements and subtleties they may introduce, if they lose touch altogether with the simplicity of the dance, with the motions of the human body and the sounds natural to a man exerting himself, people will no longer feel them as music and poetry. They will respond to them, no doubt but not with the exhilaration that dancing brings.
— Basil Bunting
We could think of poetry and music as elements of a kind of thought that involves voices issuing from bodies in motion. A sequence of actions, something like a dance or embodied incantation. Each step across the page might propose a measure of distance. A foot equals a sound unit or sentence. Invitation to a choreography of relation — the proximity of bodies — in a room doing the t’ai chi form — a call, body to body, like seaweed waving to currents in the air, or following the space of the page before word, each posture a hexagram, a sequence taking letter shapes — a form of thought and address —
What is it you have come to tell me?
— Address —
In the difficulty, there is no other to address but address itself.
If I could begin this is where I would begin.
Investigating these gags and tethers that attempt to keep us from violating the conventions of discursive utterance. That is investigating what we think we know about what thinking looks and sounds like — and should — this is the labor of a reflexive and reflective discourse.
All research is crisis. What is sought is nothing other than the turn of seeking, of research, that occasions this crisis: the critical turn.
— Maurice Blanchot
The turning back to look — to have recourse — does not turn one into a salt pillar.
Looking at the curse as it has been inherited through the social and the family over generations, as in, “You made my grandfather eat his children in a stew [Pelops] and therefore I will now kill you in revenge” and on and on for generations of blood-letting. Discourse as a kind of revenge, inheritance, heritage of bloodletting, that occurs in some academic and other cultural conventions, under the sign of which, the slaughter of what came before, one kind of looking back, is recognizable as the work of correction and improvement called contribution to the present.
Is there a way to talk, read, write within the social fabric, canon, family without continuing blood feud? — Is there a course that doesn’t lead, as it did for the Erinyes, Medea, Antigone, etc., to the punishment and shelter of the law of the polis? The banishment of the speech of the Furies to the hearth safely imprisoned inside the house?
The crisis of “the critical turn” is always present and always collapsing response, call, poetry, criticism, event, recollection. Always looking back at that second of a death, an origin, an invitation.
Marcel said they were incapable of establishing priorities. In fact their priorities were simply different priorities: value was assigned to all events equally but serially; what was going on at the moment — Aziz’s [murder] trial, a stray chicken — had top billing. Neither event would have a lasting hold on them. Special fondness was attached to those incidents and persons with the greatest dramatic possibilities — that is, with a continuing, endlessly repeatable and improvable life in the imagination: memory of a kind.
— Isabel Fonseca
In place of subordination, imagination. Like incantation — not without cause and effect as one can repeat one thing and something else may occur as a result. One could engage a telling memory of the remembered unfolding present that prioritizes that of “greatest dramatic possibility” and enacts the critical turn as ratiocination of a kind. Lyric might be of high priority in a response to the continual crisis of seeking.
Lyric has no sound but recalls sound. … The way a promise is an action made in speech, not in the sense of something scriptable or repeatable, but something that “happens,” that “occurs” as an event and can continually be called upon … in the unfolding present.
— Susan Stewart
At that second of the sound of the call, writing poetry is a promise that involves the desolation of the impossible charge. The enactment of a coherent public face that the discursive seems to demand puts me in a different state of desolation.
I am no doubt not the only one who writes in order to have no face.
— Michel Foucault
In some poetry the writer dwells on the desolation wire of the impossibility of writing within/while writing. Passing from premises to conclusions in the discursive mode we are taught to act, to masquerade as if writing is possible — without obstacle, as if we are not our own obstacle — as if the assignment to convey meaning, argument, language as tool in service of that, can be met.
Is the desolation wire the phatic place where the song eclipses, overshadows, devours, extends beyond the call? Phatic as in phanein φανεροs to show, to appear visible — even if in disguise. Does, can, a wounded and double-faced, doubt-filled, unfaithful to orders, faceless, full frontal critical writing exist?
If it could, would we be able then to burn the need for the distinction between the discursive and other writing?
What is always at work in discourse — as in everything else — is desire and power. … This is why discourse, at least since the rout of the Sophists by Plato, always unfolds in the service of the “will to truth.” Discourse wishes “to speak the truth.” but in order to do this, it must mask from itself its service to desire and power, must indeed mask from itself the fact that it is itself a manifestation of the operations of these two forces.
— Hayden White
Whose “truth” does which discourse wish us to speak, to serve up, to write?
— Third Apprehension —
All reasoning is carried on discursively; that is discurrendo, — by running about to the right and the left, laying the separate notices together, and thence mediately deriving some third apprehension.
Plucking from the definitions which themselves are laden with so much contradiction: invoking the inherent of the incoherent.
A subject of ‘discourse’ or reasoning (as distinguished from a subject of perception)
Perception as a kind of reason?
To lift the ancestral curse from this House of Atreus and turn it on itself.
Here the reflective recursive appears as the chorus that provides “another side to … conception,” even another kind of conception.
And, of course, s/he might begin with the writing. S/he might try to put the whole dialogue in new writing, the field of another kind of voice than those we have heard before. A help-ful, in-forming voice, a voice eager to reach and accept the other’s voice. Already in chorus, or eager to reach for chorus. It might get started like that. Any day, it could begin like that. Any day it could begin.
— Nathaniel Tarn
The intolerable restrictions of the drama could be loosened, however, if a means could be found by which what was general and poetic, comment, not action, could be freed without interrupting the movement of the whole. It is this that the choruses supply; the old men or women who take no active part in the drama, the undifferentiated voices who sing like birds in the pauses of the wind; who can comment, or sum up, or allow the poet to speak himself or supply, by contrast, another side to his conception.
— Virginia Woolf
As legend has it the first actor, the “hypocrit,” was Thespis, the first to appear on stage as a “character” of a written play instead of as “himself,” as a writer. He was also the first to exchange words with the leader of the chorus. The υποκριτηs, the hypocrit could be enlisted to appear on our current discursive stage as the figure who addresses and provokes “the undifferentiated voices who sing like birds in the pauses of the wind; who can comment, or sum up, or allow the poet to speak himself or supply, by contrast, another side to his conception.” Hypocrit from Hypokrisia Υποκρισια — of stringed instruments, answer in sound, i.e. sound in harmony with, to play an accompaniment. This hypocrit, being (at least) two-faced, could begin to “in-form” as Tarn suggests, begin to reach for a chorus that has already begun, to seduce and aggravate that chorus into more comment, summary, and more sides to conception.
The hypocrit talks with the chorus who talks to the audience. They all need each other to stay with/in the play. When the reader talks with the writer, is the reader the hypocrit or the chorus or the audience? The performance by all involves answering, harmonizing, assessing, contradicting: in short, interpretation — critical turns, a turning into, and turning from and toward heard and written passages.
One must be able to pass easily into those ecstasies, those wild and apparently irrelevant utterances, those sometimes obvious and commonplace statements, to decide their relevance or irrelevance, and give them their relation to the play as a whole.
We must be able to ‘pass easily’; but that of course is exactly what we cannot do. … But we can guess that Sophocles used them not to express something outside the action of the play, but to sing the praises of some virtue, or the beauties of some place mentioned in it.
— Virginia Woolf
It might not be possible or desirable to resuscitate, reconstitute, or intervene in the orders of the discursive under whose reign we live, but it could be possible instead to enlist it, turn it into, turn to it as a recursive chorus that doesn’t express something “outside the action of the play” (or the poem, or thinking) but reflects on and joins in singing “the praises of some virtue, or the beauties of some place mentioned in it” and examines its ethics and aesthetics, in order “to decide their relevance or irrelevance, and give them their relation to the play.” And we could ask the hypocrit to digress from the narrative, as the aria singer does, to invite the pets, the gospel mass choir, the recitative, the dolphins and circadae who comment on us and make a place (chorus also invoking an enclosed place, χορτος, a feeding place, a farmyard in which cattle were kept) between speech, song, premise, conclusion, thought, and law.
This recursive chorus would not be performing a meta-function of poetry, as poetry is always in “the play as a whole.” A whole? Where is the inside or outside of the play? Why do we even need to call this writing that enlists the wounded, double-faced, doubt-filled and faceless, something other than poetry? I think that is because we cannot ignore or pretend that we do not still live under the Pythagorean. And in the territory of address of the upper class, male only citizens, playwrights, actors and members of the chorus.
DUALISM: Under the good the Pythagoreans ranged light, unity, understanding, rest, the straight, male, right, definite, even, and square; and under evil as contraries, darkness, plurality, opinion, movement, the curved, female, left, indefinite, odd, irregular.
Promethean aspiration: To be a woman and a Pythagorean feminine. I go in disguise. Signification, Soul under stress, thread of connection broken, visionary energy lost.
— Susan Howe
The recursive might let us don the disguise of “Promethean aspiration: To be a woman and a Pythagorean” — to be a poet hypocrit, and keep “the thread of connection” — “broken lotus root with the fibers still connected” — as inside the wheel of the critical turn we keep researching the curse and walking the desolation high wire.
4. To come back or return (into, in or to) one’s thoughts, mind or memory.
Recurer (obs. rare)
One who helps or aids
Throughout his annual and recurring race he never stops but always changes place
recurring utterance, a form of aphasia marked by the repetition of certain words or phrases
1597 The muscles which are serviceable to the speech or voice, as are the recurrentes, or retrograding muscles.
Of an eagle: Having the back towards the spectator
who sing like birds in the pauses of the wind
with their back to the spectator as a form of address
I am no doubt not the only one who writes in order to have no face. Do not ask who I am and do not ask me to remain the same: leave it to our bureaucrats and our police to see that our papers are in order. At least spare us their morality when we write.
— Michel Foucault
Dream in which my charge is to write an essay about silence. And so I attempt.
“To speak is to do something.”
Or to not speak is to take care. Later, to “speak up” is to “tend”
Want, Guilt, Need, Care — the four gray hags
— Christa Wolf
To care is the work of the chorus not to express “something outside the action of the play” but to arrest the dialogue without stopping the action in order to reflect or reflect on actions. The noise of the recurrentes or retrograding muscles in a dance, gestures of utterance issuing from no single character — so, speechless in full speech, masked — on behalf of, to care for, the players in the play, the audience as character in the play — the child at play is in the play
Heart affluence in discursive talk from household fountains never dry
— Thomas Hardy, definition of discourse, OED
On the waterways the night house becomes a neutrality, not a contested space of subordinates. It apprehends a different relation to the animate objects in its hold — silently M and I make lists while the children sleep rocking in their bed boats.
The domestic stage, farmyard, feeding place — open air — public:
Behind the closed door a child moved furniture
Written In Furniture
A message arranged
But the recipients unaware of the legibility of this medium
What is it you have come to tell me?
When the angel of death passed over the houses of the Israelites marking doors — dispensing the pharaoh’s rule [as discursives of moral good and evil, just, unjust] to some, and sent (and saved) others under the sign of the bloody X that became wandering in the desert [running hither and tither: passing irregularly from one locality to another], exile, on others — my forehead — the forehead of my house, received an X. Sent to the lions, the snakes by the river who secretly romp together disrupting [passing from premises to conclusions; by ‘discourse’ of reason; ‘ratiocinative’] the believed order of the nature of animal behavior, I departed [running about to the right and the left, laying the separate notices together]
Here I dwell
Gather round children of circumstance
while I pass the plate
Let chance, occasion, contingency, condition, happenstance, the circling stars, the odds, hazard,
mistake, incident, be our debtors
take us hostage
so we have no choice but to pack up and climb out the window
That is to run away, to write, to run back into the burning house
Glory to the combination lock
with its lost numbers
And the way we look up at story time
thinking the face of the teacher is the book
and our circle the story clock
Come diverge perplex tell ask spoken for speak with quotation, juxtaposition, diagnosis as proposition — braid doom dwellers, wanderers and the able unable — which dys is it keeping us doubters, dancers, the aimfully inarticulate, aphasic, estranged, chronically embarrassed, those who cannot leave the all-you-can-eat smorgasbord, weepers, the exhilarated, army of archers — Turn, bend, twist, spin, brush-the-knee-and-strike
From COMING EVENTS (Collected Writings), Nightboat Books, Callicoon, New York, 2013.
Thanks to Myung Mi Kim for years of conversation. Thanks also to Nathaniel Tarn, whose writings about the choral contributed to my thinking.
And thanks to all of those in whose work I first encountered the possibility of something that might be called the recursive: through letter writing (before computers); in the 1987 issue of ACTS journal called “Analytic Lyric”; in the work of Norma Cole; Benjamin Hollander; in Susan Howe’s My Emily Dickinson; Luce Irigaray; Hélène Cixous; Norman O. Brown’s Love’s Body; Barbara Guest’s Rocks on a Platter, Forces of Imagination, Dürer in the Window, and more recently in the work of Eleni Stecopoulos, Christa Wolf, and Gustaf Sobin, and Impasse of the Angels by Stefania Pandolfo. I’m sure there are many more examples unknown to me or forgotten.
Many thanks to George Albon for his invaluable comments on “Outer Event.”
Thanks to Martin Inn, t’ai chi teacher, acupuncturist, friend, for comment on this writing and many years of wisdom, healing, and friendship.
Thanks beyond possible thanks to Steve Dickison for his repeated readings and indispensible responses to this piece.
I am interested in what prompts and makes possible this process of entering what one is estranged from — and in what disables the foray, for purposes of fiction, into corners of the consciousness held off and away from the reach of the writer’s imagination. My work requires me to think about how free I can be as an African-American woman writer in my genderized, sexualized, wholly racialized world. To think about (and wrestle with) the full implications of my situation leads me to consider what happens when other writers work in a highly and historically racialized society. For them, as for me, imagining is not merely looking or looking at; nor is it taking oneself intact into the other. It is, for the purposes of the work, becoming.
Inclination speaks out: ‘I don’t want to have to enter this risky world of discourse, I want nothing to do with it insofar as it is decisive and final. … All I want is to allow myself to be borne along, within it, and by it, a happy wreck’. Institutions reply: ‘But you have nothing to fear from launching out; we’re here to show you discourse is within the established order of things .… and if it should happen to have a certain power, then it is we, and we alone, who give it that power.’ … In a society such as our own we all know the rules of exclusion. We all know what is prohibited. We know perfectly well that we are not free to say just anything, that we cannot simply speak of anything, when we like or where we like; not just anyone, finally, may speak of just anything.
On Myung Mi Kim's 'Under Flag'
When the feminist poetry press Kelsey St. published Myung Mi Kim’s 1991 epic work Under Flag, a publicity blurb described it as a book that “documents” the “struggle to learn English,” an experience, the blurb goes on to say, that “resembles the experience of innumerable other US citizens in a century that has been shaped by wars and vast human migrations.” The blurb seems to take care to describe the century as the thing that is shaped by wars and human migrations, while the struggle belongs to its citizens.
But in use of the phrase “struggle to learn English” to describe Kim’s epic, the Kelsey St. blurb also points us to ways in which the individual lyric moment lies in tension with the larger historical and political structures of Kim’s epic work. Under Flag can be read against other instances of twentieth-century modernist verse epics that insist on providing the kind of inductive assemblage that can fuse discrete perceptions and historical particulars while resisting the totalizing operations of linear narrative. At the same time, these modern epics contain within them, as Rachel Blau DuPlessis suggested at the University of Sussex conference on the long poem in 2008, the “ghost” or “mark” of lyric: the problem of the subject set against the social, to cite Adorno. Even within those historically ambitious modernist epics we have, for example, in Pound’s Pisan Cantos what Richard Sieburth calls the “internalized or subjective” sort of “anamnesia” within the epic vision of the greater scheme of the poem, or William Carlos Williams’s lapses into compressed bits of verse in the midst of the philosophically meandering Spring and All. The opposition of lyric and epic appears to be constitutive of the twentieth-century long poem.
In Myung Mi Kim’s work, the tension between lyric and epic is legible in concentrated moments where forms and facts of speech are contested, and in moments when they become foreclosed into moments of silence. To read this so-called “struggle,” then, is to pry apart the way this poetry uses silence to stage an argument about individual citizenship against the backdrop of history. In Under Flag, sound and silence articulate the problem of place.
One provocative way to read this articulation is through the recurring image of the mouth. Images of the mouth recur frequently throughout Under Flag: mouths of infants and children, but also related images of throat, larynx, and face. Mouths in this work are full of speech and other objects; they also appear empty and silent. This emphasis on the mouth places Kim’s book in dialogue with Theresa Cha’s Dictee, which highlights organs of the body and their connections to sound via the inclusion of anatomical diagrams and figures, an acupuncture chart, and descriptions of the mouth changing shape as it takes on a new language.
The first section of Under Flag, “And Sing We,” invokes a citizenry against the spaces of contested sound. (Many of these passages can be heard online at Myung Mi Kim’s PennSound page.) Sound emits from the throat before mirroring the distance between voice and subject against the distance between two continents. Kim writes:
Must it ring so true
So we must sing it
To span even yawning distance
And would we be near then
What would the sea be, if we were near it
It catches its underside and drags it back
What sound do we make, “n”, “h”, “g”
Speak and it is sound in time
Several discrete moments in this passage emphasize the links between voice and place. Punning on the notion of “yawning” as something that both mouth and land do, Kim then asks how we would understand the body of water the “we” is no longer near to. That unknown sea is followed by the word “Voice,” set on its own line. “Voice” behaves as an object as well as a command, linking the question about action in the line that comes before with the objectified “it” in the line that comes after: “It catches its underside and drags it back.” The voice, in a way, never leaves the mouth: we are always acutely aware of its belonging to the body. The voice goes on to make a sound that is dissociated from sense: the disaggregated letters “n,” “h,” and “g” can only be provisional. Later in the book, Kim will ask, “Who is mother tongue, who is father country?” (29), drawing a provocative contrast between gendered notions of geography and the voice.
These links between geography and the voice are further explored in the section “Food, Shelter, Clothing,” which opens with a ballad-like stanza of four lines that suggest a generalized perspective on landscape. The stanza ends by pointing us in multiple directions at once. Kim writes:
And of isolation, rock salt, jars preserving
Oxen returning on paths they themselves have shaped
Line of vision heeding lines of hills stretching
Farther west, farther east, than one had thought (20)
Recalling in its title Thoreau’s suggestion in Walden that the necessities for man “may be distributed under the several heads of Food, Shelter, Clothing, and Fuel,” the poem enters the discourse of social philosophy. The passage begins paratactically, its initial word “And” shaping a sense of ongoing motion as well as uncharted land on the next page, as the “one [who] had thought” has shifted into a particularized “she” who confronts the mouth as the source of legibility:
She could not talk without first looking at others’ mouths (which language?)
(pushed into) crevice a bluegill might lodge in (21)
Here we begin with a silent speaker — “she” — who instead of waiting to hear language issued from mouths before speaking must actually look inside those mouths, as if the language were visible there. The second line of this stanza might suggest how a language can fit uncomfortably inside a mouth, concretizing the image as that of a fish lodging in a crevice.
Near the end of the poem, after intervening passages that depict scenes of war and arrival, the mouth returns to its struggle, but the poem has done away with its subjective energies, instead suggesting a general experience with language difference. Kim writes:
Span no tongue and mouth
Scripting, hand flat against the mouth (26)
The voice here is quieted by an authoritative, “scripting” hand. More important perhaps is the way the first two lines suggest what happens when language is absent, when there is no tongue or mouth: speakers go adrift, and silence is perceived as geographical distance. On the following page, the buoys echo in a line that suggests struggle by a generalized mass. Kim writes:
Up against bounty and figured human
allaying surge (27)
The human here gets figured, “counted,” scripted by citizenship. And if language has earlier been lost, it resurfaces here as gibberish. Kim writes:
ga ga ga ga
This line of abstract sound, hurled from a place of some hardness, could instantiate the “struggle to learn English”; it could also simply be the sound that accompanies the theme of flight in the poem. We see a scene of wartime Korea, but we also hear echoes of the memory of that time throughout the poem. Rather than settling into the trope of the poet’s mouth to issue forth, Kim suggests a tongue that belongs to everyone.
This notion of collectivity is undone by the beginning of “Into Such Assembly,” in which Kim reproduces an exam designed to assess both language and citizenship:
Can you read and write English? Yes _____. No _____.
Write down the following sentences in English as I dictate them.
There is a dog in the road.
It is raining.
Do you renounce allegiance to any other country but this?
Now tell me, who is the president of the United States?
You will all stand now. Raise your right hands. (29)
The gaps that follow the first two questions textualize the gaps and fissures in the rest of this text, revealing the citizenship ritual as something that cannot fully contain silence. The passage also makes starkly clear the way language acquisition is tied to the assimilating operations of citizenship: to be naturalized is to renounce allegiance to any other country, and, implicitly, to any other language.
The effect of this renouncing on the body is explored in “Body As One As History,” which begins with a description of “the body feigning,” undergoing an “inaudible collapse” under the weight of its various illnesses. Kim writes: “Gurgling stomach sack / Polyps, cysts, hemorrhages, dribbly discharges, fish stink” (35). The poem makes repeated references to the body being “large as I,” in a kind of reverse Whitmanianism: the body is big enough to contain the I, rather than the I being big enough to contain the people of the world. This seems especially apparent when Kim writes: “This is the body and we live it. Large as I. Large as” (36). The poem locates the multiple subjects within the body of the poem, which has just issued one of the book’s most violent and troubling scenes of war, but is finally unable to complete the explication of its link to the speaker.
The next instance of “As large as” (which lacks specific reference to the body) comes just after a moment when the mouth again holds language as a tangible object, this time in the service of self-preservation. A line of women on a clover field remain still to evade some danger, but inside their bodies there is resistance, there is life. Kim writes: “In their mouths, more than breath more than each sound buzzed inside / the inside of the mouth” (36). The language inside these mouths must be different from what we’ve seen before: there’s something more functional about whatever it is that is more than breath. Yet there is also something figurative: the women are frozen, but their muscles are moving, and one imagines that the muscle of the tongue continues to move against the oppressive silence.
Under Flag renders vividly physical the process of learning to speak a language. The mouth here inhabits its own multiple meanings — including mother tongue, suckling mouth — as a way to resist the easy binarisms of language acquisition models and move us instead to a larger consideration of history’s writing on the body, inside the mouth. In an interview with Yedda Morrison, Kim links “texts that […] allow for the impossibility of speaking” to the need for a politics that goes beyond opposition. Kim has spoken more than once on her desire to locate a radical politics that does not depend on opposition, which she sees as dangerously evocative of empire. For Kim, the oppositional mode leaves little room for ambiguity, which is at the heart of her approach to silence and language. She tells Morrison:
And Paul Celan, Theresa Hak Kyung Cha. With these writers we are in the company of language that has been met with potential erasure; what happens in that kind of collaboration between the impossibility of utterance and finding the means by which to utter? […] For me those works that keep re-invigorating that space of silence and erasure, the space of the seemingly untranslatable, are the ones in which you really feel some sort of endurance and power.
It’s especially apt that Kim would mention Celan here, whose reference to “two / mouthfuls of silence” has crystallized our notions of the loss of speech under the Holocaust. Celan figures mouths that have caught something in their grasp but are unable to release it, for fear that they would turn up empty.
Because this is an essay that is about epic citizenship but also about sound, I want to end by reading Kim against an earlier instance of modernist silence in which sound breaks away from language and becomes embedded in landscape. This is from Lorine Niedecker’s 1928 poem “Mourning Dove”:
The sound of a mourning dove
slows the dawn
there is a dee round silence
in the sound.
The poem begins by collapsing the sound of the mourning dove into the experience of time passing: the dove’s call “slows” the dawn, where “dawn” could indicate the time of day as well as the sight of the sun breaking over the horizon. The following lines then extricate bird sound as if it were something material, a concrete object in the landscape, identifying a “silence” within the sound itself. That sound is broken apart into its discrete parts according to its orthography: “dee” could represent the whistling call of a killdeer, a bird also native to the mourning dove’s habitat, but on the page also recalls the “d” in “dove,” as if the dove were circling silence.
If Niedecker offers a site-specific vocality in which subjects and voices recede into the landscape, for Kim, that landscape is always charged with subjective pressures, even in its silence. Kim’s diverse language textures move beyond habits of citation and toward a politics of language acquisition: the poetry maps the linguistic trauma of migration, identifies language as a tool of assimilation, and cites the frustrated work of language to map nation and subject. Using fragments and gaps in speech, Kim’s work suggests the inability of epic to articulate a coherent model of citizenship, suggesting instead the “articulate silence” of postwar American poetry. In this way, Under Flag, as well as subsequent work in Commons and Penury that breaks communication into discrete elements, inaugurates an epic that confronts the sonic fallout of displacement, as when Kim writes in Under Flag:
And when we had been scattered over the face of the earth
We could not speak to one another (31)
4. Lorine Niedecker, Collected Works, ed. Jenny Penberthy (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002), 23. The stanza that follows serves as Niedecker’s critique of imagist poetry exceeding its methodological limits: “Or it may be I face the full prospect / of an imagist / turned philosopher.”
5. For a discussion of “articulate silence,” Myung Mi Kim, and poetics of otherness, see Xiaojing Zhou’s The Ethics and Poetics of Alterity in Asian American Poetry (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 2006).
One or more voices out loud
There are so many ways for something to be unsayable. Reading a poem out loud is one of these ways. From this vantage, consider the prospect of the contemporary American poetry reading for poets who believe that “the text is not the text.” For poets who ask, as Myung Mi Kim is always asking in her work, “Who has authority?” and then are asked to appear at the front of the room and wear their author-ity by reading out loud.
“For which no pronunciation exists”
but exists in the room and later on tape,
offered because asked, asked because written.
Listen to this moment during a 2010 event at the Kelly Writers House. Not long into the reading — about thirteen minutes — Kim invites several audience members (at 13:00) to join her in a “brief experiment.” She asks them to read with her from “fell (for six multilingual voices)” in Penury, encouraging them not to worry about how it turns out, or how fast or slow they go — no performance anxiety, guys! (to paraphrase). She wants several people reading, because for her, this poem “is not the poem unless it’s read by six different voices at the same time.”
The audience-readers, including Kim, read a page together. Mostly, they read the page in unison — find each other’s speed in common.
We come to poetry readings because we like to hear poetry read, but we may not be ready to read.
“Through sameness of language is produced / sameness of sentiment and thought.”
Variant sounds, then, as a way to differentiate feeling and thought.
After they read the page together, Kim interjects (at 15:44) to offer further direction. She says she heard many languages at once when she composed the piece. “Read as openly as possible,” she tells her co-readers, “including associations, possible shadow words, possible translations, mutations.”
The small group of three/four voices resumes reading. Initially, Kim reads with them but soon stops, perhaps to listen better (at 16:05). As before, the readers are in unison, and although invited to improvise, they don’t. Although Kim has given them permission to slip in a “word that isn’t there,” no one audibly takes her up on it. Why not?
Why couldn’t the readers go beyond the fixed text in front of them — even when encouraged by the author to do so? There are more “concrete” answers (including, say, the readers’ lack of time to acclimate to performing the text this way). Beyond such speculation, however, should we feel disappointed that, more abstractly, the unsaid holds sway even in an attempt to give it voice/s?
Here, I turn to something Kim says about “dis-abling” habituated practices of language. “The idea of something not working, something not being sayable or reproducible, (re)printable, carries its own charge,” says Kim.
Even in the face of an invitation to say the unsaid, something unsayable sparks. We don’t know what it is.
Peter Quartermain writes: “Good reading, bad reading: neither is wholly possible; either might bring us to the threshold of speech. Strength of vocables: to bind.”
And if something cannot be voiced, or is voiced only with great difficulty, then let’s say the strength of those un-vocables is in leaving things unbound.
Kim talks about the difficulty of reading aloud with Leonard Schwartz on his radio show, Cross Cultural Poetics. Before she reads “Hummingbird” (from Dura), Kim says, “To some degree part of what [it] wants to ask is: where is the point where you can’t always voice something but it can be read and there is an experience of language, but it happens or takes place on a different kind of register — something that’s not simply attenuated or happening in a caesura or rift, but literally the difficulty of articulation, the difficulty of finding a music for a thinking, or a sort of thinking for which there is no a priori measure. So the poem tests these uncertain and undecidable spaces between measure, between song, between the un-articulable, if that’s a word. So, it’s going to be hard to read it, especially in this kind of format because it’s on the air, or I’m speaking it on the air to you. So we’ll see …” (12:37).
Kim’s description of the poem’s other-register music reminds me of Quartermain’s idea of how a poem’s polyvocality evaporates when it comes to air: “The difficulty in voicing the poem … may also have to do with a kind of tentative polyvocality, a simultaneity of possible tones and interpretations, possible (at least in a general sort of way) inside the head but impossible of public performance — a kind of undecidable music or tune” (221).
How flat we may come out when we open our mouths.
In the case of “Hummingbird,” I see a similar foyer between inner and outer in the spaces Kim writes into the middle of the poem’s lines, lines like these:
The writing hung on the wall] [whose writing is it
Varied] [faculty and expression
Sod] [the first deleted me written over (92)
Wall and sheep Tell and speak (93)
The wall is the brackets that stave off and scaffold the silence living dead-center of the line. The sheep are what moves between fenced and stonewalled fields. The fields of the poem and the faithful who come to hear it. Kim knocks on/through the wall.
Kim: “I think what I’m trying to perhaps pose here is this: can that space be left undetermined? Would it be possible to disengage the impulse to have art perform an equal translation or transparent rendering into the social?” (Close Listening).
Looking at it this way, I’m glad that the polyvocal reading Kim invited in 2010 didn’t work out. Its not working out carries a charge. Something there is, muffled, unutterable, and singing a messed-up choir off-tunish in our heads. A place where things fall apart or hold their own, terrifically private and out of reach, and where they also, like a reported ocean, form waves.
3. Full/partial, hazy disclosure: I believe Kim made the same invitation a few years earlier at a reading in Buffalo and I think I was one of the readers. If I recall correctly, I too was unable to improvise any variant readings.