Luc Sante in the new New York Review of Books writes about mix tapes. "[T]he mix tape ... is one part Victorian flower album, one part commonplace book, one part collage, and one part recital."
Sometimes I just find the list of artists fascinating, as in my latest mix:
1. Adrift in Kerala ... Bob Holroyd
2. Patent Pending ... Lamplighter
3. Waiting for Conrad ... Shooglenifty
4. Big in Japan ... Tom Waits
5. Mustard ... Latin Playboys
6. Rockin' the Bronx ... Black 47
7. Goldrush ... The Herbalizer
8. Duria ... Ferdoos
9. Katami-Bushi ... Parsha Club
10. Electric Lady Land ... Fantastic Plastic Machine
11. If We Can Land a Man on the Moon, Surely I can Win Your Heart ... Beulah
12. Please ... The Hippos
13. Man with the Hex ... The Atomic Fireballs
14. Flame ... Sebadoh
15. Lipstick ... Imperial Teen
16. Don't Bring Me Down ... J Church
17. Murder (or a Heart Attack) ... Old 97s
18. Unholy Train ... Damnations, TX
19. Can't Stand It ... Wilco
Friday, April 30, 2004
Kent's version
without dog unhooked from leather leash heaving himself at the frisbee,
without brown bottles broken in the coals of old fires,
without any touching in the dark spaces of dunes,
no volleyball, no towel,
mine the only body in which wind
could warm itself cold with sea,
... the sea’s hem crackling yellow foam
... me the one in cotton
my tears the only other water
but for blood
... sand fleas, a lonesome gull,
... strewn and sanded wood,
but no one with a camera,
blanket, sunscreen bottle leaking
I was it
without brown bottles broken in the coals of old fires,
without any touching in the dark spaces of dunes,
no volleyball, no towel,
mine the only body in which wind
could warm itself cold with sea,
... the sea’s hem crackling yellow foam
... me the one in cotton
my tears the only other water
but for blood
... sand fleas, a lonesome gull,
... strewn and sanded wood,
but no one with a camera,
blanket, sunscreen bottle leaking
I was it
comments on version 3
I posted the first stanza of version 3 a few minutes ago, said to myself, "False start." So I went back and did some more work. Didn't I say I had to allow myself to make things worse?
"Interoceptor" version 3
without dog unhooked from leather leash heaving himself at the frisbee with the chewed edge,
without brown bottles broken in the coals of old fires,
without anyone touching in the dark spaces of dunes,
without volleyball, without towel,
mine the only body in which wind
could warm itself cold with sea,
my tears the only other water
but for blood -- in the sand fleas, in the lonesome gull,
yellow foam at the sea’s hem crackling
and me the one in cotton
among strewn and sanded wood,
not sharing this space with anyone with a camera,
no blanket, no sunscreen bottle leaking
I was it
day
one shore
without brown bottles broken in the coals of old fires,
without anyone touching in the dark spaces of dunes,
without volleyball, without towel,
mine the only body in which wind
could warm itself cold with sea,
my tears the only other water
but for blood -- in the sand fleas, in the lonesome gull,
yellow foam at the sea’s hem crackling
and me the one in cotton
among strewn and sanded wood,
not sharing this space with anyone with a camera,
no blanket, no sunscreen bottle leaking
I was it
day
one shore
Sunday, April 25, 2004
"Kill your babies"
I found a couple places that attribute "Kill your babies" (regarding excising during revision the parts of the piece of which you are most fond) to William Faulkner. Not sure the sources are unimpeachable.
Josh Marshall characterizes the people running our country
A "combustible mix of poor judgment, rich ideological fantasy life and pervasive disrespect for the rule of a law." Here.
Saturday, April 24, 2004
comments on version 2
I remember Richard Speakes commenting on the block thick look of my poems of the time. I began putting in stanza breaks more frequently after that. A stanza break really does give the eye relief. Since we're using lines here, might as well use stanza breaks to help highlight what the line is doing. Otherwise it's much like a block of prose with tight margins.
I like the poem's rush of lists so would like to keep that. I like the poem's sound play ("brown bottles broken in the coals of old fires" being a line of which I'm quite fond). Here I remember Robert Hass quoting another poet (or novelist?), "Kill your babies." Hass shook his head sadly. "He must have been a terrible teacher."
(I did a quick google search on "Kill your babies," and found instances where it occurs as writerly advice but the best attribution I saw was, "a writing teacher once told me.")
This version makes more sense than the first. I did lose some of the poem's forward rush. Which I miss.
I like the poem's rush of lists so would like to keep that. I like the poem's sound play ("brown bottles broken in the coals of old fires" being a line of which I'm quite fond). Here I remember Robert Hass quoting another poet (or novelist?), "Kill your babies." Hass shook his head sadly. "He must have been a terrible teacher."
(I did a quick google search on "Kill your babies," and found instances where it occurs as writerly advice but the best attribution I saw was, "a writing teacher once told me.")
This version makes more sense than the first. I did lose some of the poem's forward rush. Which I miss.
"Interoceptor" version 2
The beach was splendid without anyone touching
in the dark spaces of dunes, without
brown bottles broken in the coals of old fires,
without the dog unhooked from leather leash heaving
himself at the frisbee with the chewed edge.
When I was the only body in which the wind
could warm itself cold with sea,
when my tears were the only other water
but for blood -- in the sand fleas, in the lonesome gull,
when yellow foam crackled at the thin hem of the sea
I was the only one in cotton, the only one
standing among strewn and sanded wood,
not sharing this space with anyone with a camera,
no volleyball, no blanket, towel or sunscreen bottle leaking.
I was the body, large enough to remain unfilled,
my eyes taking in what daylight offered --
sea, shore, single sand grain the wind bore high,
and I filled myself continuously, building
with these materials the small version of everything.
And the sand held my feet and stone sand and burning stone
cold stone. All below burning and shifting and standing
kept me steady where I was, my clothes blowing,
my hands open, spread to catch and let slip
what crept to me, what flew by, what sang or screamed,
the ocean bending near and forward falling.
in the dark spaces of dunes, without
brown bottles broken in the coals of old fires,
without the dog unhooked from leather leash heaving
himself at the frisbee with the chewed edge.
When I was the only body in which the wind
could warm itself cold with sea,
when my tears were the only other water
but for blood -- in the sand fleas, in the lonesome gull,
when yellow foam crackled at the thin hem of the sea
I was the only one in cotton, the only one
standing among strewn and sanded wood,
not sharing this space with anyone with a camera,
no volleyball, no blanket, towel or sunscreen bottle leaking.
I was the body, large enough to remain unfilled,
my eyes taking in what daylight offered --
sea, shore, single sand grain the wind bore high,
and I filled myself continuously, building
with these materials the small version of everything.
And the sand held my feet and stone sand and burning stone
cold stone. All below burning and shifting and standing
kept me steady where I was, my clothes blowing,
my hands open, spread to catch and let slip
what crept to me, what flew by, what sang or screamed,
the ocean bending near and forward falling.
Friday, April 23, 2004
comments on "Interoceptor"
"Interoceptor" was published in The Tomcat, a poetry journal out of Petaluma CA that saw a few issues back in 1990 and thereabouts.
I like it. It needs work. How to change it to make it better? Throw out the fear of making it worse. This is probably what will happen at first. I'd like to see a version of "Interoceptor" I'm really proud of, instead of intrigued by but find slightly embarassing. I'm reminded of Renee Gladman introducing her reading last night by saying she was going to read a sex scene and she wasn't sure she was going to be able to say the word "pussy" without blushing. That kind of embarassment should be OK. Rather I'm thinking about the failed metaphors, the yellow foam like a shaken soft drink or the bricks of the wall of air. So I'll be attempting revisions and you'll see them here.
I haven't been to poetry readings much lately. I went last night to the Holloway Poetry Series on UC campus. Renee Gladman, Pamela Lu, and Chris Chen. Chris looked good with a shaved head. Renee remembered my "Hundred" piece from years ago. Pam read way too long. I wasn't going to say that because Pam said, "I read your blog!" and I want to say only nice things so people will like me. Fortunately I did enjoy "Ambient Parking Lots" (some of it very funny) so as too long poetry readings go it coulda bin wurs. And the torture chairs of the Maud Fife room didn't afflict me so bad this time because (a) I had a jacket thick enough to wad up for padding and (b) all that yoga has strengthened my back to the point I don't always have to lean my weight against an object outside my body. I asked Pam if I could excerpt from "Ambient Parking Lots" for HCR. My poetry pages are almost full.
I like it. It needs work. How to change it to make it better? Throw out the fear of making it worse. This is probably what will happen at first. I'd like to see a version of "Interoceptor" I'm really proud of, instead of intrigued by but find slightly embarassing. I'm reminded of Renee Gladman introducing her reading last night by saying she was going to read a sex scene and she wasn't sure she was going to be able to say the word "pussy" without blushing. That kind of embarassment should be OK. Rather I'm thinking about the failed metaphors, the yellow foam like a shaken soft drink or the bricks of the wall of air. So I'll be attempting revisions and you'll see them here.
I haven't been to poetry readings much lately. I went last night to the Holloway Poetry Series on UC campus. Renee Gladman, Pamela Lu, and Chris Chen. Chris looked good with a shaved head. Renee remembered my "Hundred" piece from years ago. Pam read way too long. I wasn't going to say that because Pam said, "I read your blog!" and I want to say only nice things so people will like me. Fortunately I did enjoy "Ambient Parking Lots" (some of it very funny) so as too long poetry readings go it coulda bin wurs. And the torture chairs of the Maud Fife room didn't afflict me so bad this time because (a) I had a jacket thick enough to wad up for padding and (b) all that yoga has strengthened my back to the point I don't always have to lean my weight against an object outside my body. I asked Pam if I could excerpt from "Ambient Parking Lots" for HCR. My poetry pages are almost full.
Interoceptor
The beach was splendid without anyone touching
in the dark spaces of dunes, without brown bottles broken in the coals of old fires,
without the dog unhooked from leather leash heaving
himself at the frisbee with the chewed edge.
When I was the only body through which the wind
could rattle before reaching the earth,
when my tears were the only water besides the sea
and the blood in the sand fleas and the single gull,
when the yellow foam at the thin hem of the sea coming up
reminded me of a shaken soft drink or the top of the grapefruit juice,
and I was the only one in cotton, the only one
standing beside the strewn and sanded wood,
I was not sharing this space with anyone with a camera,
no volleyball, no blanket, towel or sunscreen bottle leaking,
when every little thing went through and into me and
not to or through or from anyone else –
that was not perfect,
but a certain great smallness.
My body felt large, my eyes big enough to take in
this section of the shore, my head to hold it,
my lungs to carry the bricks of the wall of air,
my feet to press down the grains that one to one to one to
rock to vein to liquid metal stayed down,
and there was I, in my body, in my clothes blowing,
open to the undersides of my fingers to the face,
the cliff, the elbows of the ocean bending.
in the dark spaces of dunes, without brown bottles broken in the coals of old fires,
without the dog unhooked from leather leash heaving
himself at the frisbee with the chewed edge.
When I was the only body through which the wind
could rattle before reaching the earth,
when my tears were the only water besides the sea
and the blood in the sand fleas and the single gull,
when the yellow foam at the thin hem of the sea coming up
reminded me of a shaken soft drink or the top of the grapefruit juice,
and I was the only one in cotton, the only one
standing beside the strewn and sanded wood,
I was not sharing this space with anyone with a camera,
no volleyball, no blanket, towel or sunscreen bottle leaking,
when every little thing went through and into me and
not to or through or from anyone else –
that was not perfect,
but a certain great smallness.
My body felt large, my eyes big enough to take in
this section of the shore, my head to hold it,
my lungs to carry the bricks of the wall of air,
my feet to press down the grains that one to one to one to
rock to vein to liquid metal stayed down,
and there was I, in my body, in my clothes blowing,
open to the undersides of my fingers to the face,
the cliff, the elbows of the ocean bending.
Sunday, April 11, 2004
poetry contests
I loathe contests. Especially contests for the publication of poetry. I'll give a pass to those that don't charge an entry fee, but then why call it a contest? Why not make it known your press is looking for poems then publish or celebrate those that you like the most? There's a new site that wants to blow the lid off the contest scam: Foetry!
Good luck.
When I spoke with Michael Martin yesterday morning (he in Amsterdam, me in Berkeley), he said every year he chooses work from his magazine to nominate for a Pushcart Prize. Having read the Pushcart anthology three or four years in a row (this was 15 years ago or so) I can't say as I understood Mike's agonizing over his choices. Sending work on to the Pushcart judges means you're giving your contributors another chance at publication, this time in a rather nifty-looking anthology. If anything gets in the anthology the magazine of first publication gets a little notice. Other than the silly "best" designation I don't see any harm or anything to agonize about. The editors of the Pushcart anthologies have their tastes, tastes which sometimes coincide with mine. What they publish is what they like, best or whatever. If I were a magazine editor I'd nominate some poems (or stories or ...), or I'd intend to, but I wouldn't have much expectation Bill Henderson would love what I love. I've seen other poets crow about "being nominated for a Pushcart Prize." Well, yay for them. It means the editor of the magazine that published the poem liked the poem a lot. Something like that happened to me.
Good luck.
When I spoke with Michael Martin yesterday morning (he in Amsterdam, me in Berkeley), he said every year he chooses work from his magazine to nominate for a Pushcart Prize. Having read the Pushcart anthology three or four years in a row (this was 15 years ago or so) I can't say as I understood Mike's agonizing over his choices. Sending work on to the Pushcart judges means you're giving your contributors another chance at publication, this time in a rather nifty-looking anthology. If anything gets in the anthology the magazine of first publication gets a little notice. Other than the silly "best" designation I don't see any harm or anything to agonize about. The editors of the Pushcart anthologies have their tastes, tastes which sometimes coincide with mine. What they publish is what they like, best or whatever. If I were a magazine editor I'd nominate some poems (or stories or ...), or I'd intend to, but I wouldn't have much expectation Bill Henderson would love what I love. I've seen other poets crow about "being nominated for a Pushcart Prize." Well, yay for them. It means the editor of the magazine that published the poem liked the poem a lot. Something like that happened to me.
why I haven't gotten an MFA
I've wondered about getting the MFA in poetry. I haven't agonized about it, exactly. But I have thought seriously ... mainly as a way to get connected to other poets and mentors who would further my poetic career. I so hate the whole marketing thing -- even to choosing poems to print out and put in an envelope, but most especially rejection -- that months will pass between flurries of sending out. What would change after two years of grad school and, likely, thousands of dollars of debt? Surely I'd gain that motivation for getting my poems out to the world. Surely, surely.
Uh huh. Daniel Nestor has a post about the consequences of his stint at NYU. (If the preceding link doesn't get you to Nestor's blog, try this; it's the April 11 post.) I don't know Nestor's poetry but here's some fine disgruntled snarking about his former teachers:
My praise of these teachers ends with their poems. As part of the NYU creative writing program, Olds, Kinnell and Levine were all uniformly uninterested in students, limited their time to a minmum of access for fear of being "overwhelmed" by their students (that was a word we heard a lot), and most damningly, were not not empathetic with what students were doing in their poems. The only way to hold the interest of any of these teachers was to write a poem in their own style, except worse, so as to make them feel good, as well as give them something to say to improve it (i.e., make it one of their poems).
[...]
I remember once when a student asked Galway Kinnell what we should do when we get out of grad school -- should we apply for teaching jobs, send poems to journals?
Kinnell paused, looked at the ceiling -- dreaming, no doubt, about his garden's new Spring sprouts in his Vermont house, where he would haul ass to the day after this last workshop -- and said to "just be a poet" after grad school.
Har har.
At UC Berkeley I took an undergraduate workshop with Robert Hass and I know I tried to emulate Hass somewhat. Mostly unconscious, I think. I didn't realize how constricted my poetry had been until I was in Lyn Hejinian's workshop. I liked Lyn much more as a teacher. But I have no bitterness about Robert Hass. He struck me as a sweet man, honestly interested in his students. His reputation and those other students who were trying to be like him had something to do with what happened to my poetry.
Uh huh. Daniel Nestor has a post about the consequences of his stint at NYU. (If the preceding link doesn't get you to Nestor's blog, try this; it's the April 11 post.) I don't know Nestor's poetry but here's some fine disgruntled snarking about his former teachers:
My praise of these teachers ends with their poems. As part of the NYU creative writing program, Olds, Kinnell and Levine were all uniformly uninterested in students, limited their time to a minmum of access for fear of being "overwhelmed" by their students (that was a word we heard a lot), and most damningly, were not not empathetic with what students were doing in their poems. The only way to hold the interest of any of these teachers was to write a poem in their own style, except worse, so as to make them feel good, as well as give them something to say to improve it (i.e., make it one of their poems).
[...]
I remember once when a student asked Galway Kinnell what we should do when we get out of grad school -- should we apply for teaching jobs, send poems to journals?
Kinnell paused, looked at the ceiling -- dreaming, no doubt, about his garden's new Spring sprouts in his Vermont house, where he would haul ass to the day after this last workshop -- and said to "just be a poet" after grad school.
Har har.
At UC Berkeley I took an undergraduate workshop with Robert Hass and I know I tried to emulate Hass somewhat. Mostly unconscious, I think. I didn't realize how constricted my poetry had been until I was in Lyn Hejinian's workshop. I liked Lyn much more as a teacher. But I have no bitterness about Robert Hass. He struck me as a sweet man, honestly interested in his students. His reputation and those other students who were trying to be like him had something to do with what happened to my poetry.
Sunday, April 04, 2004
more on the "controversy" I mentioned yesterday
The blogger who got in trouble for his lack of sympathy for the lynched mercenaries in Iraq runs Daily Kos, a site I visit frequently. There's a full rundown of the fallout of Kos' comments at The Blogging of the President. An excerpt:
When I produced the call-in talk radio radio pilot 'The Blogging of the President', I noticed some interesting similarities between talk radio and blogs. Call-in talk radio is organized around authentic conversation, and so are blogs; Howard Stern and Atrios have similar levels of devotion among their audiences, because they each connect and seem trustworthy. There is however one key difference between blogs and talk radio; blogs create memory, whereas talk radio and cable punditry destroys it by turning opinion and analysis into an ethereal product.
When I produced the call-in talk radio radio pilot 'The Blogging of the President', I noticed some interesting similarities between talk radio and blogs. Call-in talk radio is organized around authentic conversation, and so are blogs; Howard Stern and Atrios have similar levels of devotion among their audiences, because they each connect and seem trustworthy. There is however one key difference between blogs and talk radio; blogs create memory, whereas talk radio and cable punditry destroys it by turning opinion and analysis into an ethereal product.
Saturday, April 03, 2004
have headache, will feel yucky
I liked that revision thing. I'll do it again.
Is there anything in the news these days that would make one happy? Lynchings in Iraq? One blogger I read regularly has no sympathy because the Americans killed were highly paid mercenaries and the US response will probably result in more (American & noncombatant Iraqi) deaths. When I saw the pictures of the charred bodies hung from a bridge with happy children dancing beneath, it put me in mind of classic American lynchings. Used to be there was a lively postcard trade in such images. Regardless of whether the killed are innocents or criminals I don't want to see crowds exulting over tormented human bodies. I followed as closely as I could the news of the Tiananmen protests and when the Chinese army started to kill people it was no surprise (and, yes, I felt a sense of satisfaction) when crowds managed to strike back and set fire to troop carriers or drag a soldier from a bus and rip him apart. Can we all agree this stuff is bad? ...
I haven't gone to Mel Gibson's Passion of the Christ. A film about Jesus wouldn't be high on my to-see list anyway, that it's a film of him being brutalized does drop it further down that list. On the other hand, I am thinking about seeing the remake of Dawn of the Dead. Zombies. They're already dead.
Is there anything in the news these days that would make one happy? Lynchings in Iraq? One blogger I read regularly has no sympathy because the Americans killed were highly paid mercenaries and the US response will probably result in more (American & noncombatant Iraqi) deaths. When I saw the pictures of the charred bodies hung from a bridge with happy children dancing beneath, it put me in mind of classic American lynchings. Used to be there was a lively postcard trade in such images. Regardless of whether the killed are innocents or criminals I don't want to see crowds exulting over tormented human bodies. I followed as closely as I could the news of the Tiananmen protests and when the Chinese army started to kill people it was no surprise (and, yes, I felt a sense of satisfaction) when crowds managed to strike back and set fire to troop carriers or drag a soldier from a bus and rip him apart. Can we all agree this stuff is bad? ...
I haven't gone to Mel Gibson's Passion of the Christ. A film about Jesus wouldn't be high on my to-see list anyway, that it's a film of him being brutalized does drop it further down that list. On the other hand, I am thinking about seeing the remake of Dawn of the Dead. Zombies. They're already dead.
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