Pressing shuffle...

Today, after working out at the Y, I went to the Arts Cafe (one of several "boho-ish" cafes in my neighborhood) and read Simic's Selected and Hicok's This Clumsy Living -- one poem of one, then one poem of the other, to balance and blend each other's flavours, so to speak. Funny how so many poets are like a restaurant with one dish on the menu, or if a number of dishes, all cooked the same way, seasoned with the same herbs and spices. These two are terrific poets: I'm not complaining about the quality of what they dish out. They have truly "found their voice" (or taste buds). But after a few poems, yeah, I get the idea, I get the tone and cadence, and something in me yearns for a more adventurous eclecticism. Hence, this rather more satisfying method of reading: take two or three collections-- preferably by poets of significant contrast -- and go from one to the other to the other ... rather like putting several music discs in a CD tray and pressing "shuffle".

So much for the hype...

Tonight I was strongly considering heading down to the Sala Rossa to see spoken word pioneer John Giorno perform. Montreal's Hour gave him its supreme hype -- last week's cover and a full page spread -- proclaiming him a "literary icon" with a "star-studded legendary life", "internationally acclaimed", "one of the last living sons of the Beat Generation."

This kind of attention, of course, is rare for a poet.

And yes, from the interview and photos you can tell Giorno's a charismatic dude with interesting stories to tell, and at 72, he's unlikely to swing through these parts again.

But a telling thing is, not a line of his poetry was quoted in the article.

And because of tonight's weather -- a particularly nasty combination of blowing snow and sleet -- I balked further about hoofing 2 km. down the road and shelling out $12 to see him. Is this guy really worth it? (You see, like so many "legends", I had never actually heard of him until he pulled into town.)

So I decided to look him up on the net. And sure enough, his poetry is crap. You need only to read this to see how he strings together dead metaphors, hackneyed slogans and cliches. For a guy who hung with the likes of Ginsberg, Kerouac, and Burroughs, he didn't learn a lot -- about the art of writing, at least.

His Youtube performance is considerably more compelling, but like much of what goes under the rubric spoken word, it rings hollow because it consists of bad writing grandstanded into something, well, pseudo-compelling.

To his credit, Giorno founded Giorno Poetry Systems, releasing over 40 LP's of Allen Ginsberg, William Burroughs, Ted Berrigan, Frank O'Hara, Aram Saroyan, and others. In 1968 he also created Dial-A-Poem, a wildly successful poetry promotion and an interesting concept even today. Besides being the subject of a couple of Andy Warhol's more controversial films, Giorno's greatest legacy may be as an energetic enabler and presenter of other writers.

Whatever Giorno is himself as a writer, there's got to be lot of genuine love behind that kind of effort. Besides, of course, the requisite dose of ego.

In the meantime, I'm going to thumb my nose at the weather, lie back and read Sylvia Plath's The Belljar. Now, that woman's prose absolutely crackles. (Her poetry, of course, deserves all the superlatives it's been given.) I'm also going to dip into Charles Simic's Selected and Bob Hicok's This Clumsy Living, which arrived today in the mail.

Hicok afterwards

Thanks to Andrew Shields for posting a link to this poem by Bob Hicok. (Andrew in turn found this link on C.Dale Young's blog: both bloggers are on my blogroll.) Hicok, one can gather from the poem, was one of the Virginia Tech killer's creative writing teachers. He's also fast becoming one of my favourite contemporary poets: I can say that with confidence although I have yet to order a book of his. More links to his work can be found via the label below.

Bob Hicok

A rare example of "leaping poetry" here from from Poetry.org's April daily poem. I may just order some of this guy's work... looks good!

IN MICHAEL ROBINS' CLASS MINUS ONE

At the desk where the boy sat, he sees the Chicago River.
It raises its hand.
It asks if metaphor should burn.
He says fire is the basis for all forms of the mouth.
He asks, why did you fill the boy with your going?
I didn’t know a boy had been added to me, the river says.
Would you have given him back if you knew?
I think so, the river says, I have so many boys in me,
 I’m worn out stroking eyes looking up at the day.
Have you written a poem for us, he asks the river,
 and the river reads its poem,
 and the other students tell the river
 it sounds like a poem the boy would have written,
 that they smell the boy’s cigarettes
 in the poem, they feel his teeth
 biting the page.
And the river asks, did this boy dream of horses
 because I suddenly dream of horses, I suddenly dream.
They’re in a circle and the river says, I’ve never understood
 round things, why would leaving come back
 to itself?
And a girl makes a kiss with her mouth and leans it
 against the river, and the kiss flows away
 but the river wants it back, the river makes sounds
 to go after the kiss.
And they all make sounds for the river to carry to the boy.
And the river promises to never surrender the boy’s shape
 to the ocean.