Miles Champion grew up in England and moved to the U.S. in his early 30s. His books include Compositional Bonbons Placate, Sore Models, Three Bell Zero, and, just out from Pressed Wafer, How I Became a Painter: Trevor Winkfield in Conversation with Miles Champion. He lives in Brooklyn, NY. On this show, Miles reads his new book, How to Laugh, which is forthcoming from Adventures in Poetry.
[A NOTE FROM PIERRE JORIS POSTED ORIGINALLY ON HIS NOMADICS BLOG 6/11/2014.] “In Paris now, on the day of the opening of the Marché de la Poésie, a great yearly 4 day event. One major pleasure will be to meet up with old friend Eric Sarner. I had been very happy to learn a couple months ago that this excellent poet, my good friend & sometime translator, was awarded the Prix Max Jacob 1914 for his latest book of poetry, Coeur Chronique published by the Castor Astral with a preface by Michel Deguy. Sarner is a true nomad who lives between Berlin, Paris & Montevideo. Besides a number of poetry collections he has also published several travel récits (most recently a superb book on Algeria (Un voyage en Algéries) and Sur la route 66 (travels in the US, of course), and has made a living via twenty plus film documentaries for television.
“Here is an extract from a section called ‘Experience of Winter’ that feels/reads like a continuous/discontinuous ribbon of writing with just momentary breathing pauses, mawaqif’s in Sufi parlance, between the perceptions.”]
To flee poetry
to let it flee
to let go
through the black groove
on the lam without reason
to shit in a basket
to put it
on one’s head
there’s need to find
for each thing its
oh! that silent cat
carefully without words
to flee poetry
leaving it the chance
to come back by the edges
he who came from
of andean mountains
little black man
resting on his hand
guards his hat
triste & dulce
this past spring
at the Montparnasse cemetery
at the end of
and the sparrow block
without even his shadow
This book Diary of Errors
I knew Ennio Flaiano for his complicity
with Fellini La Dolce vita & 8 1/2
but the title before all had stopped me livened
up notes, stories, parables, word sketches
the simplicity, delicateness
an elderly checkout lady in a bar
sighs caressing her dog
The chestnut trees are in flower
and spring is not here.
he speaks also of feet
set firmly on the clouds
and on another day he confesses to have
told a seven year old girl
Go away! You’re old!
It made her cry all night long
Thus all that lives
has a share in
That’s Empedocles of Agrigento
the hidden breath
where then lurks
the smell of self
is what made
by the other
when he was
naked in the shadow
without a living body
or on the edge
of a nerve
of a doubt
No illusion on the soprano
the final accurateness
& nothing else
absolute & relative
often with no smile
on Steve’s face
so that there exploded
on it like a rage of
a flood of colors
of heat as simple &
as each moment
so ready to live
Jennifer Ashton, From Modernism to Postmodernism: American Poetry and Theory in the Twentieth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005). [Michael Golston's review was originally published in the William Carlos Williams Review, Volume 28, Number 1-2, Spring/Fall 2008. Reprinted by permission of the author.]
I once had the good fortune to take a course with U.C. Berkeley’s Julian Boyd on the history of the English language. Occasionally, as a student in the class struggled with the finer points of deontic modality or the differences between “shall” and “will,” Boyd would suddenly glare at whomever was speaking and announce with mock sternness, “You are exactly wrong.”
That’s how I feel about Jennifer Ashton’s book. It is subtly argued; it deals with challenging material; and it is exactly wrong. Ashton proposes to rewrite the history of American poetry by arguing that “the postmodern criticism that understands itself as a repudiation of a once mainstream New Criticism should be understood instead [. . .] as its continuation” (179). Charles Bernstein, she claims, “turns out to be a belated incarnation of I. A. Richards” (118); Steve McCaffrey and Lyn Hejinian are the ideological heirs of Wimsatt and Beardsley; and “the language movement’s place in the history of twentieth-century poetic theory is not as a repudiation of New Criticism but as its reassertion” (98). Ashton lobs any number of these counterintuitive critical bombshells in a calculated effort to provoke maximum shock and awe among members of the pomo poetry crowd.
As Barrett Watten’s comments [in the epigraph below] show, this idea is hardly new, and was perceived early on as a critical issue (and a scholarly mistake) by the founders of the “language movement” (a phrase that Ashton uses with alarming looseness). The New Criticism and Language poetics are different, acording to Watten, because they are based on different models of language; their only similarity is a superficial interest in literature as an object of study. By cherry-picking her sources, Ashton generalizes this and other surface similarities between New Critical and language poetics to argue for a “history” of postmodernism that is finally untenable.
Barrett Watten: There’s a real confusion in American criticism as to how close the Formalists were to [the New Critics]. The Formalists saw language as relative to itself; the New Critics basically saw language as symbols for objects…. The only similarity is that they saw literature as an object for study. But their models of language were vastly different. ––“Russian Formalism and the Present,” 1980 (Watten 29-30)
The best parts of Ashton’s study concern modernist poetics. Her chapter on William Carlos Williams, Ezra Pound, and Louis Zukofsky is a concise summary of what the “objective” in “objectivism” means; she argues that these three “old literalists,” as she calls them, are committed in their different ways to turning nouns into things. She is also astute at rehearsing the reasons for (Riding) Jackson’s decision in the early 1940s to renounce poetry, showing how for (Riding) Jackson, paradoxically, “for the poem to mean it must not be” (110). Ashton is at her strongest in these chapters; her grasp of the issues informing the “objectivist critique of metaphor,” as she terms it, enables her to clarify important aspects of modernist poetics.
Ashton is less convincing when it comes to Gertrude Stein. She charts Stein’s “movement from what she [Stein] understands as a phenomenological model of composition to a logical one” (32), arguing that Stein wants to “revitaliz[e] nouns by making them work like names” (89). Stein allegedly thereby produces texts that “have nothing to do with the reader” (93) and thus shuts off the “indeterminacy” identified by critics like Marjorie Perloff as the distinguishing mark of avant-garde poetry. Accordingly, Ashton claims, Stein practices “a logical formalism irrevocably at odds with both the phenomenological commitments of poststructuralist linguistics and the materialist commitments of language poetry” (68). But while this may be true of a rune poem like “Rose is a rose is a rose,” it is not clear how Ashton’s method works when applied to longer, more complicated pieces, since she provides no readings of any of Stein’s poems. How would she treat, say, Perloff’s explications of “Mary Nettie” and “Arthur a Grammar” in Wittgenstein’s Ladder (83-112)? or Watten’s discussion of late Stein texts (The Constructivist Moment: From Material Text to Cultural Poetics [118–26])? How exactly do such works discourage interpretive participation? Ashton’s overall strategy is to inflate narrow passages from writers’ theoretical statements into broad categorical principles, but she rarely goes on to show how her claims work.
Ashton stumbles when she turns to postmodernism and language poetry. Her thesis is that Stein and (Riding) Jackson have been misappropriated by the language poets due to an ongoing and “pervasive theoretical effort” to displace the “meaning” of a text by the reader’s experience of it, a project that she claims links theorists like Perloff, Bernstein, and Hejinian to the New Critics. According to Ashton, neither Stein nor (Riding) Jackson had time for such a reader-friendly aesthetic and in fact articulated their respective poetics against adventures in interpretation. The language poets and other “postmodernists” misconstrue a studied indifference to the reader as an invitation to participate in the making of the “meaning” of the poem. Ashton argues that this postmodern imperative that the reader “experience” the poem rather than “read” it parallels the New Critical commitment to the poem as an autonomous object (10).
Perhaps there are rhetorical parallels here, but ultimately New Critical “experience” and “participation” are not the same as language poetry “experience” and “participation.” Generally speaking, the language poets conceive of the poem as a locus for linguistic experiment in a manner that would have been anathema to the New Critics, for whom, in the words of I. A. Richards in Poetries and Sciences—a text that figures importantly in Ashton’s study—poetry begins as “the possibility of emotional experience instigated, if not wholly controlled, through ordered words” (48). For Richards, “the business of the poet […] is to give order and coherence, and so freedom, to a body of experience” (57). Does this sound like Charles Bernstein, Richard’s supposed “belated incarnation?”—he for whom writing is “a process of pushing whatever way, or making the piece cohere as far as can: stretching my mind—to where I know it makes sense but not quite why—suspecting relations that I understand, that make the sense of the ready-to-hand” (39)? For the New Critic, poetry controls thought by ordering language; for the language poet, poetry provokes thought by disordering language. While both Richards and Bernstein may articulate a poetics of “embodiment,” their respective versions of what this means and where it leads are diametrically opposed, although one would never learn this from reading Ashton’s book.
These differences arise because, as Watten pointed out over twenty years ago, the two schools subscribe to different models of language. The language poets generally conflate language with thinking: in Bernstein’s words, “there are no thoughts except through language” (49). For Richards, this is not the case: "The poet […] uses [certain] words because the interests whose movement is the growth of the poem combine to bring them, just in this form, into his consciousness. […] The experience itself, the tide of impulses sweeping through the mind, is the source and the sanction of the words. They represent this experience itself.[...] (33) According to Richards, consciousness exists prior to words, which are “brought into” the mind by its “interests” and “represent” its experience—hence Watten’s “language as symbols for objects.” But for Bernstein, words are “the means by which the world is constituted” (61), and as such are prior to consciousness: as a “syntactical exploration of consciousness” (48), poetic language doesn’t “represent” experience, but generates it –– even for the author.
This leads to other important differences. Richards tells us in Poetries and Sciences that poetry consists of the “records” of “the rarest individuals” who achieve the “moral ordering of the impulses” in the wake of the decline of the “moral authorities…of the old order” (40): poetry as consolation for the unmoored modernist subject. The poet is “the master of speech, because in the creative moment he is the master of experience itself” (45). The language poet poses neither as the “master of speech” nor as “the master of experience,” because for the “postmodernist,” as Bruce Andrews puts it, “[a]uthor dies, writing begins. The subject loses authority, disappears, is *unmade* into a network of relationships, stretching indefinitely” (54). This is the very decentered subject against which (or whom) Richards articulates his therapeutic poetics.
Ashton makes other misleading generalizations about language poetics. Key to her argument is her claim that for Perloff, Hejinian, and Bernstein, the “literalist” text leads to “the condition that makes every reading both different from and equal to every other in constituting the text” (3). But here is Bernstein in 1980: in the works of Watten and Ron Silliman, he says, “the operant mechanisms of meaning are multiplied and patterns of projection in reading are less restricted. The patterns of projection are not, however, undetermined. The text operates at a level that not only provokes projections by each sentence but by the sequencing of the sentences suggests lines or paths for them to proceed along.” (37) The qualifications that Bernstein makes here are ignored entirely by Ashton; certainly Bernstein does not appear to be arguing for either the inherent equality or the necessary difference of every reader’s reading. Similarly, here is Hejinian from 1983: “Moreover, though the ‘story’ and ‘tone’ of such works may be interpreted differently by different readers, nonetheless the readings differ within definite limits. While word strings are permissive, they do not license a free-for-all” (51). How is this a statement promoting open-ended and “equal” readings? And readers of Perloff’s work will know that her very particular brand of close reading leads to very particular ranges of “indeterminacy.”
This generalizing mars the book in other ways; for instance, Ashton includes Bruce Andrews, Susan Howe, John Ashbery, and Jorie Graham under her umbrella rubrics “postmodernist” and “the language movement,” terms that she never bothers to define. Neither Ashbery after The Tennis Court Oath nor Jorie Graham at any time in her career can be accommodated to language practice; the dissimilarities go back to what Watten noted as the difference between New Critical and Russian Formalist models of language. While all four writers might very well be classifiable as “postmodern”—depending on how one defines the term—only Andrews can be called a language poet—and the difference is critical.
Ashton often either elides important information or misrepresents her authors’ points of view. For instance, she argues for the centrality of Derrida to the language poets’ sense of “linguistic indeterminacy” (82-83), but Bernstein explicitly argues against Derridean indeterminacy in “The Objects of Meaning: Reading Cavell Reading Wittgenstein” (1979) (165-183). Bernstein and Silliman are much more qualified in their comments about (Riding) Jackson than Ashton lets on; and Perloff does not “identify zaum poetry with Concrete Poetry” (5). She writes that Khlebnikov’s “call for the “living conversational word” in its “spiritual” dimension...looks ahead to such diverse poetic developments as the Concrete Poetry of Brazil” (129)—but “to look ahead to” is surely not “to identify with.”
There is a telling elision in Ashton’s discussion of Perloff’s 21st-Century Modernism. She twice quotes the last line of Perloff’s book: “ours may well be the moment when the lessons of early modernism are finally being learned” (200). The first time, Ashton reproduces the line accurately (7), but the second time, she leaves out the crucial adjective “early” (10). Is there no difference in Ashton’s thinking, then, between “early” modernism and “modernism”? Perloff ‘s “literalism,” which has to do with an antisymbolist impulse in early modernist poetry, is not, finally, Michael Fried’s “literalism” of half a century later, with its “obdurate materiality of the object” affording “infinitely expansive” possibilities, “as many and varied as the beholders who might approach it” (6). Perloff would never accede to such a position when it comes to reading poetry; Watten, for a different reason, is even more adamant: “There is no parallel between the art object and the poem, and the discourses that can be based on these two kinds of art are going to be of necessity very different. Poems are temporal; they have no object status” (216).
After all, what would Wimsatt and Beardsley make of a poem by Bruce Andrews? If Bernstein is Richards’s avatar, why are their respective poetries so different? Ashton misses the nuances that make of “the language movement” the complicated nonmovement that it always has been; she ignores the obvious differences between New Criticism and language poetics; and she fails to take into account the many other philosophical and critical schools that feed into late-century experimental American writing. While impressive in the exactness with which she’s wrong, her generalizations miss the details that make all the difference. By ignoring such details, Ashton constructs an altogether improbable history of American poetry and theory in the twentieth century.
Andrews, Bruce, and Charles Bernstein, eds. The L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E Book. Carbondale and Edwardsville: Southern Illinois University Press, 1984.
Bernstein, Charles. Content’s Dream: Essays 1975-1984. Los Angeles: Sun & Moon Press, 1986.
Hejinian, Lyn. The Language of Inquiry. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000.
Perloff, Marjorie. 21st-Century Modernism: The “New” Poetics. Malden: Blackwell, 2002.
——. Wittgenstein's Ladder: Poetic Language and the Strangeness of the Ordinary. Chicago : University of Chicago Press, 1996.
Richards, I. A. Poetries and Sciences: A Reissue of Science and Poetry (1926, 1935) with Commentary. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1970.
Watten, Barrett. The Constructivist Moment: From Material Text to Cultural Poetics. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan UP, 2003.
––. Total Syntax. Carbondale and Edwardsville: Southern Illinois University Press, 1985. “Russian Formalism and the Present” was first published in 1980 in Hills 6-7 (50-73).
Mary Burger, A Partial Handbook for Navigators (Interbirth Books, 2008), 47 pp.—Per the writings of Sigmund Freud and Maurice Blanchot, human desire and human death haunt the five prose and poetry meditations that comprise this chapbook. Burger’s various riffs on the “rift” (starting with a detail from Amy Trachtenberg’s painting, Rift Zone), which opens up the part, the partisan (the section titled “A Series of Water Disasters” is an homage, in part, to guerilla activism) and partiality in general, shuttle back and forth between the narrator’s desire to convert the static noun (signaled here by the Golden Gate Bridge) into a verb. Burger mimics the noun, the name, by permitting almost all of her body, up to her neck, to be buried near Golden Gate Park, but this grave with a view — she observes passing “joggers, dog walkers, early strollers” — cannot replicate death (“It was nothing like being dead”) despite her desire for connection to earth, the noun and name, to, in brief, death: “I went looking for some recognition, on the earth’s part, or my part, that we were together.” The “we" here is not only a gesture toward immanent, if not numinous, values of the dirt but also a vain attempt to be with her mother whose death is recorded in part four of “Water Disasters.” At the same time, the narrator’s burial up to her neck is not insignificant; the most startling section of the chapbook is “The Throat Smiles” which records the murder of a woman: her throat slashed, she is apparently dragged, or hurled, down a flight of stairs. I cannot reproduce the spacing of this particular poem here but its disjunctive, form, halting rhetoric and incomplete reportage offers another take on the rift, the divide. At the same time Burger recognizes the necessity, heretofore, of partiality. Neither a sentimentalist nor a rationalist, she turns from her mother ‘s “belief” in both religion and science: “Standing there in the sunny white passageway filling with seawater, with water that would not be still until the surface was level with the sea, I realized my mother’s faith would drown me.” It goes without saying that the strategy that Burger undertakes here, that of the bricoleur, can neither reject nor accept the modes of knowledge derived from our intuitive or rational inclinations. “How not to be silenced by all that one hears. // And when what is found requires further reading.” A Partial Handbook for Navigators is itself further—and farther—reading.
Phil Metres, Abu Ghraib Arias (FGP, 2011), unpaginated—On alternating verso (American soldiers) and recto (Iraqi prisoners of war) pages of this chapbook, Metres ventriloquizes the voices (though some of this work is drawn from published texts) of the culprits and victims of our most recent military adventures. Interspersed with the “confessions” and “blues” of the American soldiers (including Lyndie England) are several “Standard Operating Procedures” texts regarding the “handling” of Muslim bodies, the Koran and military documents. Like some of the soldiers’ testimonies, parts of these texts are blacked out, replicating the redaction of classified documents. The recto testimonies of the Iraqis are perhaps the most compelling texts here. Titled “(echo/ex),” each text is smaller in size than its predecessor (the first is a full-page, margin to margin, “oath,” a swearing in to testify to the “truth”). By the time we reach the last “(echo/ex)” words have vanished altogether; only quotation marks, brackets, periods, commas, etc. remain. In brief, Metres’ project is a microcosmic version and amalgamation in the mode of M. NourbeSe Philip’s Zong and Rob Halpern’s recent, largely unpublished, working through of declassified Guantanamo documents. Of course, the particular documentary impulse—straightforward testimonials—driving this chapbook can be traced back to some of Mark Nowak’s work (I’m especially fond of Coal Mine Elementary) and, even farther back, to Charles Reznikoff’s Testimony and Muriel Rukeyser’s The Book of the Dead. Yet, like all documentary poetics haunted by the Duncan-Levertov dispute regarding “how” to evoke the essential elements of the Vietnam conflict, Abu Ghraib Arias cannot escape the shadow of its ancestry. To the extent Metres sides with Levertov, the last pages of the chapbook notwithstanding, Abu Ghraib Arias is an important contribution to the debate and a minor adjunct (it is a chapbook, not a tome) to the legacy traced by its epical predecessors.