ARC -- SAVE ME FROM THE FLOOD

Today I spent a couple of hours at the Double Hook (Montreal's Canadian Literature bookstore, located in Westmount) looking through Canadian poetry magazines like Fiddlehead, Event, ARC, CV2 (contemporary verse 2)… as well as some of the poets on the shelves there. (Two copies of my own book are still there after ten years! Amazing!)
I even bought ARC (which subtitles itself Canada's National Poetry Magazine), to bring home with me, since it is about the size of a thick poetry book itself, and a number widely-published poets, including editors of other magazines, are published there.
After all that reading, my mind is taxed. I hate to say it - be "negative", grouse. But … agh! so much flat, forgettable stuff. I think I dimly remember one or two poems in all that I read that afternoon. It's not that I could find any major fault with word choice. There was certainly no triteness, excess (definitely no obvious excess here, unless the whole poem was excess)… it all has the concentrated quality one associates with poetry. But it is all safe safe, quiet, pedestrian, etc. Etiolated. Yeilding strangely little. (At least to me.) No wonder my mind is taxed. When I read say Neruda, Bly, Plath, Ted Hughes, Vallejo, Dylan Thomas, Charles Bukowski, Billy Collins (whatever some may say, he has panache!), Mary Oliver, Duncan - I'm not ranking these people, just mentioning people off the top of my head - I find them refreshing, no matter how tired I am. But these...

The first poem in this issue of ARC I serve up as an example. It's by Alison Pick, a Bronwen Wallace and National Magazine Award winner.

Horseshoe Cliff

The silence of the field is made up of silence: silence
of time running out. Final light coming down off the cliffs.
Balsamic moon, tight-lipped. You want to go to the land and learn it
like Simone Weil went to the factory. You want more than gesture
but only kneeling will tell you where the rock gives. Several prayer-books
down from the silence, the hymn of particular language. You are there
with ten-thousand words. Your heart a cup with a leak. Each of your offerings
flawed, flawed, and you still fear giving them up. If sin exists it's speech without
listening, listening with only the ears: a wide, wild hush of wind through the grass,
land letting down long hair. Lonely land, and if you go there
you will become more lonely. Out the back door: goldenrod, cattails,
later the ocean like unstudied Latin. You'll need to stay longer than you imagined, to hold your tongue in your palm. You'll need to wait in the longer quiet before writing anything down. Your smooth dry heart is quick to ignite, though not hot enough to boil water. Further back, the little spark
from your porch-light, light-years away. When language comes
from the mouth of the moon you'll know
you're safe to return.


Maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm just insensitive. In all this writing, the only thing I find at all fresh or arresting is "Your heart a cup with a leak." - and even it seems unsubstantiated, arbitrary in this context (I say, why is Your heart a cup with a leak, my dear lady? What punctured it?). I find the whole You rhetoric is both presumptuous and very quickly tiresome…I mean it wears me out. Several poems in this volume make similar use of it…. it seems to me the poets are talking about themselves but are ashamed to use the first person… indeed the whole thing would lose any semblance of universality if the poem were written in the first person…For Instance, do I want to go to the land and learn it like Simone Weil? (First, let me look up Simone Weil… sorry, ignoramus that I am, I don't know her story, let alone want to learn that land like her…) Do I want "more than a gesture?" What gesture, and why the connective but, and if this follows, how can only kneeling tell me where the rock gives? (Maybe lying down would be better) There are several abstruse hintings which could be seen as "quite good"… the silence made up of silence (like a rose is a rose is a rose). Time running out … evening/death suggestions, with that "final light"! Then there is this kind of religious sensibility which I find rather peculiar, suggested in the kneeling, the several prayerbooks down from the silence, the hymn of "particular language" (as contrasted with general language?)… the implied guilt in the mention of sin, the flawed offerings, oh how touching, all our offerings are so flawed, it is true, they are flawed. And then these little arty touches of pathetic fallacy… why is the moon "tight-lipped" (I think the poet is being tight-lipped, and projecting it on the moon). The last time I saw the man in the moon, he was looked quite looselipped & toothy. But maybe for me, language comes from the mouth of the moon already, so I'm "safe" (or perhaps too dull a reader to appreciate the profound atmospheres of this poem.) The lonely land, well, this is true. That touches me. It is very lonely out there. The poem is about loneliness, it's all projections from loneliness, that's what it is! Now I get it! The porchlight light-years away… well, that's effective sense of distance, considering this journey through obscurity we've made. And the language, the particular language, that must be spirit, joy, or something like that!

Again, maybe it's just me… yes, I see it now, this has some profoundity, there is evidence of wisdom here, but such effortful reading! So little delight … all the language so menopausal, as I said, etiolated. My own heart has become smooth and quite dry. I couldn't imagine a duller ocean than one like unstudied Latin. Unless it's Latin already studied. For the Exam. Oh well…

Here's another one by one Mark Sinnett:

barcelona

And on the second floor, dead centre
of a stone damp room in which all
the windows are distant and frame
a sky otherworldly and bleached,

a woman flags, slumps over
the dumb idea that this is something
else entirely. She recalls stomping
foot impressions into tidal mud,

Well, maybe I'm not being fair to this fellow by cutting him off, but you get an idea. Or slump over it. (When was the last time you slumped over an idea?) The sky otherworldly and bleached, contrasted with the stone-damp room, that's interesting, sort of.

This, by the way, is more typical of the shape and form of the ARC poems. Little four-line stanzas, all starting from the left side, with four iambic beats, and with the occasional three, and enjambing all over the place, but actually pretty prosy, really… if you wrote it out as prose, you would have a hard time saying it was poetry…. or even all that compelling prose. But that seems to be the style these days.

There are poets who I like who have published in poems like ARC. Robyn Sarah is one, and probably Irving Layton & Milton Acorn in earlier days.

I think if I send to them - after all, it is Canada's National Poetry Magazine -- I'll have to send something that looks the same. Little four-line stanzas, or all the lines starting from the left side. For there's a monolithic sameness about it all... Quiet poems… all starting from the left side, or with little regular indentations. Just sneak 'em in there… maybe by virtue of it looking the same, but having my stamp, my verve, my work will stand out, & I'll do my bit to change the corporation from the inside... or mayb will it change me? Maybe it's time to look elsewhere... where?

I can't help thinking, though, of Fresh Air by Kenneth Koch. Fresh air! How I need it!

ONE ART, TWO ARTS, THREE ARTS, FOUR...

Some of my most interesting writing online has come in the form of responses to blogs by others. Generally, I prefer dialoguing to monologuing. Yesterday, CR Jenson wrote on his blog something I couldn't resist responding to -- despite my self-imposed limitation on time online.

ONE ART, OR NOT SO MUCH?

Over the past two years, I've been teaching myself how to play acoustic guitar in my "spare" time. It's something I've really come to enjoy about my day-making a space for music. I've been pretty musical my whole life-I used to tinker around with a keyboard when I was little, then I started playing the trumpet and later took piano lessons. I was also in my high school choir and the musicals each year.

Now I pull out the guitar whenever I'm in the office and I need a break, or if I'm about to spend some time writing but am having trouble with whatever I'm working on. I strum for a while, warble along, and then get down to the task of writing (or grading).

Do many of you have a "second" or even "third" art that you're involved in? Do you paint on the side? Take photographs? Etc.? I'll admit that for many of my teenage years, my dreams were not to be a poet-I wanted, on the surface, to be a filmmaker and, secretly, to be the lead singer of a rock band.

I stuck with poetry because I figured no matter what else I was doing, I could always find a way or reason to write without giving it "special" attention in my life.

So how about it? Any graphic designers out there? Sculptors? Etc? Let's hear about the other arts.

This is what I wrote back (with some revisions):

Naturally I can relate to your tale of needing a second focus. Between, say, 22 and 34, I defined myself (artistically at least) as a poet; from about 26 on, I took up fingerstyle guitar as a kind of a hobby and got pretty damned good at it, playing people like John Renbourne, Mississippi John Hurt, and Bert Jansch. Then, after a long period of poetic "blockage" songs came out, in all about 50 or so. Later a cassette and a fully orchestrated CD. After running up against the typical roadblocks facing independent musicians these days, I've turned back to poetry in a major way. I love the pure creativity of the act of writing poetry, the lack of production time and costs, the intelligence of the audience, "worthy but few". It suits my intellectual nature, my actually (as it turns out) not-so-outgoing temperament. Lit mags -- even the stuffiest ones -- are far more interesting than your typically abhorrent music publications. And the promotion of poetry, compared to music, is child's play -- that is, still monstrously tedious and frustrating, but actually doable by one person.

I still play the guitar, do the very occasional show, and am thankful for the emotional release and personal enrichment it brings. Proud though I am of my album (I wouldn't change a single note of it, and lately it's even gotten a couple of good but belated reviews) too bad some in the poetry establishment will see me as a flake for having engaged so heavily in an art as "low brow" as song writing. (See that recent quote in Victoria Chang's blog of advice to "young poet" against revealing ancillary artistic activities like performing music.) As a poet, I realize I have some catching up - de-rusting -- to do... but I'm catching up pretty darned fast. All the arts relate and inform each other. Said Goethe: "Architecture is frozen music. Symmetry is rhythm standing still." Cheers, and keep riffing in the office!

RETHINKING THE BLOG THING

Well, folks -- or rather folk, since I've only had one consistent vistor on this fledgling blogspot site, and we both who know he is! -- I've decided to rethink this blog thing. Basically, my girlfriend has accused me of being an internet addict -- and I think she may be right. I haven't been writing with the amazing energy of a Victoria Chang, but I've been reading a lot, spending many, many hours with my eyes glued to a screen, keeping up with two blog communities, etc. So, basically I've decided to limit my online activity for the next few weeks (two hours a week? four hours a week max?), just to see if I have withdrawl symptoms. Maybe I'll do little one-liners like one million footnotes or Lyn Hejinian, blogrolled to the left....check them out, they're fascinating!!! (CR Jenson pointed them out. If you want to see his excellent blog, go through my links at http://www.briancampbell.blog-city.com... or his comment posted below)

REVISING/SUBMITTING

This week, have been going through unpublished work, revising. Cutting out excess. Tightening. Changing words. Finding redundancies that previously seemed integral. Always the struggle of sound and sense: what may sound good causes us to overlook whether it makes sense, or can be read in unintended, detracting senses… Or on a more subtle level, one poem began well, even ended well, giving a sense of formal completion -- but somewhere along the way evaded the point, bifurcating into a clever word game (successful, perhaps, as a wordgame, but word game nevertheless) rather than drawing upon and developing the central feeling that brought out those strongest beginning lines. Emerging from all this: a greater sense of solidity, as the words - every word - is sharpened and considered… but when is the poem ever truly solid? There have been plenty of occasions of delusion along the way. The language is a palette of a million colours, and the colours of the poem can be changed instantly. (Much easier than say on a canvas…) That's the difficulty … but also the beauty & delight….
All this of course occasioned by the desire to send more work out, even a sense of pressure, as it's already mid-October, and I have very little out there…. and finding in the last few months that almost everything recent I planned to send has been marked with changes, strikeouts, etc. (a lot more than even I had realized). So it's really not ready. Ostensible reasons may be visibility, a growing list of credentials, etc. But in the meantime, sending out has at least one benefit: I am guaranteeing myself at least one more attentive reader … namely, myself.

RESPONDING TO THE CALL TO CREATE

The Cynic, who says no to life, may mock us by sneering, "Why bother to create? Nothing will come of it." The Tyrant, who seeks power, threatens us by ordering, "Don't speak without my permission! Don't create unless I tell you to!" The Perfectionist argues, "Whatever you do must be flawless. If you can't be perfect, it's not good enough." The Conformist warns, "Beware of risks. Be cautious. Don't rock the boat." The Star, presuming to be special and feeling entitled to lord it over others, may neglect the task of craft by whispering, "You're at the top. No need to work so hard." The Escape Artist can avoid the challenge of creativity by whining, "I'm so tired," or, "I have too much work to do." Or he might seduce us by saying, "Enjoy yourself now. Tomorrow is another day."

The presumptions and power of these characters inside us often culminate in detrimental edicts from the inner Critic, who uses the different ploys of these detractors. For example, the Critic might ask, "Who do you think you are to create?" Or he might accuse, "Don't be selfish. You should do things for others instead of spending time on yourself." Internally the Critic might play on our guilty feelings by insinuating, "You're crazy to waste all that energy on a mere "hobby". Be practical and put away your daft dreams." Another harmful devise of the Critic is to suggest, "You're a failure. It's not good enough. Forget this. Put it away before others laugh at you."

We cannot completely dismiss the Critic, however, because we need its help in order to create. The Critic's clarity and insight can help us make decisions in our lives and in our work. It is important to recognize and differentiate when the Critic's voice hinders us and helps us.

If we hear the voice of a self-righteous figure, an expert at self-justification who has an answer to everything, we can detect the destructive Critic. The illusion of perfection often underlies the Critic's rationale and masks a hidden agenda to gain dominance, power, and control of the psyche. If the emphasis is on competing, comparing, and end results instead of discovery and process, we know that we are face to face with the hostile critic.

One way to recognize whether the critic's commentary is helpful or harmful is to take note consciously whether compassion and respect inform its comments. Creativity requires that we learn to make discerning judgements that consider the unique tone, style, and being of each person. Compassion and respect celebrate the dignity inherent to the person searching for creativity.

Linda Schierse Leonard
The Call to Create

All the inner voices of social propriety and repression, waiting to waylay us! I had such pleasure typing out that passage for this blog because it has been, for me at least, so largely true. Is the psycho- drama "all too recognizable" to you? While books like Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way and Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones give simple tools (such as the Artist's Walk or journal) for almost anyone to find and nurture the nascent creative artist in themselves, Linda Schierse Leonard's book is primarily directed at people fully engaged in the battle, who identify themselves as artists or creators but who are all-too-frequently frustrated by impasses, bedevilling habits or attitudes that sabotage their full artistic realization. A Jungian analyst and teacher, Leonard helps us identify the archetypal patterns that rise up within us as we dedicate ourselves to our creativity. Against the negative inner voices identified above, Leonard names and delineates our positive dramatis personae. Against the Cynic, the Muse, "that mysterious, elusive spirit that inseminates our imagination, enlivens us, and invites us to cocreate with nature;" against the Tyrant, the Witness, who helps us " have the courage to stand ground and the wisdom to know how to do it" by recording the words and behaviour of the Tyrant; against the Escape Artist, the Sentinel, who actively stands watch at the borders of consciousness to prevent retreat and regression," against the Conformist, the Adventurer, who breaks out of given structures by taking a leap of faith and risking failure; against the Star, the humble Artisan in ourselves, who knows we must work continually and collaboratively to hone the skills of our craft; against the Perfectionist, the classic Dummling figure of fairy tales, who, awkward and even seen as "stupid", proceeds without a plan, not knowing the way or outcome - and stumbles upon wisdom. Against the inner Critic, the inner Lover and Celebrant.

The opening chapter in Leonard's book, a rather purplish paean on the creative inspiration to be found in nature, is nevertheless not to be missed if you are to appreciate the full meaning of what she has to say. If you are anything like me, though, I recommend starting this book further on with a chapter that deals with an issue that especially grabs you. The chapter about the Cynic was what pulled me in. For me personally there have been years where social isolation has been so hard, and the indifference (and ignorance) so monolithic, that the futility of it all has at times seemed simply too powerful to deny. How to counter that voice saying "What's the use?" Through personal case-histories, though the illumination of myths, through reasoned appeal to our better (and I think deepest) instincts, Linda Leonard helps us find ways.

For me, this probably the best creativity "self-help" book I've ever come across, and the only one spoke to me so well that I read it from cover to cover. While Leonard's purpose is to serve as a kind of midwife for the creativity of others, The Call to Create is at times so well written that it is itself a creative act worth celebrating. Anyway, if you get a chance to get your hands on it, you're in for a very interesting read. That's enough of a plug. I won't be back until after (Canadian) Thanksgiving. For a writer's Thanksgiving, I suggest you give thanks for your talents, your ability to appreciate, and for your favourite artists & books…

A Corollary of This Golden Age...

Come to think of it, garage sales are such a such a prominent feature of North American life there must be a garage sale literature.... What a fertile subject! What a way to meditate on use, misuse, superfluity, the passage of time … it has all the elements of still life, Van Gogh's shoes… here you're free to include any of what Bly refers to as "the hundred thousand objects of modern life" (which his poems carefully exclude…to his credit at least as much as discredit…)

To me the most memorable piece on garage sales has to be not a poem or short story of novel, but a song. But so close to a poem it is… Tom Waits' Soldier's Things on the Swordfishtrombones album. (That has to be one of my favourite albums, ever, not to mention one of my favourite bits of songwriting...) Here are the lyrics, devoid of course of the expressiveness of Waits' rust-bucket voice:

Davenports and kettledrums
and swallow tail coats
table cloths and patent leather shoes
bathing suits and bowling balls
and clarinets and rings…
and all this radio really needs
is a fuse

a tinker, a tailor
a soldier's things
his rifle, his books full of rocks
and this one is for bravery
and this one is for me
and everything's a dollar
in this box…

Cuff links and hub caps
trophies and paperbacks
it's good transportation
but the brakes aren't so hot
necktie and boxing gloves
this jackknife is rusted
you can pound that dent out
on the hood

a tinker, a tailor etc.

If any of you readers out there can think of a great piece of garage sale literature, tell me what it is, send it (especially if it's a poem) along… if not, maybe you can write one yourself!

THE GOLDEN AGE OF GARAGE SALES

Haven't been inclined to post… many "deep & profound & penetrating issues" I could write about, but been cleaning my desk, the whole house actually, + getting ready to make a new round of submissions. (Deep & profound enough in its own way.) For the last two weekends, we've (my partner Jocelyne & I) have been taking advantage of garage sale bonanzas. We haven't even been looking for them. We just came across them walking down the street. Jocelyne bought two leather coats, one from England, one from Italy, both very stylish and in pristine condition, for all of $40 for the first and $15 for the other. Even I lucked out on a fabulous leather jacket, which was for sale for $30 at the local cleaners… apparently whoever who was left it, didn't pick it up. This weekend, we bought a gorgeous clay pot for $15, a clay smiling sun (such as we see on astrology charts, but not at all tacky) which we have in the corner of the kitchen, for $15, an extraordinary terra cotta coffee mug for $3, a beautiful wicker/forged iron in/out tray sort of thing for $40 (a bit pricey, but it occasioned my cleanup), & a Faber & Faber collection of poetry called By Heart - 101 Poems to Remember, edited by Ted Hughes, in his final poet laureate years, for $1. (Actually a damned interesting little collection, with a good introductory essay on mnemonic devises.) This from a very interesting young woman with plenty of culture & good taste who was selling off all her things "for higher than average garage sale prices" to go off and volunteer teach in a cooperative school in India. With this higher cause - and pictures up of her cooperative, of the classroom she was going to teach in, & explanations of how she was going to help underprivileged children of India, she was a very persuasive salesperson. Nobody bargained her down.
In North America at least, this has to be the golden age of garage sales. Everybody with so much junk to sell. Even good stuff. As far as clothes are concerned, here in Montreal with outlets like Rennaissance & La Free-prix on Ontario St., if you've got a sharp eye (Jocelyne has that, fortunate for me) and a minimal degree of patience, there's need these days to go to retailers except for socks, shoes and underwear. (A secret perhaps we should keep to ourselves - but then many shy from the possibility of wearing dead people's clothing… and so prefer to shell out to the living dead, at retail prices.)

In the miniature novel that is a poem,
each word is a chapter.