The third Q.E.D. II event of 2013 featured one of Les Figues’s earliest authors, Jennifer Calkins, in conversation with Amanda Ackerman and Anne DeMarkin. Teresa Carmody, the press’s cofounder, moderated. This final panel focused on the challenge of demonstrating things “as they are.” Calkins’s curatorial statement emphasized the distance between perception and the world, and the way in which “our intersections with the past, with the plants, with the nonhuman animals, are not about anything but our own speech,” a concept which was troubled throughout the evening’s readings and conversations.
Calkins read from a short piece of seemingly dystopian fiction that acknowledged its own existence as problematic, commenting on people’s love of an apocalypse. Suggestions of “warmer seas” and animal losses coupled with a zombie narrative of contagion as manifestation of anxiety about infectious disease. Perhaps, the speaker muses, the “point of dystopias is to render everything obsolete.” In the end, though, it “wasn’t dystopia … now we are among the sad crowd of positive feedback.” Humanity has “surpassed its want.” The sickness of the planet and of people is paralleled by the speaker’s own love-sickness for a man of unknown relationship who has died in a sanitarium. No one is named. Photos of a burned-out landscape flashed behind Calkins’s head.
The decidedly end-stopped tenor of Calkins was contested by Amanda Ackerman’s meditation on collaborative writing, “I Did Not Write This By Myself.” Reflecting on Kafka’s statement that he needed to write alone, Ackerman contemplates the impossibility of such a thing, turning to sources as divergent as Deleuze and Robert Louis Stevenson (the latter, it turns out, believed that little people he called “Brownies” wrote his stories). While she agrees with Deleuze that “the body is a nonlinear assemblage of heterogeneous parts,” she thinks “some organs and liquids are more creative and talkative.” Rejecting the term “hybridity” — which suggests “one pure element intermingling with another” — Ackerman highlights “Biopoesis” as an alternative, the “recognition that we’re not alone … writing as and with nature.”
Collaborations with the nonhuman are much simpler, according to this formula, than we make them. In order to begin, we simply “introduce ourselves.” This is not to say that every agent will speak back, or will speak the same language. Nonhuman speaking subjects will have modes of relating that defy the symbolic order — trees and mushrooms, for example, arboreal and rhizomatic systems, live in coevolution with each other despite their seemingly different ways of being. Ackerman imagines a planetary future not limited by our previous understandings of the human and nonhuman, one that doesn’t end with a scorched-earth scenario.
We returned to themes of loss with Anne DeMarkin’s reading from “After Life,” a story generated by the redaction of pieces of text from a story the author was previously dissatisfied with. Dialogue was often absented, and DeMarkin projected the artifact of the partly blacked-out pages on the wall behind her. The story enacts a stubborn refusal to demonstrate. A woman driving on a bridge late at night wakes up from a seizure, half-remembering a moment in which she might have caused another’s death. The “After Life” of the story is not life after death, though, but “life after that moment.” She looks for ways to redeem herself. Dragging a raccoon’s body from the bridge into the forest, she marks its grave; she attends the woman’s funeral, but the grave marker is destroyed, and it is clear that any attempt at repair will always fall short. “First the world,” she says, “is this way, then it’s not.”
DeMarkin’s story echoed Calkins’s in its hinging on a point from which there is no return — what we often call the “tipping point” in relation to climate change. Each writer spoke of her work as being about some sense of disintegration or loss, and the paradoxical notion that despite having passed the tipping point there might be repair of some kind. In the case of Anne’s story, taking apart and re-pairing the words in a story she thought was hopeless formally enacts such an impasse. In this sense, her project connects with Ackerman’s in that they both attempt to liberate the voice from predetermined sign-systems. For Amanda, this might mean going outside of “human” language entirely, and Anne’s effacement of the text “liberates words from their semantic relations and grounds them in an independent agency.” Here, human language is given distance from the human.
The question of whether the human can experience something other became central to the conversation as we discussed the possibility of other-than-human languages. Ackerman’s frustration with phenomenology as the primary lens for thinking through the ecological is coupled with a sense that epistemological frameworks have “drilled” the notion into us that communication with the nonhuman must be anywhere from difficult to impossible. Vanessa Place (from the audience) argued that object-oriented ontology and affect constitute a contradiction in terms, because we’re always importing our affect, and are thus stuck imagining a language we don’t have a language for. Ackerman countered that languages can be learned, while Calkins talked about her work as an animal behaviorist, in which she “hits a wall” in relation to perception in trying to understand birds.
The series terminated, then, with the question of how we relate perception and evidence. The gap between the two might be said to approximate the “gaps and silences” that made up queer time for Matias Viegener in the first Q.E.D. this year. What speculative future, as discussed in regard to the idea of gender in the second event, might open up here? Alas, we seem to have returned to the question of what Quentin Meillassoux posits as the problem of “correlationism,” or the problem of contemporary philosophy after Kant, the insistence that “we only ever have access to the correlation between thinking and being, and never to either term considered apart from the other.” This year’s series of events, each in its own way, troubled this apparent division.
A review of '7 Days and Nights in the Desert'
Sabrina Dalla Valle’s 7 Days and Nights in the Desert [Tracing the Origin] is a spell. It wraps itself around your body, clinging to your cells in the terrible pauses between readings. As though it, in fact, is reading you. I found myself entranced. I found myself noticing. I found myself encountering synchronicities at an accelerated rate. I could not have expected this.
Sabrina Dalla Valle is the winner of Kelsey Street Press’s Firsts! contest with 7 Days and Nights in the Desert. In this poetic meditation, Dalla Valle traverses the microscopic and the cosmic, tracing the evolution of language as easily as the ecology of the desert. This work is intimately concerned with relation, making visible the hidden connections between ancient Babylonian mythology and mirror photons, mirror photons and dark matter, dark matter and heartache, heartache and snail behavior, snail behavior and etymology, etymology and waiting in line at the bank, waiting in line and alchemy, alchemy and the divine, the divine and the everyday. Everything is alive. Everything is brimming. In Dalla Valle’s words, “It is not the order, / nor in the things for which we long. / It is in the still sense of how things / are related.”
Though written in the form of a diurnal, 7 Days and Nights in the Desert doesn’t follow a linear timeline; the past does not remain in the past, the future bleeds into the present. Dalla Valle’s language vacillates between time measured and time felt, between marks made by the body and how the body has been marked. While reading, I found myself longing to experience this process, to extract the synchronous moment that occurs in the dialectic between object and imprint. I decided to document the body-experience of reading against the grain of measured time.
Over the course of a week I sat in many cafes. I held the book open in my hands. I took notes; I was taken. Enmeshed in the text, I wrote down every sensation, every thought and tangent. I marked each with a time-stamp. I gathered the notes from these seven days and rearranged them a.m. to p.m., as if the span of a week could be experienced in a single day. As if the span of a life, all its everyday wonders and losses, could be condensed into 7 Days and Nights in the Desert.
If there is such a thing as narrative in these notes, as in this book, it could never be anything but emergent, found at the moments of contact between a series of fragments.
Documentation of a body’s experience while reading 7 Days and Nights in the Desert
10:06 a.m. What / in italicization / is indicative / of voice?
10:10 a.m. each entranced by private silence.  I stutter over this phrase, reading and rereading it. I do not read the word as I imagine it is meant to be pronounced; I read the entranced as door, as entrance (n.)-d: as entered, made hinged, able to be opened, shut.
10:18 a.m. In palmistry, planets are symbols linked to the seven mounts of the hand. How the seven days of the week were named after these same planets. What then is this relation between time and the topology of flesh. This organ, my skin, deteriorates. 
11:12 a.m. The order no longer horizontal. It is happening before it its happening.
11:15 a.m. How to access the vastness between moments? The fringe of sleep. Nodding off into woof, becoming weave.
11:18 a.m. our thinking precedes the event 
11:25 a.m. Tracing the skin. Rivers layered beneath it, etymologically speaking, there is no skin. Scientifically speaking, there may be no origin. The door has a narrow aperture. There are plants trembling in the corner.
I cannot concentrate. I get up, full bellied. I walk through the center of the city seeking a mailbox: another word for connection.
I get up and walk out of the restaurant. Across the street: a mailbox. Blue and open-mouthed and waiting. As though brought into existence by desire. Standing before the blue box, I speak the phrase, There is no bookmark. The only way of marking order now, is memory. People are laughing in the bar behind me. There is no stamp on this postcard.
12:42 p.m. Fragments always return to each other. 
12:59 p.m. The sense of a spell cast. Alchemical. Synchronous.
1:00 p.m. Imprinted on the body.
1:02 p.m. Time, passing in twinned channels: the perceived, how it orbits the measured, always moving away, always returning.
3:11 p.m. While attempting to decipher meaning from the intersecting lines of my right hand in relation to a palmistry chart in relation to these chapters in relation to the light that shifts indicating wind. Someone approaches. He places a paper crane in the palm of my right hand. I place a one-dollar bill in the palm of his left. His face is crossed by territories of white chalk; he is deeply creased. He carries a desert within him. The deep makes its way to the surface of the skin.
3:13 p.m. From this garden, I send a text to arrange an encounter. Two bodies having parted, returning in the late afternoon.
3:14 p.m. MESSAGE NOT SENT. I try again. MESSAGE NOT SENT
3:18 p.m. This pattern continues. Connection falters. Words sculpt a surface for us to live upon when the world becomes too strange. 
3:24 p.m. Patterns that repeat … at the boundary of awareness 
3:26 p.m. I keep expecting to look up from this book in a town I am not from and do not frequent and to see there someone I have known.
3:28 p.m. A small burn on my middle finger begins to whiten and balloon with fluid. Small crimson petals have fallen into the gutter of the book. I look up. They will have fallen from the tree above, marking the page. The crease between page forty-two and forty-three. To return.
3:38 p.m. My phone doesn’t work in this part of this town. How will we find each other? The chapter I am reading follows the path of the planet Mercury.
3:45 p.m. Caught in Dalla Valle’s language, I am made blindingly aware of the intricacies of sound and small movements surrounding this body. Beside me a woman’s throat opens in song. I fold up the book and the palmistry chart and place the folded paper crane into an envelope with the chart.
4:18 p.m. Sit in a tea room in the absence of the internet. Sit in the desert in the absence of your knowing.
4:32 p.m. Sit on a chair beneath the wooden feet of a carved goddess. You do not know her name. You did not notice her when you first arrived. The subtle hows of choosing place. Diamond pattern against the grain of the table, or crosshatched; how earlier you passed her by, and then returning, later, drawn. These details that pull you.
4:41 p.m. A moment: the fabric of the universe drawn together into a moment. This moment. Every choice. The smallest nothings. Aside: The skin around the wound drawn together. Two points that could never have touched, touching.
4:44 p.m. Straight line leaves through the cleft of the skull. The no longer soft seam.
4:48 p.m. An unknown goddess or maybe Elvis. Both hold the space above our heads.
4:53 p.m. I hold the milk tea in my mouth for seven seconds before swallowing.
4:54 p.m. There is a chill. It is not winter. A man in a blue polo shirt leans in toward his companion. “She can’t sing anymore,” he says. I touch my fingers to my lips. Dry.
5:11 p.m. Earlier, in the store, I buy a fern. Beside it on the counter, a blue book with the image of a white hand. The title, Palmistry, noticed only later. I call you and ask if you will buy it and meet me after work.
5:18 p.m. You could be anyone.  Tracing a history. Here, there are two: there is you, there is we. As yet no I.
5:52 p.m. Crosshatched.
5:31 p.m. The broken or chained lines of the hand. This: a way of moving through.
5:37 p.m. Again, this shiver has nothing to do with the weather. the precise order of words transforms things. Such are spells … 
5:58 p.m. A postcard between page twenty and twenty-one becomes a bookmark. A mark made as anticipation of leaving. The first line of the postcard reads: how I imagine you in this moment is crossing a vast dry space; it is still early,
and it ends with There is nowhere to retreat, so you learn to retreat behind the safety of your eyes. A practice of recovery. The Artist erases herself.
I am reminded of a line in Susan Howe’s That This: Can a trace become the things it traces, secure as ever, real as ever — a chosen set of echo fragments? 
6:02 p.m. Or I am reminded of something I will have read in the future, and from this perspective, can glimpse only in cross-section. The echo of the future in the present. Retracing the past, its absence.
6:06 p.m. Or night as shadow cast by day.  Or time as shadow cast by eternity.
10. Ibid., 16.
A review of 'Kindergarde'
“They don’t always do as they are told or follow the instructions about how to act on paper or in society. They remind us that there are lots of ways to be,” editor Dana Teen Lomax says of the contributors to Kindergarde: Avant-garde Poems, Plays, Stories, and Songs for Children (viii).
At first glance, the 9x12 anthology — I’m thinking of its sheer bulk, mustard-colored cover, and blocky title font — might be taken for a phonics workbook from the 1970s. Yet Kindergarde illuminates literacy of another kind. It presents myriad genres, arrangements, conventions, and experiments: tales, nursery rhymes, catalogues, abecedaria, anaphora, collaborations, songs, fables, performance pieces, plays, lullabies, writing exercises, epistles, lyric essays, visual poems, drawings, photographs, a palimpsest, and an onomatopoeic dedication to Nietzsche. The reader is also a contributor to Kindergarde: the book invites and provides room for original writing and artwork.
Kindergarde successfully reaches the anthology’s intended audience of children as well as a wider audience: readers of avant-garde literature. Once adult readers see the contributors list, which includes Charles Bernstein, Christian Bök, Wanda Coleman, Juan Felipe, Kenneth Goldsmith, Lyn Hejinian, Cathy Park Hong, Harryette Mullen, Eileen Myles, Leslie Scalapino, Evie Shockley, Juliana Spahr, Anne Waldman, and Rosmarie Waldrop, they will likely proceed to the checkout line. I did.
The German title evokes the European avant-garde children’s literature tradition. For more on Kindergarde’s predecessors, I enjoyed critic Philip Nell’s blog post on the 2012 Children’s Literature and the European Avant-Garde conference. He provides illustrations and cover art from contemporary and modernist texts as well as insightful commentary.
In the vein of European avant-garde children’s literature, Kindergarde offers social and cultural critiques: education, gender, race, class, and ethnicity are among the topics examined. Yet, the makers of Kindergarde seem to collectively believe that kids get schooled enough. Thus, the experimental surfaces are so textured, the language (and imaginations) so plastic, the collection as a whole so restless that the critiques present as “ways to be” or choices rather than didactic lessons. For example, Robert Glück and Jocelyn Sandburg’s satirical play (with photographic illustrations), “Precious Princess, or, PIG Speak,” features a finger puppet Sleeping Beauty laying an egg. And why not? As Balso the Knight tells the new mother, “You may not have a head, but you have a big pink egg to hatch” (72). Of course, Precious Pig and Sock Monkey then host a poetry salon in an unexpected send-up of the creative writing workshop.
My favorite of the collection is Bhanu Kapil’s “The Night I Walked into the Jungle, I Was Nine Years Old [With: Accompanying Footnotes],” with mad footnotes, that is: more extensive than the text they annotate. The footnotes add dimension and texture to her lyric sentences, as Kapil moves from reverie to direct address to reverie: “But you are probably still thinking about the whales and the ocean and the Maoris and all the amazing and difficult and dark blue and glittery things of the Southern Hemisphere, which are hard to face with any precision. Precision is when you are not thinking about the future. My grandfather used to tell me that” (94). The central narrative — we are told that readers who want to hear another tale, one about “Hanuman, the famous Monkey King,” may email Kapil — recounts a very long walk the writer took with her grandfather. After they leave the family home in Nangal, India for the surrounding forest, the two become runaways (by whim) for a single night. The grandfather relays gentle wisdom. They encounter various scenes and characters — a giant puddle, nomads, a chess match, and a white horse. The account itself is an exquisite wandering — Kapil wending her way through a variety of associations.
“Ways to be” inform the grammar and rhetoric — the repeated modal verb may and the self-definition trope — of Rosmarie Waldrop’s “Apricot Madness, A Song for Christopher Montgomery.” Waldrop’s poem opens:
My head may be a cabbage
my heart an artichoke
my face a mouldy kumquat
my left eye a bulging yoke (109)
The prosody suggests yet defies convention. “Apricot Madness” consists of ten quatrains and a final monostich. Three-beat ballad stanzas are unbalanced by one and two-beat refrain stanzas. While ballad rhymes are whole (wire/fire, ham/jam, stale/hale), the insistent anaphora diminishes in the second half of the song. In the final stanza, Waldrop adopts the present progressive and, for the first time, joins the first and third lines with end rhyme, albeit slant:
I’m turning into a gargoyle
getting drunk on rain
but the moon is no cold pineapple
as long as I got my brain
Eileen Myles’s unpunctuated, fourteen-word, eight-line “Jacaranda” conflates our man-made prosody jargon, “the feminine / of feet,” with the natural world that she can “have” — the jacaranda, “a lavender / tree” (111). Joan Larkin’s brief play, “If You Were Going to Get a Pet,” takes place in winter on a moving train during Child and Parent’s story time. The static setting, terse dialogue, and postapocalyptic details make of the bedtime story a Beckettian cautionary fable. Here is a world where children are cared for and stalked by Black Dog, where children wait “for [their] mothers to come,” mothers who “sent letters on thin blue paper” (129).
What else in Kindergarde reminds me “that there are lots of ways to be”? Susan Gevirtz’s hybrid excerpt from Streetnamer on the Moon; Reid Gomez’s domestic narrative, “Slices of Bacon”; Brian Strang’s Gothic visual poem; Sawako Nakayasu’s prose poems; R. Zamora Linmark’s fantastical “The Archaeology of Youth”; Jaime Cortez’s irreverent short story, “The Jesus Donut”; an open field excerpt from M. NourbeSe Philip’s ZONG!, and “Wipe That Simile Off Your Aphasia,” Harryette Mullen’s catalogue of incomplete similes.
Most importantly, what does my three-year-old think? “A Dog is a Wolf is a Dog,” from Andrew Choate’s Worm Work, is her favorite selection:
Sometimes my sneezes
smell like my dog
after he’s rolled around
on a rotting bird carcass —
I think it’s a good thing. (30)
In just twenty-three lines, Choate covers much of the organic material that most delights my daughter — dead things, parasites, blood, kiwi, frog pies, fish, and antennae. As an added bonus, the poem alternates between the voice of the poet-speaker and the Seuss-y child sass of the penultimate stanza:
Put a fish in a glass
Wear it for a watch
A wrist wash fish watch
Water bubble time notch
In the white space to the right of Choate’s poem float three overlaid figures of a dog in midstride, hind legs and partial forelegs visible. When asked for some critical insight on the piece, my daughter proffered, “Dog butt.”
“See you later,” reads the final page of Kindergarde. Under the phrase is the figure of a magnifying glass. Yes, this anthology invites young readers, all readers, to not merely see the depicted worlds of the authors but to inspect, question, and remake those worlds. Who needs “follow the instructions” anyhow? Why not write them? Why not erase them? Better yet,
1. Philip Nell, “Avant-Garde Children’s Books; or, What I Learned in Sweden Last Week,” Nine Kinds of Pie, October 5, 2012.
A review of Dodie Bellamy’s 'Cunt Norton'
For a while I kept a copy of Harold Bloom’s Genius (subtitled A Mosaic of One Hundred Exemplary Creative Minds) in my bathroom, with the idea that I would read about one genius each time I shit. But ultimately it was too slowgoing. I slogged through pronouncements such as, “It is difficult to keep up with Whitman; perpetually he passes and surpasses us. Walt Whitman is the poem [sic?] of our climate, the genius of the shores of North America,”  and I was confounded by Bloom’s Kabbalah-inspired, baroquely elaborated, and ultimately senseless arrangement of the writers. Tired of the 814-page tome collecting dust in my small bathroom, I eventually relegated it to the darkest corners of my IKEA bookshelf.
Reading Dodie Bellamy’s Cunt Norton, I unexpectedly found myself thinking back to Bloom’s Genius. Had an experimental poetry press like Les Figues, rather than Warner Books, published Bloom’s Genius, and had it not been packaged as a-genius-explains-other-geniuses-to-us-non-geniuses, it might have had a head start on Conceptual Writing. The book’s arrangement is far more interesting as poetic procedure than as systematic taxonomy, and Bloom gathers a bunch of writers we already know and does his own little jiggy with them. I can be on board for this. The real problem is that even as poetry — even as the most exaggerated form of “unreadable” Conceptual Writing — Bloom’s text makes no serious effort at engagement with its reader. The procedural framework, the gimmick, and the brand names are not enough to make me do much more with this book than buy it and stash it away. And maybe that’s the end goal. But for me to care about a book and to want to keep it in sight, let alone actually read it, the writing within must be either instructive or entertaining, hopefully both. Genius I won’t even read while shitting.
Bellamy’s Cunt Norton does precisely what Bloom’s Genius couldn’t. It rises above the gimmick, above the poetry brand names, and teaches us quite a bit about the poetics of Edmund Spenser, Alexander Pope, and Emily Dickinson amidst the ravenous wet pussies, Fuck Slugs, and cocks spurting coffee and cream. Is Cunt Norton great poetry, approaching the orbit of its anthologized subjects? Sentimental, I still believe in great poetry, and I have to say no. It would be inane, discrediting even, to claim, “Bellamy makes Shakespeare more interesting!” Nonetheless, Cunt Norton is certainly worth reading, worth keeping in sight. It is surprisingly instructive, and it is wildly entertaining. It is poetry in pursuit of real pleasure. It is radical writing as more engaging and readable than mass-market nonfiction. And it is — I mean this as sincere praise — a godsend of a potty book.
The book includes thirty-two “cunt-ups” of authors from the Norton Anthology of Poetry (the 1975 edition), with each cunt-up titled “Cunt Spenser,” “Cunt Shakespeare,” “Cunt Whitman,” etc., and consisting of two short-but-sweet facing pages. This layout is ideal for brief, gratifying bursts of reading and just enough for Bellamy to make her point and for the cunts to begin spreading throughout the poetic tradition and to adorn its readers with sex-colored glasses. Despite the book’s slimness and minimal, Gallimard-inspired design, you inevitably begin (if you haven’t been doing so already) to see the potential for cunts. Bellamy developed her cunt-ups from the cut-ups popularized by William Burroughs, in which an existing text is cut up and rearranged as a new composition. As Burroughs explains in “The Cut Up Method:”
Take a page. Like this page. Now cut down the middle and cross the middle. You have four sections: 1 2 3 4 … one two three four. Now rearrange the sections placing section four with section one and section two with section three. And you have a new page. Sometimes it says much the same thing. Sometimes something quite different —(cutting up political speeches is an interesting exercise) —in any case you will find that it says something and something quite definite. 
Bellamy applied Burroughs’s procedure to porno-erotic source texts to produce her 2001 book Cunt-Ups,  which had the effect — on this reader — of saying much the same thing intended by the source texts but with actual force. In Cunt-Ups, Bellamy transforms what could be an anesthetically functional, and thereby alienating, kind of language into something far more erotic and consuming. The text moves in unexpected, incongruous directions, becoming tangled in a web of unclaimed body parts, a perspective that is intimately mine and evasively other, and the insistent demand, repeated through every word, to be right here and write now. Pay attention, be immersed, keep up, let go, come back, forget poetry or porn because this is pleasure.
And here, pleasure is political. Bellamy writes, “Each instance of cunting is a new encounter, not a reinscription. Each person who cunts will impart her DNA. (All persons who cunt are female, regardless of the gender they present in ordinary reality).”  The unapologetic proliferation of “cunt” in her work is not what defines Bellamy’s feminist intervention, but rather the forceful assertion of a female pleasure, of having to acknowledge that our sex lies within our simultaneous attraction to and repulsion from imposed structures of desire. For Bellamy, “cunt” is not a just colorful noun; it is an action, an imperative. If our language thus far has instructed us on the world viewed through the lens of male desire — and if that’s getting pretty old — Bellamy suggests, for males, females, and whomever else alike, a way to write our sex out of this hole.
Écriture féminine-inspired ground-laying aside, I want to emphasize the point that Bellamy’s twenty-first-century cunt-ups really aren’t about cunt for cunt’s sake. Just using the words cunt, cock, fuck, or even discharge isn’t enough to grab a 2014 reader’s attention. We like to pretend that this is still radical, but let me offer a gentle rejoinder: even I — emerging gray hairs, two children and all — grew up in a time when it was possible to watch “Two Girls One Cup” on my laptop, with the Bible-thin pages of various Norton anthologies open around it, just before I dragged myself to the Berkeley Film Archive to watch Salò, Or the 120 Days of Sodom. And then I was less disturbed by the bared genitals and feces-eating than the lines from Ezra Pound’s Cantos illuminated by graphic execution scenes at the end. Fascism is still shocking. Artistic genius so fully committed to bad politics is still shocking. Pedophilia, rape, and torture will always be shocking. But cunts, cocks, fucking, and discharges — qua cunts, cocks, fucking, and discharges — make up ninety percent of our daily Internet surfing. Bellamy’s Cunt-Ups and Cunt Norton, however, are worth more than the interest-value of seeing “cunt,” and it would be wrong to reduce the work her poetry does to just that.
In “These Lips Which Are Not One,” the writer’s statement accompanying Cunt Norton, Bellamy describes the book as “the big budget sequel to the indie Cunt-Ups”  and explains that here she combines the pornographic source material of her original cunt-ups with the 1975 Norton Anthology of Poetry she read as a young poet. That particular edition, the second, is remarkable for its “proud tokenism,” as Bellamy puts it, with the preface boasting of doubling the number of women (Anne Bradstreet and Elizabeth Barrett Browning being among those progressive additions) and including several non-white writers: “Four new black poets amplify the presentation of that tradition.”[vi] Referring to this patronizing objectification, Bellamy cunts not only the usual dead white men, such as John Milton and William Wordsworth, but a token female poet, Emily Dickinson, and black poet, Langston Hughes.
Bellamy’s tokenism is noteworthy in that her cunting of different poets produces quite different effects, and these differences don’t actually run along gendered or racial lines. You can’t say that Bellamy’s cunting of Dickinson dramatically empowers the shrinking violet poet and gives her ownership of her sexuality, whereas it uniformly subverts or deflates the machismo of Lord Byron and Robert Lowell. Granted, we do get delightful genderfuck moments, such as “Cunt Dickinson” declaring, “Slobber all over my cock until Eternity,”  and “Cunt Ashbery” observing, “The inside of my cunt is a bit sore, as I sit here between sea and building” (68). But whatever your impression of Dickinson-as-person, the Dickinson-as-text can be a kinky beast even pre-cunting. She doesn’t need empowering; she is always, resolutely, the true “Master.” Consider Bellamy’s cunt-up lines, “a Resonance of Hands are tied together and flare up into Blossoms on your Bush” (39). Isn’t this plausible as an actual Dickinson quote, even if the particular context Magic-Markers the innuendos?
And in the case of Hughes, the felicitous ambiguity of “Cunt Hughes” for either Langston or Ted made me waver for several lines on which one I was encountering first (Cunt Ted appears at the book’s end). How delicious here that, in being cunt-up, each writer more effectively stands on the fresh, complex, varying ground of their own writing rather than their conventional classifications. “Cut ups are for everyone,” Burroughs writes. “Poetry is for everyone.”  For Bellamy’s cunt-ups, this universalism also means that “Cunt Pound” can go from saying, “I clench my legs for there’s a landslide along my clit and tiller,” to noting, now seamlessly, in the next sentence, “I’m rubbing my cock against your shadows o’er all the ocean” (48). The “I” of “Cunt Pound” claims both clit and cock, but within a twisted figurative language that persuasively abstracts clit and cock away from biological givens. The speaking subject here is neither male nor female, neither straight nor gay, neither white nor black, but everything and nothing and always with such pleasure. In poetry, embedded even in the language of our dead white male geniuses, is this permeability, Bellamy shows us. To own our sex, to write into existence a pleasure our defined bodies can’t always perform, is possible through poetry — and, sometimes, even plausible. “Cunt Pound” waxes on, “fuck me with the glitter of sun-rays, stars stretching my cunt” (48).
For some poets, such as Geoffrey Chaucer or John Donne, Bellamy’s cunting doesn’t so much introduce graphic or absurd sexual language into their writing — which is already filled to the brim with such — than either provide some wickedly good new lines or veer into kitschy literary role-playing, what we might imagine of the MLA Convention’s key-swapping golden age: “To thee I renne,” declares “Cunt Chaucer,” “my clit so sensitive I doe nat like any oothers, and after wol I telle this aventure: whan it’s changing thy cock turneth to oon side” (8).
Even as pastiche, however, Bellamy’s cunt-ups have a lot to teach us about the original sources, with the Pumpkin Fucks and piles of flesh laundry acting as a foil to goad certain writers’ most distinctive mannerisms. Spenser’s lush metaphors and idyllic imagery are unavoidable in Bellamy’s rendition, such as when “Cunt Spenser” proclaims: “Behold thy many gazers — mine eyen and my cock on thee do stare. Soft, my cock lyke a sleeping river mussel doth look, but when thou darest lift up thy countenance so bold, my cock doth now blush” (10). And “Cunt Donne” offers us this insight on metaphysical poetry: “When thou drawest or eatest, that is a kind of fucking, right?” (14).
In creating her cunt-ups, Bellamy chose to forego certain formal elements, the most significant being line breaks and typographical variances. Each cunt-up is a solid, two-page block of prose, and thus we also find that some writers, such as Alexander Pope and William Carlos Williams, evaporate when given extraneous content and are no longer armed with perfectly crafted, lineated lines. Even familiar with his oeuvre, if you don’t recognize the specific allusions, I am not sure you would guess that, “Fucking you, my reason embraces emptiness (despair whines until I’m done),” comes from “Cunt Williams” (46). Whereas a distinctive Shakespearian vigor still resonates through, “O, no! it is thy tits swaying in rhythm, shaken to the stars. Thy tits are every large cow and they feed me sacredly with thoughts of heights to be taken” (12).
Through poets like Pope and Williams, however, Bellamy has more space to produce a poetic voice that feels different and original. The results are not quite as raucously fun as “Cunt Shakespeare,” but they also avoid devolving into pastiche. Pope aside, I am struck by how the twentieth-century writers, the poets writing after free verse, are the ones who most lose their distinctive flavor through Bellamy’s reshaping. The twentieth century is also when the fierce, insistent exaltation of the earlier cunt-ups begins to show some strain. “I hear spirits sob in each blood-on — everything’s throbbing so much I imagine myself in hell with nobody else here,” laments “Cunt Lowell” (63). And then exceptionally, surprisingly, “Cunt Creeley” remains resolutely male. The cunts are “yours,” while the King Kong cocks are only on “me.” This makes the conclusion of “Cunt Creeley” a little gag-worthy, a little sad, and not really deserved: “No woman ever was wiser than you, so my cock hangs above your face and what you take in your hand grows” (65). While Bellamy’s reasoning for cunting a token woman poet and a token black poet is clear, I found myself wondering what the cunt-up twentieth century would have looked like — possibly more vigorous and more powerfully, uncouthly, bizarrely sexual — if Bellamy had expanded to more recent Nortons and included “Cunt Moore,” “Cunt Plath,” “Cunt Lorde,” or “Cunt Carson.”
But perhaps this is just part of the cunt-ups’ strength — they have their ups and their downs, but still they give us new dreams, leave us wanting more. “Cunt Norton will last as long as there are quadrants of desiring text,” Bellamy promises. “When those are spent, the book ends. Until then it will keep fusing with poem after poem, desperate and insatiable.”  Cunt-ups are for everyone. So go ahead and read Cunt Norton in your bathroom. Read it in your gender theory class. Read it in your experimental poetry class to enliven your students again after you made them read Finnegan's Wake. Read it to your lover on Valentine’s Day. Read it in an MLA Convention hotel room, because it’s better than going to a panel. Read it and remember that poetry doesn’t need to exalt your soul nor stifle it. Sometimes it just turns you on.
2. William Burroughs, “The Cut Up Method,” in The Moderns: An Anthology of New Writing in America, ed. Leroi Jones (New York: Corinth Books, 1963).
8. Burroughs, “The Cut Up Method.”
A review of Sarah Gridley’s 'Loom'
Cleveland, Ohio, poet Sarah Gridley’s Loom (Omnidawn, 2013), is composed in three sections — “Shadows of the World Appear,” “This Heart is Dependent on the Outside World,” and “Half-Sick of Shadows.” Composed around Lord Alfred Tennyson’s 1842 ballad “The Lady of Shalott,” Gridley’s book — one of the strongest poetry collections I’ve seen in some time — opens with a single line on the first page of the first section: “Still the lady could come to her senses. Cool as a nude or a pressed flower.”
Though I admire the greening brass of my dragon-handled
letter opener, it is nowadays better to be paperless.
There are those who said
only something useless can be beautiful.
I won’t say we no more have occasion
to open correspondence
but No servant can serve two masters Luke said.
Thoreau said the perception of beauty
is a moral test — and — How vain it is
to sit down and write
when you have not stood up to live.
Consider the lavatory, Gautier said: can where we shit —
arguably the most useful room in a house —
As she says in the short interview included with the press release, the inspiration of the Tennyson piece upon her manuscript was, in part, rhythmic:
An act of memorization initiated the work of Loom. The summer of 2006, before leaving Maine to move to Cleveland for my current work at Case Western Reserve University, I decided to memorize Tennyson’s poem “The Lady of Shalott” — a poem that had haunted me for years. I did the memorization in tandem with a daily walk at a place called Morse Mountain in Phippsburg. The walk was about a mile in length, beginning in the woods, and opening to the Atlantic. The final 1842 version of the poem is 171 lines in length. The majority of the lines have four beats, with the exception of the refrains, which have three. This is a good walking poem. And not a difficult poem to memorize, thanks to its entrancing rhyme scheme and vivid imagery. I had thought to dispense with the haunting sensation this poem gives me by memorizing it, but if anything, committing it to memory only complicated the obsession. George Steiner says of memorization: “What we know by heart becomes an agency in our consciousness, a pace-maker in the growth and vital complication of our identity.” This was certainly the case with this poem. Through this process of knowing it by heart, I discovered it was acting on me in ways I still did not understand. Its “agency” in my consciousness was much stronger — and stranger — than I’d thought.
Composing the first and third sections as single, extended sequences of short lyric fragments, the finest pieces in the book emerge from the middle section, the nearly thirty-page section of short prose poems that accumulate slowly into a suite of short takes:
Poetry Makes Nothing Happen
Ill at ease interposes a preposition into malaise as if to point to an actual place in the mind of translation. Lu Chi in his Fu of 303 AD put the waiting this way: We knock upon silence for an answering music. Everything starts out kicking. Everything dies inside some kind of song. Different musics respond to knocked-on silences: boats in loose percussion with docks — wings that whistle without the form of melody. What if knocking itself could answer knocking. Even the gods had need of a physician. We called the peony after him.
Winner of the 2012 Omnidawn Open Book Prize, Loom is Gridley’s third trade poetry collection, after Weather Eye Open (University of California Press, 2005) and Green is the Orator (University of California Press, 2010). Loom has a magnificent sense of rhythm, one that resonates throughout. Using the Tennyson poem as a stepping-off point, the poems seek out weave and unfurl, carefully working to explore the smallest moments around and between such a well-known Victorian ballad. As she writes in the first section: “What range of tones are possible / in the phrase See for yourself? // It is hard to explain. / Bloom is a noun and bloom is a verb.” Despite the occasional urgency, there is a meditative stillness that emerges through Gridley’s lines, quietly demanding an increased attention. Even more than usual, the reader is forced to listen.