Ban en Banlieue by Bhanu Kapil and The Devastation by Melissa Buzzeo were published by the same press, Nightboat Books, on the same day in 2015. How do these two works speak to one another?
Taken together both pieces gleefully frazzle and implode a number of genres: novel, poem, historical fiction, autobiography, performance text, theory. The works situate readers in psychogeographical outskirts, landscapes that wish to enact a language turned away from violent erasures and silencings. Who does literature serve? Or, more pointedly, how does literature fail the body, its traumas, and its healings? Can this failure be transformed into sites of potency and critique?
Kapil set out to write a historical novel, one whose context would be a race riot that occurred in an immigrant suburb of London during the seventies. This novel would center on Ban, a young brown girl walking home in the beginnings of a protest. When she hears glass breaking (a sound of violence) she responds by lying down. And then? The novel does not continue as one would expect, for Ban refuses to be legibly written:
Ban was gone. She continued on without me […] Ban looped — an orbital of dog shit, soot, bitumen, and diesel oil — around the city […] The more time passed, the less and less was Ban. Something that could be written down.
In the space of historical fiction what would happen to this brown girl? What would the novel ask of her, of her body, of her representation?
Ban demands “a literature not made of literature,” while Buzzeo admits the need “to resist the cataloging which saves nothing which petrifies everything.” If you read a novel not made of literature, what does it become? Suspect, fugitive, waste? Merriam-Webster lists two definitions for petrification. The first is to frighten someone so thoroughly they are unable to move or think. The second is the change of organic matter into stony concretion, whereby its original substance is replaced by mineral deposits. I find both of these meanings useful when meditating on the limits of literature. It is tempting and disturbing to see this process in writing. Is this the result of literature, to frighten (language, ideas, subjectivities) into stony concretion, so that what previously was (is) becomes overdetermined by forms that can drown and maim the original contents and motivations?
Kapil’s work brings to mind Saidiya Hartman’s essay “Venus in Two Acts.” Hartman delves into the wreck of the archive in order to find experiences of the Middle Passage from black women slaves. What she finds instead are stories “not about them but rather about the violence, excess, mendacity, and reason” that “transformed them into commodities and corpses.” Hartman warns of repeating the violence in the attempt to “place” or represent what has been lost and/or silenced. Rather than continuing the story to its (assumed) predicted conclusion (death), Kapil does not finish the sentence. Ban refuses to be trapped in a grammar of violence. She’d rather lie down. In the space of a novel that cannot be written, Kapil presents us with notes, errors, performance gestures, Theresa Hak Kyung Cha’s licking dead tongue, blog entries, earthen silhouette offerings, a butcher block, remembrances for bodies left to die. How to memorialize a young Indian girl who, when walking home from the cinema, was caught by several men, raped, and abandoned in the street?
I thought about those 40 minutes and compared them to the fictive — 12 hours — that Ban lay on the ground. What was in the work — as an image — had appeared beyond it — as a scene. I thought about the crowd that gathered to watch as — [Jyoti Singh Pandey] — the Fearless One — as they called her, afterwards — began to die; a black rope and other materials extended from her body towards them — according to witness accounts. Does the body of the witness discharge something too? At that moment I stopped writing Ban.
[...] And there I lay down on the ground.
[...] And this was the part of the project that could not be completed in the same place that the project was held. (25)
The epithet ‘the Fearless One’ masks more than it reveals. The phrase cannot capture the black rope, the extending materials, the psychic rupture. The epithet triggers memories of her dying, of the violence done to her. The body of the girl is swallowed by the event. What traumas are left unsaid? Ban collects what in a traditional novel would be disposable, diminished, hidden. Some sections are never shown: Kapil relates her decision to delete a series of stories exploring Ban’s childhood. The force of the book is not what is told or witnessed or recorded. The writing strives to be a presence, one that seeks to conjure what lives on despite a foreclosure. Ban shifts from a fictive girl to a composite of historical invocation and “intense autobiography” — she cannot adhere to the forms of character. By lying down, she signals a syntax of resistance, one that treats the sentence as an extension of what bodies leave behind. Kapil’s prose discharges, suspends, absorbs, breaks, regenerates, exhausts. The page is not an end to a means but a participant; it resembles the ground(s) where Ban lies and where Kapil traces her body outline rituals. Her exercises seek to discover how to remember a site of trauma without replicating the original violence.
In her preface subtitled “For a Work Undone,” Buzzeo reveals that her book began with an intention to write as a way to heal from loss. Instead she found her text swallowed up by pain:
As devastation often does, it became all loss and as such what to do with a language smaller and smaller, a meaning more and more totalitarian? What to do with a book enacting itself? (7)
Buzzeo rewrites her text in order to unwrite the overwhelming loss. Language cannot hold her original intention — it instead overdetermines the importance of loss as an event. How to exist despite, in spite, ahead of language? Buzzeo refuses the smallness, opting instead to write a text where the gestural replaces the linguistic. The Devastation explores life following an incident only named. The reader is presented with this recurring image: two lovers at the bottom of the ocean floor, the decaying remains of a disaster that emptied the waters, drained all pronouns, left only the language of reaching and pulling. In another work the devastation — the loss — would subsume the remains, mistaking silence for nothing. Here, the text is what’s left behind; that which no longer exists (as you would think) returns to communicate its forms. Buzzeo uses an abbreviated syntax that takes on the properties of water — it releases, floods without warning, trembles with moments of stagnancy, reflects a pulsing rhythm. The book’s movements enact an accumulation of what cannot be uttered aloud, of what stays silent but potent.
You start with a page: one that has been torn out of your mouth
You fold it in half: you stay.
Beside what drained
Beside what parted
Beside what had yet to be (21)
The text performs poetry as a sea wreck, as the erotic touch of the form(less), as a language unsaying itself. It does so to describe the ways in which language can constrict us into narrowing paths and spaces. What if that which connects us is washed away, evaporated, forgotten? Or, what if it is not forgotten but petrified until its meanings and/or possibilities become overwritten, expendable, removed from context?
How does one say of the Devastation
When it no longer is
That I made the bed with the book
That I had to unmake the bed to remove the book
To remake the self (51)
To say the devastation is to privilege its meanings over the remains, the wastes, the illegible. The bed, the floor, the basin can be variously understood as the page, the aftermaths, a charnel ground, a charged land, poetry in ruins. As in Ban, The Devastation occurs in the outskirts, in a space where nothing exists except the absence of. The image of a sea creature reaching beyond the limits of self signals a desire to reach beyond our totalitarian notions and representations of self and experience.
How to counter the fallibility of the novel, that which peddles a single story, a violence, a petrification? If you begin a book about healing but it ends up being all loss, where did the original intention go? Where did healing lie? And if healing lies down, does that mean healing is resisting what loss brings forth?
The sea creature and Ban are kindred spirits. In refusing the structures of the novel, the works enact the ways in which literature can erase certain subjectivities. Both spend most of their time lying down in the attempt to discern what lives on despite being silenced or “abbreviated.” In “End-Notes,” Kapil notes how their works are in relation:
Melissa brought forth the discourse of waste material, abandonment, the “person left for dead” who — perversely — does not die. How to make (from this) (from these things): a form. A charnel: ground. (88)
In her preface, Buzzeo also mentions writing from “the charnel ground.” The term refers to an area where the formally living are left to decompose. In a similar way for both books, writing itself becomes a friction that yearns to break down the forms of the novel. Literature cannot hold their intentions; Buzzeo must unsay her text while Kapil’s materials urge her to set them on fire. The page does not behave as it should; it morphs to a site of trauma, recuperation, activation, and failure. The sea creature and Ban, two forms who should not count, thwart our efforts to “read” them. They refuse to be trapped in our meanings. What we are left with are volatile sentences, remnants seeking to:
Emit light. Perceptible to ones who also. Lie down on the ground. Lie down on the ground like that. (62)
Stacy Szymaszek’s 'Hart Island'
In Hart Island, there are whispers of people who lie just below perception, muttering multivocal protests of how, based on their status in life, they are placed away and forgotten, invisible shoulders upon which the city (or the poetry world) rests. Not an anxiety of influence, but a murmuring of both injustice and desire to connect, for recognition — for people to either stand at the grave and acknowledge or appreciate, no matter who a person might be or might have been. Toward that, Hart Island is part memory, but it is also active record of life taking place on the page, a liquid unfurling of how language apprehends the incomprehensible about it, as quickly as it takes shape and then dissolves again.
Just as Frank O’Hara’s words on a plaque placed to the side of the entrance to the Parish Hall of St. Mark’s Church shape the experience of poets about to enter for a reading, I hear his echo, particularly of his great poem “Second Avenue,” in Hart Island. There’s a similarly mercury-liquid pace of poets moving through urban space abstracted through language, a similar exploration of how concrete existence shared with so many million others changes through time and in that change is all the shifting states of consciousness of both here and not-here. Change is supposedly the opposite of death, but are those buried in Hart Island actually in that presumably static state when relatives and friends are not allowed to visit and meditate upon that still connection, when those buried are not publicly named and therefore definitely declared dead? Instead, it’s limbo: a suspended state of anticipated transformation. Szymaszek explains in a preface that Hart Island is the location of the largest tax-funded cemetery in the world and one to which public access is severely limited. So those disconnected from their dead are not able to move on, but yet they do — the paradox of never-ending mourning, or the myth of “closure.” And in the place of family and friends, those who tend to the plots are inmates of Riker’s Island, another island of injustice and erasure.
The yard of St. Mark’s Church is also a cemetery, and the poets who work and read there walk over a system of vaulted spaces and read next to wall spaces filled with dead people. Some poets’ ashes have also been sprinkled surreptitiously and illegally in the back garden (and that’s all the detail I’m going to give). While to imagine so is what’s called a “pathetic fallacy,” or giving life in verse to natural or inanimate objects, the walls yet seem responsive to the hundreds of readings given at the Poetry Project. Is it so pathetic to imagine that a certain kind of ongoing vibrational energy has been set up within the molecules that make up that plaster, paint, and brick?
this veneer of civilization is
“[I have other skills?]” only recently
de rigueur for poets best not say
“[There are other workers]” you
work here sore groin stand-in
for black eye triggered
impulse for some cake you’re a big
lesbian wipe off your knees save cry
into wilderness for after dinner (44–45)
The heart of Hart Island and Hart Island might be about what it is to treat people, and bodies, decently, whether alive, dead, or an employee of the Poetry Project. How does identity extend from poet to citizen to denizen to worker to corpse? Szymaszek’s language is buoyant, expressive, perplexing, transforming, and at times almost desperate — again, like O’Hara — in how she trusts poetry to keep her alive and speaking through situation after situation. “Your distinction is merely a quill at the bottom of the sea,” writes O’Hara in “Second Avenue.”
But unlike O’Hara, the body and its travails intrude at odd, anguished moments and very unlike O’Hara, Szymaszek’s form is shorter, closer to speech, fragmented, quicker to turn, less enchanted with sound and sound for sound’s sake, or the sonic beauty of frilled lines.
elaborate sty in my eye
bisection of okra garden
is euphemism for flea
market necropolis so
if I lose you in the street
if I lose you in the street (33)
Her form is a different kind of necessary, more squeezed, more urgent, less conveying of influences (Rimbaud, for one) and more conveying of voices muted by gender, class, and race — perhaps M. NourbeSe Philip is another influence in listening for and providing voice to the dead, or Alice Notley, attempting to provide a conduit for those beings/nonbeings.
The layering of experiences within language is intense, and the entrances and exits to and from busy street to cemetery/yard to office to artistic space to all the other incessant and disconnected places of today like malls, stores, institutions, are as abrupt and as rich as in “real life.” Maybe Ed Roberson’s City Eclogue and how it layers all the human connections and histories of civil rights vital to a city is also a reference for Hart Island:
“involve body in muscle
memory” hit mailbox and
pharmacy veer away from
HRC kids who see easy fix
for marriage money no
grail collects the blood
via undressed living
space flush dirt from poor
tile job poorly tiled face
enter the yard where
everybody knows the sexton
is the saint (28)
But I don’t mean to imply that Hart Island is all influence. Quite the opposite: such a poem putting together this sort of language from this sort of perspective (even perspectives) is rare (but desperately needs to be less so) — the poet is a flâneuse, but one who is not a figure of leisure, nor a male who enjoys relative safety and privilege when moving through the city or institutional spaces to acquire them somewhat. And this acquisition often becomes monoperspectival — the flaneur edges toward the tiringly ubiquitous singularity of the hero. Instead, this working flâneuse observes from her stance below-radar and belowground the essential details of how space-institution-art-poetry world-cemeteries are built and made and maintained. And what’s more, shapes these tough and jagged facts and observations into poetry.
… I don’t know
why do you come here?
one night the gates were left
open and the people who were
sleeping continued to sleep (69)
Ultimately, while these final lines of Hart Island question that true change can really occur, I still find in the very difficulty and risk of writing such a piece, as she questions the order in how the poetry world is constructed and its previously unspoken hierarchies — questioning that rarely ends well for the questioner — a desire that change will occur, that the workers will be acknowledged and respected, that the dead will be named and visited, reestablishing the essential connections that keep the entire city (of poetry) afloat.
On Rae Armantrout's 'Just Saying'
Rae Armantrout’s 2013 book Just Saying, a phrase that calls into question the veracity of what we say, think, and feel to be the case, or a phrase used to offload the force of an insult, suggests a motif of our inability or refusal to render our systems of thinking and believing in convincing terms. To be sure, the poems are varied in their address, circling around domestic concerns, mortality, social codes, product placement, forms of transactions, and systems of belief. One of the moves that Armantrout makes so well is to channel the many-tongued voicings of the clichéd-chorus. In the cacophonous, hyper-mediated Internet age, in the postrecession capitalism of America, in the images reflected back to us from the culture industry, Armantrout’s poems take on the bricolage of heterogeneous language acts and recast them to render new systems of meaning. It is in this recasting that poetry can be thought of as an instrument to not only document our present conditions on the ground, but to refigure those conditions, to see them anew.
Armantrout’s poems are characteristically short, and usually advance through precise, almost Dickinsonian lines, where prolixity is skillfully trimmed down to reveal taut and muscular lines and stanzas: minimal words, maximum weight. But unlike Dickinson, Armantrout works in sections, either numbered or broken by an asterisk. The effect, while multiple, is often to destabilize the poem and allow it to disrupt expectations of a coherent, discrete speaking subject. The instability always feels generative, constantly allowing for surprising correspondences.
To cast another metaphor, Armantrout’s poems perform like miniature dragnets, dredging the sediment of our personal and collective social constructs out into the open, where they are assembled and made to speak in disjunctive tongues. In this way, Armantrout's many-voiced approach reveals a rigorous poetic practice of allowing voices, images, ideas, to play out in constant tension and counterpoint.
This productive tension is delivered through the use of sections or breaks, allowing for a word, idea, subject, sense, feeling to be explored through shifting angles of report and inquiry. This move, through repetition, almost develops an argument, as if to say: we are going to see what will happen by taking a look at this phenomenon, by changing the terrain and language practices around which it is understood. This gesture highlights, in a way, how knowledge or ways of knowing is partial. It is one side of the story, but within the stories, language emerges as a form of power, as a mechanism for framing. As Armantrout understands, language comes before us; we are at the mercy of what’s available. In the penultimate poem of the book, “Hymn,” we read:
To put one over
One is everywhere
into branching again
“Glory be to him,”
that can’t quite dissolve
Collapse on cue.
Praise Sisyphus. (100)
The opening of the poem imagines, abstractly and in a slightly mocking tone, the act or the proposition of being deceived. We might surmise this opening comment suggests the hymn as a song of devotion and praise to a God. A hymn is both thing and action, generally sung in unison by a congregation of fellow believers. In a way, the first section of Armantrout’s “Hymn” presents a thesis on the hymn as a thing, something passed down through generations, as mass deception masked in the third-person singular of one. The following sections echo, extend, and refocus this thesis, recasting the action or thing in new terms. We move from the general to the concrete, as if the poem were making an argument. And within this movement, the poem asks the reader to consider the singular as a more extensive, all-pervading phenomenon which I read as a kind of critique of almost unconscious repetition on both an individual and collective level, as in the last line of the poem: “Praise Sisyphus.” In a sense, the poem sees in repetitive performance a form of control: this act, whether the singing of a hymn or some other collective act, represents a larger activity of following consensus, as in the line “Collapse on cue.” But it’s the form of the poem that enables the reader to participate in the process of making meaning. The jump-cut effect of the section breaks asks the reader to stop and consider the parts in relation to the whole.
Armantrout’s sections, whether numbered or indicated by an asterisk, produce what I call a trampoline effect. That is, instead of my eyes descending down the page, breaks in the continuity of the poems send me back, as if the stanzas were playing tricks on my eyes. There’s a way to quickly read Armantrout’s poems, but something gets lost without constant attention. Her moves are slithery, oblique at times, and at other moments, the phrasing comes at a deceptively simple angle that delights, producing a dance for the intellect.
In the poem “Subdivision,” the first section reads: “In a horror movie / the dead eat the living; / while in reality / the living eat the dead” (31). This kind of role reversal, namely, horror film as a genre, follows a narrative formula, while in “reality,” this formula is reversed. The pairing, while simplistic, carries a depth of suggestion. The language is almost deadpan and reportorial, and on a basic level, the pairing of horror films with reality suggests a subdivision of pleasure and human behavior, or perhaps more subtly, human behavior as pleasure. We accept both as “natural” in their environments: what’s more, our pleasure in eating the dead takes on an eerie, blissful lack of awareness of the impact of such choices. Sure, we consume the dead as a matter of sustenance, but we often neglect to consider how the dead are bound to larger ecological systems. To see animals as merely dead for our own gastronomic pleasure highlights how we subdivide reality into parts. And we do this without much logical defense other than “it’s my right to eat whatever I want.” The last two sections of “Subdivision” read:
To matter (verb)
is to be
matter is that
You’ve been living
in a false
one composed of
This poem is characteristic for how it moves from the opening report on horror movies and reality to a play on the word “matter” — as something or someone that carries weight or significance — to how matter is the very material that constructs the world. The third section further extends the notion of subdivision by having the reader focus on a “you” being addressed. This “you” seems to have mistakenly been living without influence, but the poem suggests that we think of the preposition “of” as necessarily highlighting our adherence to parts of the world, whether they are persons, objects, or ideas. The poem ends with a comment on the assertion that “one composed of / ‘of,’” is “extensively subdivided.” We are told, in an open way given the lack of punctuation, that being subdivided is a quality that balances us, or at least gives us the appearance of balance. Any precise Armantrout poem allows us time and space to see words and ideas deconstructed so that the familiar can be reseen.
In 2001, Wesleyan University Press inaugurated its commitment as the home of Rae Armantrout’s twenty-first-century work Veil: New and Selected Poems, the first helping of Armantrout under the wonderful editorship of Wesleyan over the years. (They’ve also brought us the engaging work of Peter Gizzi, Elizabeth Willis, Kamau Brathwaite, Ed Roberson, Jack Spicer, and Brenda Coultas, among many notable others.) Veil marked, in a way, a poetic proliferation that has been followed by Up to Speed (2004), Next Life (2007), Versed (2009), Moneyshot (2011), and 2013’s Just Saying. (Itself was published in early 2015.)
It feels almost necessary (like a fresh breath of air) to have before me a new Rae Armantrout book every couple of years. Her work feels vital. It shows the workings of a mind willing to grapple with and recalibrate the bewildering experience of living in our young twenty-first century. I know this is a large claim, but it’s the breadth, seriousness, and intensity of her work that holds a reader. As a reader, I’m put in acute proximity with a mind that tells us in Just Saying: “I don’t like / the option / of zero wiggle room” (90). To the open eye and ear, the poems offer an intelligent cadence. Her poems are precisely sounded on the page, as in the poem “New Intelligence”: “Stars / are the campfires / of exiles. // Language exists / to pull things / close” (91). Here, we’re invited to imagine language as an instrument to put the world more under our nose. These stanzas bridge the distant and near. By bringing the earthly to bear on the ever more knowable sky above us, Armantrout also seems to suggest that the distant is often in a state of banishment; the distant object is distant precisely because it was coerced or persuaded. But language, and hence the poem, is a vehicle that enables new connections, and perhaps more to the point, reflexive action.
Armantrout’s poems are intimately aware that language is inherited, used, displaced, internalized, monitored, misappropriated, bound to the commonplace, and rendered a mass of dividing cells from which we fashion our experiences or define the experiences of others. Her poems are lyrics strained through a cheesecloth saturated with institutional and other kinds of jargon. Her poem, “Elements Of Blank,” reads in full:
You’re not selling the product
You’re selling commitment.
Somehow we know that the cover girl has just lifted her
head, looked into the lens by accident. Her light eyes
are those of a lion raising its head from a carcass. (Her
tousled blond hair reinforces this effect.) A moment ago,
it seems, she was absorbed in something all-consuming,
draining. Clearly, her gaze only appears to take us in.
Get them to opt out
of what’s available
apart from the experience
of our product.
To take flight is to make a decision which can’t be rescinded.
That in itself is enough to inspire fear. But it isn’t wise to show
weakness. Now our fate is bound by momentum to that of the
people around us, people we did not choose, would not have
chosen. We await the beverage tray. When it comes, we will
once again have a number of options. (49)
This poem, in a way, is representative of the shifting voices in Armantrout’s work. I hear a professor in an Introduction to Advertising course lay the groundwork for the inner workings of the formula for product placement. Another voice, perhaps a professor in a cultural studies department, unpacks the phenomenon of appearances in contemporary advertising photography. Elsewhere, I hear an advertising executive address her fleet of foot soldiers, getting them on board with the idea that an image of experience is finally what sells products. In this move, I hear the echo of a product not as object but as commitment. Suddenly, rhetoric merges. And finally, in the last section, I hear, say, a panel of life coaches discussing air travel as a hackneyed metaphor for stepping inside a situation outside one’s control. Within this experience, which it would be wise to bear, suddenly appear choices to counter the inalterable. “Make the best of the situation” emerges as an available cliché.
This confluence of voices, woven together and then dispersed, becomes a working laboratory for exploring experience as mediated by rhetoric and ways of doing business. At their best, Armantrout’s poems present identity in a similar way that we choose products in the market. From her title poem, “Just Saying”: “What I write / I write instead / of ivy” (11). What we’re left with is one choice instead of, or in place of, another. Within these choices, we’re hardly cognizant of how our opinions and actions make fluid, logical sense, much less offering a passionate defense of them.
A review of 'Supplication: Selected Poems of John Wieners'
Shortly after the sad news of her death, I went to a screening of Chantal Akerman’s last film, No Home Movie. The woman who introduced the film assured us — twice — that Akerman’s work is “unsentimental.” I considered the value of her insisting on this as on screen Akerman’s camera sat fixed upon her aged mother reminiscing, doing chores, and towards the end trying to eat a meal — with the help of a condescending nurse — in the grip of an unsettlingly deep and chronic cough. At night, Akerman picks up the camera and seems to careen through her dying mother’s dark apartment, audibly sobbing in the space we share with her behind the frame. The moment is raw, certainly, and that adjective starts to reach for its habitual partner: unsentimental, which is the name we give to that which does not seek to falsify or exaggerate feeling. And yet feeling is often an unequal proposition, and its supposed exaggeration may be experienced by one party and not by the other who finds in it, instead, a readymade accusation or parting shot. The person who calls a feeling “exaggerated” may be precisely that person who doesn’t want to be overwhelmed by our deep feeling. Often this person would like to know just what is up with you and your mother, anyway (but try to understand Akerman being subsumed with grief for her own). Often you are standing outside this person’s house, calling their phone, or just at home with the knowledge that, as John Wieners writes in “A poem for movie goers,” “My lover’s thoughts are not / of me at all.”
Wieners is not a sentimental poet, but the poet of sentiment and its exiles. Again and again in his poems, the speaker imagines loves lost, loves elsewhere. His “Sickness” begins haunted: “I know now heard speak in the night / voices of dead loves past, // whispered instructions over electric air / confined or chained” (63). The poet treads carefully:
Do not tamper with the message there.
Do not let silent, secret reaches of the heart
invade you here
kept at bay long enough but he is
gone who would protect you from them.
Radical vulnerability. He follows it, several lines later, with spooky calm:
Cool wind blows in an open window,
I am happy being alone.
It seems time going down an eternal staircase
wound up at ease with me.
Wind and winding and winding up, in these lines, all talk about recurrence. Nothing stays dead, certainly not in the world of feeling. Longing and renunciation aren’t states we can occupy once and for all; they vie:
I want only the mystery of your arms around me.
Dont worry about eating my food.
Single strand of light falling on his bare shoulder
In the closet.
Won’t you come and see me again,
The dragon lies on its side. (64)
Is the dragon the lover, promising to be docile if he receives this much-desired visit? Or is it the guardian of the world’s treasure, that will only permit our desires to be fulfilled when it takes the occasional nap (even the force of prohibition dozes sometimes)? It’s not clear — as it isn’t clear whether “his bare shoulder” belongs to the “you” who is being asked to come over. The poem is layered with memories and fantasies, selves and others in this and different times. They might or might not coincide, but the poet, here, is resigned and open. “Dont worry about eating my food” — there couldn’t be a sweeter permission. Sentimental moods keep the phone company in business.
Wieners is also wicked: “I fingered his wedding ring / as I blew him” (72). And an imp. In a piece from 1988, Wieners’s friend and executor Raymond Foye tells the story of eating dinner with Wieners and Simon Pettet:
Simon and I opened our fortune cookies: “Gather all information that could be remotely apropos,” mine said. “You will soon be honored for contributing your time and skill to a worthy cause,” read Simon. “What does yours say, John?” we asked eagerly. “I ate it,” he replied.
Easy prophecy is easily swallowed. He’s deadpan. In “The Lanterns Along the Wall” (a statement of poetics Wieners wrote for a class of his friend Robert Creeley’s), Wieners speaks of the magic with which poetry can fill emptiness and solitude with beauty and “tranquillity.” Of that magic, he writes, “There are no other forms as far as ultimately I am concerned. No drunkenness can equal purity. Or, other forms, simple address to the prime force of love. Love, not in the sense of kindness or patience, but sometimes trespassed sensual energy” (183–4). Not in the sense of kindness or patience, no! An economy including “sometimes trespassed sensual energy” is characteristic of this poet who adjusts and conjures, stands in shadows, gets sick in his room, “running the most beautiful blue water / in the sink / vomiting strawberry and green” (40).
Sure, Boston sucks, and we all hate it. But I love to think of this moment, when it’s enough of a small town that Wieners can happen to see his mother “talking to strange men on the subway” (59):
doesn’t see me when she gets on
at Washington Street
but I hide in a booth at the side
and watch her worried, strained face —
the few years she has got left.
Until at South Station
I lean over and say:
I’ve been watching you since you got on.
She says in an artificial
voice: Oh, for Heaven’s sake!
as if heaven cared.
I can hear her saying it, with that touch of the “artificial” that draws forth boys/sons to wonder forever if, when their mothers play at being scandalized, they conceal — and perhaps wish to be seen concealing — a knowingness about desire that will also never, ever be explicitly acknowledged. Hence the delight in catching her unawares, and creating for an instant a scene in which the pair stand outside the roles of mother and son. It can’t last: the remainder of the poem “My Mother” reads:
But I love her in the underground
and her gray coat and hair
sitting there, one man over from me
talking together between the wire grates of a cage.
“One man over” isn’t much of a displacement — but enough, in this case, to see clearly the cage through whose grate communication (the most intimate? the least?) is fated to pass.
It’s fun to sit on the subway in New York and read this new Wieners collection with its one-word title, black on cream: Supplication. Wave Books’s austere design suits poems that have been sacred to me since I was handed them as talismans, years ago, by poet friends. How much recognition do we want someone whose true home is “underground” to get? Underground because he chose Boston, lyricism, and a courtly remove. And more, because he chooses perdition: “Damned and cursed before the world / That is what I want to be.” Poet and critic Andrea Brady, in her work on the poet’s archive, quotes Foye: “Nobody had ever seen anyone throw themselves into the abyss the way John did.” Why does a person throw himself into the abyss? Why does a person take heroin? And then write of it, “But I don’t advise it for the young, or for / anyone but me. My eyes are blue” (75). Two lines that manage to be all at once knowing, greedy, arrogant, assertive of a special power and also, to my ear, aware of the hollowness of that assertion (it’s arbitrary and comes too readily to hand). Drugs are for escape, they’re for posturing, they’re for denaturing the visible. But in the case of this poet of loneliness, they are also a way to “collapse in a heap on the bed of the world” (75). Denied our lives, we seek oblivion, and hope that beyond or through it we might be permitted to alter the order that foreclosed our true existence from the outset. Collapsing, dissolving: we have been taught to act, but Wieners knows it’s better, instead, to beg — to be convincing, under extreme pressure, by manifesting preferable alternatives with the allure of a mirage. He chooses supplication.
The editors of this volume — Joshua Beckman, CAConrad, and Robert Dewhurst — provide much interesting new material while also preserving the best from Foye’s earlier selection. Dewhurst is working on a biography and a complete poems. There is more scholarship underway, and more of Wieners’s journals — full of poems themselves — and letters coming out, particularly through the efforts of the CUNY Lost and Found series. It all seems of a piece, a lifelong project at the scale of a life. Wieners intersected with many poets, but the sense of him, biographically and in these idiosyncratically compact lyric poems ripe with indeterminacy, is solitary and original. His sexuality (vibrant but also vexed by the mores of the times), his clarity somehow heightened by a real experience of mental dissolution, and his tenderness remind me of James Schuyler. His independence and his mysticism recall David Rattray. And with another outsider, Rene Ricard (who called Wieners his mother), he shares naughtiness and woundedness and — at least in poetry — fearlessness. “Now I stay away from the bad / neighborhoods where I lived. / The bad blocks of the heart,” writes Ricard. And Wieners: “For me now the new: / the unturned tricks / of the trade. The place / of the heart where man / is afraid to go” (15). Our freaky, funny underground mother, may we often cross his path.
3. Raymond Foye, “John Wieners: A Day in the Life.”
Dreams of relation in Amish Trivedi’s ‘Sound/Chest’
Sound/Chest begins with a find and a flood. In the basement of the University of Iowa library in 2008, Amish Trivedi discovered an old card catalog and was arrested by its remnant labels. Severed from the content they once organized, the paired words and numbers of the catalog have become the titles of poems that attempt to reanimate lost relationships of sense. The speaker of Sound/Chest feelstheir way around a disaster whose personal blur sometimes sharpens in a collective phrase, and then simple terms rise, like the storm water that filled the library basement later that summer, with displacing force.
Poem to poem, links between title and text emerge with ordinary logic. “Divorce/Manage 1712,” for instance, opens with a “sinking [that] needs / an exit sign” and closes on the kitchen floor with “the / imprint of your textured / vinyl on my skull.” But the world the book denotes is surreal. In declarative grammar that highlights disjunctive sense, Trivedi cuts across the informative logic of the “custom filmstrip collection” to which a librarian guesses the labels may once have belonged. The filmstrip, Trivedi reminds us, “is that archaic bit of grade school technology that required the teacher to assign a student to turn a knob when the supplemental audio urged her to do so” (76). In the book version of this made-for-school-movie, however,
The scattered frames
remind you that I put
in my head
so you could
turn forward at
the beeps. (32)
Thus stylized, the speaker takes obvious steps forward only to parry back: “I never / would have left and / become eggs” (52) they promise, or, “I was / going to be dead when I grew up” (58).
In this alternate reality, veins become antifreeze, and tongues and furniture form part of a graveyard landscape whose bone-solidity both floats in and weighs down the book’s buoyancy. “I am / the denial I wish to be in / the world,” the speaker tells us (74). The best indicator of the denial Sound/Chest wishes for is in the punctuation that extends its funhouse mirror logic. The colon peppers these pages, appearing in three-quarters of the poems. In a book written, as Trivedi says in his afterword, to “manufacture” the relationships that once held together “such a diverse set of ideas” (76), the colon makes a fascinating mark. Originally functioning as the middleweight member of what grammarians explained as a hierarchy of pause — semicolon one beat, colon two, and period three — the colon’s usage has narrowed over the centuries. By 1926, Henry Fowler explained that it “ha[d] acquired a special function, that of delivering the goods that have been invoiced in the preceding words; it is a substitute for such verbal harbingers as viz., scil., that is to say, i.e.,etc.” The colon introduces lists or phrases that explain the preceding portion of a sentence, the independent clause on which those lists and phrases always remain dependent. Trivedi’s almost obsessive use of the colon enacts a fantasy of opening the catalog drawers and seeing exactly what was in the missing collection, what “goods” the relic labels “invoice.” He plays an inventive game with the floating terms, but the folding grammar betrays a desire to end the game, to determine the definitive relationship between each card and its lost item.
Sound/Chest dreams of connecting its bookended terms back to the structure of the wooden catalogue, now surplused. After the library flood, this fantasy is especially potent. But as the actual storm of 2008 seeps into poetic language — “The / headwaters are around me and / I kind of like it” (74) — the specific event is also diluted in a discourse of greater loss. The tension between the labeling colon and the book’s other omnipresent glyph — the slash — situates its anxiety in that other floating form of our information age, the cloud. In the context of the catalog, the slash takes the space of a range the collection will fill in — “Delivery [to] Commodity 1710” contained herein. Trivedi narrates almost-clear plotlines that link, in the case of this title, the “slow nitrates of Easter” (18) to the scene where a fatted consumer society splits into riot. But the slash that relates his titular terms also links each poem and the whole project of relation to the URL addresses of the Internet, to the promise that its pathways are immune to flood and fade and won’t let our collections be lost.
In the poem “Attention/Paranoia 1746,” the half-assertion, half-hope that “our regret / cannot find us when we hide in / the frame” (68) invites us into the archaic filmstrip technology and, deeper, into the contemporary data technology that media theorist Tung-Hui Hu says is governed by a “bunker mentality.” The cloud, Hu argues, “has made disaster recovery readily available, in part by making disaster constantly imaginable.” The reeling images whose water Trivedi promises “will / not drown me as I am of / this flood” (74) rehearse a dynamic that Hu shows is structured by paranoia and melancholy, as everything must be protected against a loss that already orders the reality it has not yet entered.
The lyric “I” of Sound/Chest is by turns paranoid and oppressive, cataloging their own condition while sniping at an interlocking “you”:
… I don’t imagine
my disease. Even
in profile your stare
is nothing new. (64)
But in moments when the language turns third-person plural, the poems can feel bright and large, discovering with something like delight either the absurdity of the bunker (“We / pretended not to see each other but / it turned out she was thousands of miles / away anyways” ) or that a threat can be met with defiance instead of melancholy (“Whatever they’re / wanting, we’re not / smelting” ). Even when they animate the violence of wreckage and riot, these plural projections deflect the introspective angles that elsewhere pawn individual scenes off as dreamy but dissatisfying publics, as when the poem “Cord/Fuel 1699” draws on its energy sources to transform a “dandy need girl / [into] — garden end idyl” (72).
Trivedi draws attention to the book’s surreal rise, spelling out his commitment to treat language with “levity, as it is always light with us” (76). But Sound/Chest is at its best when it shines through private globes of meaning with a different kind of lightness, illuminating the public grid that a disaster like a flood can reveal by submerging. Hu’s and Trivedi’s very different texts on the relationships that we build around data share a common concern with this grid. As the metaphors of the cloud privatize us into users with individual caches of information, Hu argues, “the lived knowledge essential for imagining and discussing public space has begun to atrophy” (147). A term Trivedi uses more than once in his poems, “atrophy” links the disuse of the catalog to a similar insight, inevitably punctuated:
… I am unable
to see these ascensions
in another way: our muscles
because we ignore them
but because we get used to them —
we’re alright with their
Starvation that seems like consumption, wasting that seems like using — these contradictions activate the slash’s other function, as the “or” that makes us choose one label instead of another. Rupturing denotative relations, Sound/Chest theorizes the almost unthinkable alternative to what Hu calls “a neoliberal fantasy about user participation that is so widespread and so ambient as to be universal” (145). As Trivedi puts it in “Ritual/Abstinence 1736” (a poem whose infrastructure of universe, highway, and drains uncannily sketches the cloud that Hu shows is grafted on the interstate and analogous to the sewers):
… The grates were
holding the streets together, I’m
pretty sure. I don’t follow (14)