March 12, 2011 § 1 Comment
I learned the notion of celebrity like shoe-tying, like praying. I learned distance. Names, not people, create what we imbibe, construct what we consume. Let’s take poet Kenneth Koch. The name Kenneth Koch is two disembodied words made of poems and essays arbitrarily dubbed Kenneth Koch. Can one speak to a Kenneth Koch? Just as DaVinci = Mona Lisa and Edison = light bulb, Kenneth Koch = “One Train May Hide Another.” Intangible Kenneth Koch does not tie his shoes. He sits on a cloud, sleeping with women.
Or rather, in my reverence, I mythologize these individuals, sculpting the equivalent of Greek gods or Catholic saints. Kerouac as Dionysus. Brautigan as St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes. Or I ascribe these creators with the abstract concepts they embody. Nick Flynn is childhood pain. Ann Carson is intellectual experiment. Philip Levine is blue collar work. Frank O’Hara is an afternoon carefree.
January 25, 2011 § 3 Comments
Every time the bucks went clattering
A firecat bristled in the way.
Wherever they went,
They went clattering,
Until they swerved
In a swift, circular line
To the right,
Because of the firecat.
Or until they swerved
In a swift, circular line
To the left,
Because of the firecat.
The bucks clattered.
The firecat went leaping,
To the right, to the left,
Bristled in the way.
Later, the firecat closed his bright eyes
Signs of the frontier—sonorous, repetitious, dreamed. We often recognize the presence of the unknown by what Wallace Stevens here names “clatter”: an ambient chaos, the solid thrum of footfalls upon footfalls. The cycle of pursuit, evasion, and repose upon the edges of the mind. To introduce us to Harmonium, Stevens’ seminal 1923 collection of mostly lyrical inventions, he fades into a haze of dust in the banal panhandle of Oklahoma. But what has been stirred up?
Welcome (perhaps in familiar greeting, to the cowboys and cowgirls among us) to the natural energy of migration upon the earth’s open landscapes. It might be a symbol for the stampede of the imagination, or myriad other energies. These sorts of movements are always at work in life as we know it. In fact, they comprise it. But with motion, as far as I’ve ever experienced, comes the refrain of order. Repetition reminds us of the shape of chaos. The bristle of the superego herds the tumultuous advance of the id into pastures of comprehension. Likewise in Stevens’ exploration—because of his attention to this matter as a feeling, breathing consciousness—the clouds of dust are consumed by the voice of the poet, whose wash of aggression and resistance, scuttle of words and solid bristle of form, will guide page by page into promises of passage.
A kaleidoscope upon the plains or page, the dance of vectors over the sheer plane of consciousness: Stevens reinvents the lyric in its panoramic or aerial form, where there is no “I” to proffer explanation. Instead of personal perspective, there is only distanced, disembodied pattern—a crop circle in the imagination. If the topography of Stevens’ anecdotes correspond at any point to those of Wordsworth’s lyrical wanderings, it is likely only in the familiarity with which both poets return to their particular places: “after many wanderings, many years / Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, / And this green pastoral landscape, were to me / More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!”
In its earthiness, “Earthy Anecdote” repeats the eclogues of Virgil and his successors, but this time in mythic American space, vast and unpopulated. It chronicles not agrarian labor but the work of linguistic cultivation. There is no hand yet at work in such a scene.
But shape can also menace: form, whether of language or landscape or predatory firecats, constrains the creativity of the mind, but also its intelligence. As the first gatekeeper explains in one of Kafka’s infinitely constrained parables, “I am powerful. And I am only the least of the doorkeepers. From hall to hall there is one doorkeeper after another, each more powerful than the last. The third doorkeeper is already so terrible that even I cannot bear to look at him.”
In composition, there is a time of cowering that can supersede the sensation of inspiration. This might be what makes the Romantic vision of spiritual space so fleeting, or misleading even. Time passes. Bob Dylan sings a chorus that rhymes with “rangin.” We know now that the bulk of pre-industrial droves will be bolted onto the riveted floor of machinists and managers. Buffalo have long been on the cusp of extinction. Their silhouettes and shag return in analog legends and nerve endings. What kinesis there is circles in the interior spaces, if anywhere, vaulting out at times into the empty space of the firecat’s smoldering eyes.
Read more from our friend Ryan at: http://looseleafcollection.blogspot.com
July 13, 2010 § 3 Comments
If it please God,
let less happen.
Even out Earth’s
the Grand Canyon,
to arable land,
halving or doubling
all geographical features
toward the mean.
Unlean against our hearts.
Withdraw your grandeur
from these parts.
Pretend: Every moment is an altar to some god. Every act, a sacrifice. Every thought, worship.
When we reach the limits of our thoughts, when we are incapable of processing the available information, we experience paralysis. In scientific terms, our prefrontal cortex— the rational mind— has overmastered our amygdalae, those limbic nuggets that spritz dopamine into our system, cause fear, and in extreme cases, a supreme sense of awe. Euphoria.
With that mastery of the amygdala, we lost the sort of worship that overcomes. That brings us to our knees. Makes us babble. Renders us glossolalic. That feeling you get when you peer down into the Grand Canyon, feel your face slacken, stomach-drop, and body sing with unknowing. The afterglow of which Plato describes as that terrifying, paralyzing feeling of knowing that you do not know. Aporia.
Humans have figured a lot out since Plato. There’s a lot of certainty now; if God is dead, religion is an afterthought, and with it we lose all of its metaphors.
In Blandeur, Kay Ryan becomes the priestess heralding our loss. The Vicar of Irony interceding on our behalf. Instead of a prophet coming out of the wilderness, Ryan wanders into the Badlands – the Holy of Holies – begging God to shut down the show. Through terse sentences, she refrains from involving us in the pyrotechnics of description. Eiger, the Grand Canyon, are superlatives incarnate, but since these peaks and abysses are what we want less of, the poet does us the courtesy of not expounding.
She knows her flock; she understands what our imaginations are capable of, and that’s what she is here to excise on our behalf. However, the methods are extreme. The only solution is to unmake the world as we know it. Flatten, widen, blanden. It’s not good enough to ignore or forget, move away or hide from. The mountains must be snipped out. The rivers gutted, valleys softened, mesas decimated. If not, we might happen upon them, stumbling westward into the Rockies, and remember what we tried so hard to unlearn.
If it were only about geography, that would be one thing, but Ryan knows the natural world is a cipher. A key that unlocks the gaping awe and opens our hearts to new metaphors, deepening our range of experience. In fact, Nature stretches our minds beyond the limit, leaving us paralyzed in that ineffable space, that once God-filled hole in our lexicon.
Ryan is sympathetic. We can’t go around feeling such fear, such aching doubt, such depth of longing all the time. But even more importantly, we cannot knowingly bear the absence of those feelings in our lives. In the face of such potent metaphors, we seem petty. Our small joys turn to peccadilloes. Our small wills push us to meager pleasures. The focus of our worship is transitory, worldly, decaying, even deathward.
We remember that we are guilty. We are the ones who erupted the guts of that gulf with crude black oil. We defiled the Ocean, the master of depth who also taught the awe of distance; granted us, through inborn empathy, the ferocity of a tempest. And now we’ve begun to ruin something that we did not think we could ruin. Killed the inhabitants of Holy Places.
Kay Ryan need not address religion directly in this poem because she addresses God. If anything religion exists as a metaphor for Nature, not the other way around. Dealing in contrivances, our cathedrals replicate the vault of heaven. The stony silences of canyons. Even the transcendent purities of light through stainedglass, suffusing motes of dust replicate the fingers of dawn shooting through gaps in clouds. Manmade places of worship are nature distilled, tools to inspire awe, while still pointing obliquely toward humankind.
But oceans, beyond icons cannot be shattered. The mountain in the halo of fog is more blameless than a saint. Holy writ is scrawled in the tessellated floes of northward ice. The whole breadth of nature is sanctuary. There is no room for misinterpretations. We are struck dumb, humbled, made to worship. When we look into the pristine, time-gouged canyon, we see that no peace exists in us that was not taught by the Grandeur of Nature. No Holiness abides without it.
So, Ryan understands that we must shrink the very features of the world so that our metaphors for depth, for breadth of longing, for the Holy, bodily yearnings that undo our available world, no longer overcome us. No longer dwarf us. We have to wipe out the visions that tell us, even in finite space, we are small. Destructible. That tell us, against the forever bodies of Mountains and Valleys, we are inchmeal for Time’s threshing floor.
If we believe there is no God, the feeling of God— or that something Godlike exists— is that much more painful. So, Ryan, the Vicar of Irony, intercedes, begging the only one powerful enough to undo the world that sparks our doubt. She begs the selfsame Mystery that we want to forget. Just as the world came in on a Word, in this Psalm, Ryan unmakes the Earth using words.
Let there be less.
But the poem starts with a twist, and even in simple turns, Ryan’s conceit inspires awe. She knows that as she unmakes the Earth and the glaciers fall silent, worship hums in the air around their absence. Her scissoring rhymes arrive too soon, making the sparse poem seem sparer still. Halving the words, doubling the power. We watch the world slump into a formlessness and the valley’s stretch and iron out their depth, but there is still the horizon-forever. Still, the ground we walk on is marbled with red granites, golden white swatches of sand, quaking forests, shimmering wheat fields. An Iowan paradise.
In the world of Blandeur, the rough thought of being is enough to inspire awe.
Conversely, in the face of such monuments, struck down by awe, only our brains can unmake God.
When a God we don’t believe in leans against our hearts, we sacrifice.