Prophet Muhammad

Butts and crap!
There is no religion or faith when one must fear not God, but the followers of a god.
The whole "Prophet Muhammad" crap has got to go.
We can tolerate faiths,
we can tolerate beliefs,
we cannot tolerate violence in the name of anything.

Prophet Muhammad Prophet Muhammad Prophet Muhammad Prophet Muhammad Prophet Muhammad Prophet Muhammad Prophet Muhammad Prophet Muhammad Prophet Muhammad Prophet Muhammad Prophet Muhammad

AWP 2010 Recap

Though certainly appreciative of the comments and traffic and progress generated by the 14th's post, I've got other things to cover. As I said, I returned on Sunday from the AWP 2010 Annual Conference in Denver. Here's the recap:

Disclaimer: If I don't include your name or a good link for you, please forgive me--I'm pretty terrible with names. Just leave a comment or shoot an email and I'll correct the problem.

Flew into Denver about 11p.m. Wednesday night. I know the conference "starts" on Wednesday but I've not been able to drag myself there before Thursday morning yet. Perhaps next year, in D.C.

After using my CPAP machine (why is there an 8-ball in that picture) for the first time (so that's what sleep is like!), I got up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Thursday morning, had a delightful breakfast with the friends who had so generously donated their house for the weekend (seriously, y'all--unless you hit the donate button on the right or get me a book to sell, I don't really have money for all these travelings), and hit the conference.

For the second year in a row (which means 100% of the conferences I've been to) my name tag was "set aside" and difficult to find. Next year I'm starting in the help line.

I started at the reading for the Swallow Anthology of New American Poets, edited by my good friend David Yezzi (who I met at last year's conference). The readers in attendance besides David were:

Erica Dawson
Bill Coyle

Joanie Mackowski
Geoffrey Brock
J. Allyn Rosser

David also read from Craig Arnold and Rachel Wetzsteon, two poets included in the anthology who both died in 2009. In my forthcoming review of the Anthology, I'll discuss the readings.

During the question and answer session, the tired old "how can form be new?" question was asked. David's answer of "why would you not avail yourself of every trick in the book?" was, I think the best standard answer I've heard--certainly a great way of putting it. Jill Rosser answered with a different tack: she discussed visual art and wondered if you threw out color because it was old (or, I would say, images at all--why not write a song and call it visual art?).

My favorite answer, though, was from Erica Dawson, who referenced Donne, et al. when she referred to "all that old poetry" as being dirty and nasty and decidedly not old and stale. I liked Erica's answer because she was unafraid to speak to the inherent ignorance in the question--the only people who imagine that form can be staid are, I have to imagine, people who apparently have only read--or heard about--Edwardian poetry. The very question they ask belies their ignorance of the vastness of poetry's delightful and delicious forms. Ah well.

After the reading, I bummed around the Book Sale, arm-in-arm, for the most part, with my dear Jill Alexander Essbaum, stopping every dozen steps or so for her to fling her arms wide and embrace the newest person I don't know but quickly meet.

At 1:30 we went to the reading in honor of Craig Arnold. I didn't know Craig, though I am certain, seeing his picture, that we met at AWP last year--nor was I familiar with his work. Jillian, however, had been a good friend of his--as had most of the people she introduced me to, and so, an awkward guest at the funeral of a stranger, I went.

I was very glad to have gone. Apart from a few hiccups of strange and self-indulgent reading, the poets who spoke were both amazing and powerful--reading from their own works and from Craig's (who, if you did not already know, was a poet of great capability--look for more in my review of the Swallow Anthology). The highlight of the reading was Jenn Koiter, a colleague and friend of Craig's who recounted their time together in Laramie. As I said, I didn't even know Craig but Jenn's remembrance brought a tear to my eye.

After a late lunch at Jimmy John's (ohmigod, I just found out there's two in J-vegas! I wonder if they need a poet laureate?) I met up again with Jill and we took a taxi out to Denver's Green Spaces. Certainly not the best place for a reading, it was nevertheless a fine time of small press readings from poets with Bloof, Noemi, and Cooper Dillon (including Jill--Cooper Dillion brought out her chapbook Devastation).

After the reading, an incident involving Reb Livingston, Jenn Koiter, Steven Schroeder, Jill, P.F. Potvin, a poet from Wyoming, me, a sedan, and a shuttle van led Reb and I to admit that we were certainly no longer in high school.

Friday involved more bookstore wandering and a fantastic panel on libretto writing from Kate Gale, David Mason, David Yezzi, and Annie Finch. There was talk during the Q&A about creating a group of poets and musicians interested in creating collaborative works. Whenever I get the email from the group, I'll provide more info.

After the reading, I got a chance to shake hands with Christian Bok, and to tell him he called me a troll. He said it was likely I deserved it. Had he not been so impeccably dressed and so damned Canadian I might have wanted to punch him. As it was, we had a nice laugh.

Friday evening began swimmingly. Kelli Anne Noftle and I made plans to create a poetry folk band and I was exposed to the Austin contingent of AWP (notably--in terms of alcohol consumption--Malachi Black and Chris Mink [who apparently needs a stronger web presence]) and plans were made for a fine Austin party come May.

Then we went off to dinner. It was a pretty lackluster restaurant (that I was late to--ah, miscommunication!) but so were most of the ones I went to in Denver. We then went to a reading for Barrelhouse. Oy. Not that Barrelhouse isn't a great mag. But the venue was for shite--it was opening day for the Rockies and folks were, well, being folks. The bar was loud and crowded and there was not adequate sound engineering for the readers.

Not content to ruin great expectations, we continued on to the Prime Bar. It should be called the Fu Bar. Don't go here unless you think a mishmash of a chic bar and a sports bar that pumps in vintage Sheryl Crow is a good idea. Oh, and the bartenders can't tend bar.

I left (along with Kelli and Andrew[?]) to go back to the Hyatt bar (where at least they made good drinks) but by the time we got back, my morale was all shot to hell. I had a water.

Saturday was a pretty great day. After wandering the bookstore, going back to Jimmy Johns, and manning the UNO table (and selling lots of books!), my hosts took me up into the mountains. Or at least the foothills. I got a nice picture with my foot in some snow and ate a buffalo burger (overcooked but what do you want?).

After the Rockies was The Loudest Voice reading hosted (with free, good booze!) at the lovely and weird Dikeou Collection. If you scroll towards the bottom of the Loudest page, there's a picture of me and a blow-up bunny. Just saying. So I went to the reading to hear Jessica Piazza. Not only did she redeem herself from the terrible choice of bar the night before, but the reading of her crown of sonnets was perfect. I especially enjoyed her line "people like us: we're dust."

We finished up a fine evening in the Hyatt and then at 11 sharp, I turned into a pumpkin. Off to the airport for a 1 a.m. flight, I got back to Jacksonville at 9:00 in the morning--just in time to leave for church.

Well, folks, that was AWP for this year. Look for forthcoming reviews on books from Annie Finch, Jehanne Dubrow, Moira Egan, Nabile Fares, and Antonio Gamoneda. See you next year in D.C.!

Regarding Freedom of Art and Speech

UPDATE: Please read through the end of the comments section--everything personal has been resolved. Also, I have edited the tenses in the introduction to reflect the current status.

I've got a lot on my plate from AWP: seven reviews to write and the AWP recap. Plus there are, I think, two or three posts left in the Strong Verse series. However, an event came to my attention today--back in Gainesville, Florida--my old poetry stomping grounds.

A good friend of mine, who is a conservative in a sea of progressives, read a poem that has been decried as racist--consequently he has been banned from one place of poetry reading and was on the verge of being banned from another one--the oldest continual weekly poetry open-mike reading in the state--possibly the country (going strong for 20 years)--though that director (as seen in the comments) has eschewed any such path of censorship.

Here I'll say no more. What follows is the poem, "The New American Slavery," by Michael Bobbitt. After that is my letter to the two poets in charge of the readings who have banned and are thinking of banning a poet for their interpretation of his poem.

I ask you two things, readers: 1) do you find the poem racist? 2) how do you find my letter in response?

Thanks all,

GMP

The New American Slavery

We’re on the cusp of a new world

An order unlike anything our fathers could have imagined

We’ve been trading morality for comfort for too many years

And finally, painted into the corner of our own undoing

We’ve decided to just close our minds

Sit Indian-style like children

And chuckle while shit burns down.

We’ve finally outsmarted ourselves

Reasoned that style and platitudes

Could uplift us straight out of reality

“They’s a nigger in the woodpile”

My granddaddy would say

And though I hated his language

I can only imagine he was prophesizing about right now

And how our leaders herd us like cats

Into unnaturally straight lines

“Come on up here little pussies…

Massa’s got some healthcare for you

Come on up to the porch, Toby,

And get you some free milk…”

The fields are going unplanted

The harvest time will come and go unnoticed

But we’ll just keep grinning

And eating

And not worryin bout nothing

Cause Massa’s got this magic machine

And he just gots to hit a button

And corn will roll out this here contraption—

Wheat and chicken and flour

Will just pop right out I think

And we don’t need to ever plant the fields

Or tend the flocks again.

The rich folks’ll keep the magic machines rolling

And we’ll just grin and think about equality

And how nuthin’s really equal

If’n we don’t get to pay less and take a little more

On account of all the wrong done to our granddaddies and such.

But I’m starting to think the magic machines

Might not be working proper

It’s turning cold again and I worry about the empty fields

I’m doing what I’m told, though.

I continue to hope, to think “Yes we can” all the time

But I’m gettin hungry

And it’s taking longer each season

To get my ‘lotment.

I hear the Chinamen gots all the rice they can eat

But it still don’t seem right

They should have to work so hard

At planting and harvesting—

Food is a basic human right—

What sorta evil Massa they got

Makes them work to eat?

The baby’s sick most days now

And we’re all pretty fed up

With the failin’ machines

Think maybe we’ll get pitchforks and torches

And tear apart that woodpile

Till we find that liar done trained us out of farming.

I tried to plant a garden today

But I couldn’t work out all the steps anymore

Massa’s forgot about me

And momma’s long gone

And it’s turning colder again.

MY RESPONSE TO THE BANNING:

Jimmy and David,

I'm sorry, but since when did the CMC PoJam or other Poetry institutions (TWIS) become centers of repression?

I'm hearing from Bobbitt about his banning. In my day we read naked and drunk--people would read poems about cunts and doing coke with William Burroughs while children were in the room. No one batted an eye. Hell, David--you screamed about cunts at a reading at Michael Bobbitt's house while my children were present.

Though I was annoyed--and disgusted--I certainly never thought about curtailing your freedom of speech.

Moreover, on frequent occasions folks would gleefully read--to gleeful response--poetry that was vehemently anti-Christian, anti-capitalist, anti-conservative, anti-Republican, anti-American, anti-man, and anti-white. That is to say, religionist, Marxist, progressive, totalitarian, seditious, misandrous, and racist.

Certainly you can't be banning Michael Bobbitt for the use of the word "nigger" or "Chinaman." I have heard that first word uttered at the CMC on more than one occasion--and none of its pracitioners were banned. Though I have never been to TWIS, I have a hard time imagining that you, David, you who so frequently employ "cunt"--which is the female equivalent of "nigger"--and could easily be accused of writing misogynist poetry--would have the gall to accuse someone of writing "racist" poetry.

Moreover, how on earth can either of you possibly imagine bringing in the police force into all of this? Do you truly wish humanity to be ruled by the state? I thought you, Jimmy, were an anarchist.

More than all of this, though, perhaps you should actually read the poem. In no way is it racist. It is obvious that the terms "nigger" and "Chinaman" are used ironically and for effect through the voice of the speaker.

Nothing I see in the poem justifies anything resembling a dustup over its language--perhaps its content should anger one due to the inherent oppression we have been receiving since at least the first Bush administration, ramped up by Clinton, exploded by Bush, and exploited by Obama--but Bobbitt's poem is in no way a racist work.

Even if it were, in what way is it of either of yours to police someone's thoughts or language? And David, how dare you interrupt someone's reading? The proper response--if you were offended by the poem--would be to address Michael after the reading.

I pray that you all will realize the grave error you have made--and the damage you are doing to the freedom of art in Gainesville.

Peace,

Michael

Strong Verse, Part 6: Lyric, Narrative, and Dialogue

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

Playing music with someone must line up quarks in the brain. My banjo playin' buddy David Yezzi wrote the following:

Contemporary poetry is woefully limited by its over-reliance on the lyric form, but the lyric itself is today further reduced by the absence of the dramatic element, by the loss of voices (and of milieux) other than the poet’s own.

in March's New Criterion. I'll let his entire article serve as part 6 of my discourse on what makes for strong verse.

Duffy giving Beckham a Break?

Oh, now this--this is funny.

FTA:

When a 34 year-old athlete tears his Achilles Tendon, it is not comparable to the death of a hero in one of the greatest literary works in history. In fact, the comparison pretty much defecates all over the greatness of the original work. It’s pretty much like romanticizing a 55 year-old man’s colonoscopy.

The "poem" in question.

Quite a fall for Carol Ann Duffy to idolize David Beckham, if you ask me.

Strong Verse, Part 5: Fun+Van+Full=Strong

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

As a dutiful and motivated undergraduate, I took a senior seminar entitled History and Theory of the Novel. I still have an incomplete in the class because I never liked the idea of journaling. I suppose I'm paying that back with the blog (hey Professor Wegner, can I have a passing grade now?).

Anyway, no class on novel theory would be complete without the pillars of Lukacs and Bakhtin. What struck me then, as a young poet who had been interested in narrative and epic poetry for four or five years at that point was that Lukacs and especially Bakhtin put the novel against the epic and discussed what novels could do so well that epic literature couldn't--essentially contain the multivocal nature of a heterogenous society. The poet-contrarian in me noted that in a backhand way they were telling me what poetry did best--to join together voices in a homogenous society.

I view people as people. We come together and make our own culture and where we are together without division and where we work together without derision is where civilization grows. I am a big fan of civilization, ergo I am a big fan of poetry. I'm civilized, therefore I versify.

As a poet, though, I made the keen observation that, with the exception of poets, no one seems to give two shits about poetry. Upon further digging, I found that few poets even cared about poetry outside of their own work. As someone who would prefer the possibility of living off of his writing, this was troubling, at best.

Now as a student of history it was clear that not too long ago poets could live from their work--we all understand the historical significance of patrons, etc. and how the university system (and a bit of private charity) has essentially replaced that system in our new and improved egalitarian society. Good on us. 150 years ago or so, however, patronage was few and far between but you still had poets like Longfellow and Tennyson selling mountains of copies of their verse. Today, not so much.

It was then that I realized what the problem was. Not that it is difficult to "make a living" from poetry--it is and always has been--most writers of any genre work on spec for their entire lives and have other careers--as editors or teachers or doctors or lawyers--that pay the bills. Moreover, just because Tennyson and Longfellow (and Hardy and Kipling) pulled in the dough doesn't mean that Poe or Lazarus (or Hopkins or Dickinson) did.

The problem with poetry readership today lies in the fact that is referenced in this article from the Boston Globe. The problem is that poetry is not an everyday occurrence. Even The Writer's Almanac, arguably the only mass-media daily dose of poetry, only airs at odd times of the day--in the evenings or late mornings--not during rush hour when the most folks are listening to their local NPR stations. The Christian Science Monitor and The New Yorker, being the largest weekly outlets (followed by The Nation) have poetry but it's "hidden" in the pages--sort of like NPR and these fine weeklies have poetry out of a sense of duty but don't really wanna.

So, again, why?

Lukacs and Bahktin would argue that we are a fundamentally different people and no longer need poetry. Silliman did argue that movies, music, and TV take the place of fun and full-verse poetry in our lives.

I say bah. We're still the same people who figured out how to plant crops so that we didn't have to forage any more. Granted, we have a mountain more stored information but it's not like our brains got any faster or could hold any more stuff--we just have a larger collective memory (and exobrains). Literature, music, and art still work on our psyches in the same ways (indeed, this is why drama and film and television are so damnably powerful).

Therefore poetry is still of the same value.

So why does no one care?

Part of it has to do with poets. That's what Part 4 of the series tried to highlight. We must realize that if we are to have an audience we must understand and engage that audience. But poets are not all.

As I argued in Part 2 of this series, most of the problem with poetry--from the reader's side--is that there is no longer any poetry to care about. That's the "magic" of full verse. Fun verse is light and airy and joyful but not deep and van verse is too dense for most readers--they're turned off by the avant-garde and can't build attachments to light verse. But it's in full verse that we build lifetime readers of poetry.

Of course, they aren't going to read that full verse poetry without an introduction to the motifs and styles and tropes of poems that they can easily learn from fun verse and poetry will stagnate again without van verse.

Because we need all three for poetry to thrive, this series will focus on a poetics not of full verse, but a poetics of strong verse.

Strong Verse, Part 4: Notes Towards a Perfection of Poetry

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 5

So WAY back in 2006, when this blog was still a twinkle in its father's eye, I spent a summer in the family castle of Ezra Pound in Brunnenburg, Italy. Having read a great deal of Pound's zany poetry propaganda, I wrote a typography-heavy manifesto called "a poetics of perfection." For many obvious reasons, it and its accompanying chapbook remain hidden.

Culling through the exuberance to the meat of the argument, however, brings me to the next step in the development of a strong poetics. Some of it came through in the declaration, but this work on "Strong Verse" will, I hope, expand upon and update the declaration. Here I present the manifesto, with exuberance redacted:

How does one approach perfection in poetry?

1. Use Precise Language:

a) Do not use a thousand words when four will do.
Repetition is neutral. It is the unnecessary that is disgusting.

b) Do not use lukewarm language.
Use the word that means what you are saying. English is second only to German for usefulness in this regard.

c) If you must be ambiguous, do not be vague.
Have more than one meaning but don't be paralyzed by every possible meaning a reader works on your words. That is, open the doors of your language – don’t tear down the house.

2. Write With Authority

a) If it didn’t happen to you, write like it did.

b) Don't use "as if" or "seems" or any similar word or phrase.

3. Give the readers what they need.

a) Poetry should not require a secret decoder ring.
If your poetry requires esoteric references either explain them or make them clear enough that your readers can find the information on their own. One may need to read Hamlet in order to fully understand “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” but at least Eliot tells us that.

b) Your readers care about your verse, not you.
They don’t care about your inside jokes, emotions, thoughts, knowledge, tantric ability, whatever. They care about the language that you have given the world.

c) Your readers don't know you.
Instead of expecting them to "get you" and your references, assume they don't know what you're talking about. Don't spoonfeed them but remember any deficiencies they will have. Allow them the chance to understand your work as you do.

4. Use Natural Language

a) Write the way you speak.

b) Poetry is linguistic art, but it is still language.
That is, your poetry must exist within a common idiom. If no one lives your language, your art has no impact.

tl;dr:

1. Use Precise Language

2. Write With Authority

3. Give the Readers What They Need

4. Use Natural Language

I think perhaps (1) and (4) could be combined. As I said, this is a rehash from a 4-year-old ranty sort of work. The final two points I want to resurrect from Italian ashes are these:

Poets must be recalled from their staleness and complicity.
In Pound's time, this was the Edwardian-style of overstuffed, Longfellowian rhyming verse. Today it is the Silliman-school of versa-obscura and, conversely, his correct attacks on the so-called "School of Quietude." I have long maintained that non-avant poets need to broaden the horizon of their verse.

No one will read poetry until we are writing poems that are good to read.
Poets are caretakers of humanity, not forensic scientists of letters. We must write for the good of the world and not for the amusement of our own devices, ourselves, or our over-educated brains.

This, along with the three classifications of verse from last week (and the rest of the blog, really) will serve as a foundation for the forthcoming poetics of Strong Verse. Happy reading and happy writing, fellow poets!