Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
August comes however.
With it will be a hopeful return to the events and vagaries of which we will do our best to report in something resembling a coherent manner.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Jeffrey Cyphers Wright
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Friday, February 01, 2008
I particularly had wanted to see Max Winter and Joyelle McSweeney read, as I am partial to the work of my fellow Goddardians do at Tarpauline Sky, but alas. Here is everything that would have happened:
Steal This Reading:
A Brooklyn Book Burning
Featuring 15 authors from 6 publishers:
C.D. Wright, Eleni Sikelianos, Graham Foust, Joyelle McSweeney, Joshua Marie Wilkinson, Julie Doxsee, Max Winter, Adam Clay, Zachary Schomburg, Morgan Lucas Schuldt, Lily Brown, Rauan Klassnik, Cindy Savett, Jon Thompson, and Melanie Hubbard.
Hosted by Black Ocean, Cannibal Books, Free Verse Editions, Kitchen Press, Octopus, Tarpaulin Sky Press & Typo.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
The two started the reading off together, standing side by side after distributing gifts to the audience: small, massacred envelop wrapped tracts featuring a pair of poems. They read “re” , Dan opening, “Open to an empty run-down intersection of city, winter, 5 a.m.,”. Jen followed with “Open to an empty scuffed intersection of a city, summer, 5 a.m.”.
Hearing them read together, without having heard them before, precluded any deeper appreciation, but reflecting back there was the sense simply that she was pushing out, and he was pulling back. He was a sidebar, here in this instance, while she was fuller, looking outward while he glanced most often away and down. I'll have you know I was tired before I ever got to the reading, and it perked me up being in there. As they read I jotted down notes on what they said, and where possible I've corrected the quoting via references, but there are likely some errors. So deal.
Dan Machlin –editor Futurepoem Books
Dan’s first piece was entitled Letter 1. I was tired for the reading, yawning throughout because there was sleeping to take place but the reading was there first, a welcome barricade. The first words from his work that I managed to grasp were:
“If this is the sign of clarity
is it the priest’s death?”
There was something initial about the way he was reading, coming as it does in a voice in the shape of a poetic sound, but not crafted to the shape; born to it, fully ingrained and much removed from the pretentious character this voice, such a lynchpin in the reading of poetry, can embody. I don’t want to dissect the voice itself, anyone who’s been to more than 3 or 4 readings has heard plenty of variation. Machlin’s voice matches well when he puts forth,
“symbols, an alleyway, the comfort of exhaustion,”
and he highlights that initial quality, the ingrown conceit when he says.
“This is what the job entails,
this is what I was born into.”
The manner of Dan’s speaking becomes much closer to stillness in the next poem, Letter to D:
“I move behind in your hope”
“oh how this house whispers
beneath the dinner table”
The absence of strong intonations and accentuation of the words, while still being clear and crisp, by now brought me to notice Dan’s posture. Stiff and tall, his right arm hanging unmoving by his side, the left only holding up the pages of his work or setting them on the podium. He stood not out from behind the podium, and not behind, but kind of inbetween. In 5th Letter he introduces something new:
“And who is this “we” anyway—I was alone—tabulating the pros and cons of my history,”
This new element is brought fully to light in Letter of Critique with,
“millions never seek new forms and patterns”
This new voice is contemptuous, remaining detached out of a distaste for having even observed and commented. The machinery of the detached voice begins to break down, as one voice infects the other. Again in Critique, he states:
“This forced opposition between constancy and boredom”
In Letter Read While Walking Home the voices’ interconnectivity shows through. There are gaps and breaks in the phrasing, as if data were missing, or as if two channels were experiencing feedback from their similar frequencies. His experiments are sublte, using syllables in Antibodies as a formal constraint unrepresented consistently in the reading. His work does, as Stacy pointed out in her introduction, solve the mind-body problem with multiple bodies, seeing, as he writes,
“bodies, and the spare mechanics of thought.”
Jen Hofer –
A Google search for Jen comes up with a lot of material, so here and there, if you've been to a reading, you'll find some things that are echoing back. This echoing struck me, because I am attracted by echoes I guess at present in my own work, but also because of its place in the work she was sharing. That some of what had come before would be coming back when Palm Press releases One later this year along with some of Jen’s first lines, underscored what exactly was going to happen for the 30 or minutes she read,
“…to scream 'Law and Order’ as we kick down their doors.
Broken hinge more open or more broken…”
“…sutres to the wound will not hurt
best busted interests at heart…”
It told of how she was going to read, a bit about why, and it was going to make you feel like even though it was only going to be 30 minutes of time, it’d still be worth more than most rock concerts. It was already purely kinetic and civilly engaged, as it had been introduced to us, but the enunciation and the syncopation of it was rousing and desperate.
She had built a relentless, grinding machinery within the intonations of alliteration,
“The denotative sky
through its frame is sky.
Through its sky.
How the fast small birds.
Do not shatter.”
She was arguing against it in the kind of voice you'd use if you stood in front of tank with your hand out. She had moved out of the cinematic trope where a person yells at their own echo. She continued to argue,
"They form a habit.
I would say those clouds form a reference, not a pattern."
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
smaller, but then I can't read what I've written.
Tonight there was a thing about women, and it seemed like the kind of thing
people who would like that kind of thing would like to attend,
and I considered myself one of those people, but I marked the calendar
and then forgot the address. I left it behind like a treasure map for someone
else to find,
maybe they made it there, but it would have been nice
to remember once I'd gotten out of the subway.
I would have seen Eileen Myles read
again and maybe would have found something to say about it
this time, but the awe would have remained. And I could have heard from Maggie Nelson
about the things we all were hearing,
and why, and where they founded all of this sound. And Wayne Koestenbaum
might have read from Hotel Theory, or Hotel Women, or both, and it would have been something I could have noted. Last time I waited too long and as I've mentioned, there was a lack in regards to the notes, and the notes which weren't would have shared this, that there was a great pleasure in discovering Rebecca Curtis. I discovered her sitting next to me. And tonight I could have brought a magazine with Kim Gordon and her husband on the cover, and I could write about it, like I wrote about him, or their guitar player, and then I would have only needed one more of the sonic youth and I would have been able to get out of this chair.
The chair has become uncomfortable.
But there was not the time.
There was not the time behind the book.
There was not the time within the project.
There was not the time for single parts gravity.
There was not the time for gypsy harpers.
Holding my eye in my hand
i move my legs, i rise to the balls
of my feet, and I take it on faith,
the show is in the bottle,
I just need to pop the cork.