by Ivana Stoykovska
I walk the slow path of experimentation
slowly, slowly transmitting realities through imagination
imagination from within to cement, station to station.
No decorations. Slow materialization
Pictures hyper-change before I can capture
the essence of ideas blowing mind
to the sounds of slow lucid perception and
slow critical understanding combined.
Slowly, slowly I jump in conclusions
wax sealing directions of inconclusive vicarious manners
curving inner disturbance balancing with still,
forgetting skills, mistaking toolkits for kittens,
regretting unperformed performances for faster digestion
of the slow food preserving the documentation of punctual movement- a declaration.
I slowly sit in expectation
slowly reading, slowly writing, slow creation, inhaling slow concentration,
connected in utmost alienation
slowly shaping the native voice of communication,
prescribing memories of alien landscapes, intense scrapers, notion to the asthmatic state of nation,
slowly deciphering scribbled thoughts- descendants of standing ovation.
about Ivana Stoykovska, links below:
by Steven Craig Hickman
“I keep walking, making calls which few recognize, eventually sure that one day when I have passed that way, suddenly a porch light will shine in the evening and another timelessness reign.”
– Dark Earth, Dean Baker
Been reading Dean Baker’s latest offering of poems of late, Dark Earth. Of course Dean is an author, composer, and performer who was born in Toronto, Canada, to a Ukrainian/Polish father and an Irish/Scottish mother. Attended the University of Guelph, and later won book awards from them, along with several unsolicited Ontario Arts Council awards, best poems published in a year in literary journals, and The T.S. Eliot Society of Miami’s Calendar Poet award. He has several other works out: Bad Boys, Silence Louder Than A Train, The Mythologies Of Love, and The Lost Neighborhood each of which can also be found on his amazon.com page.
What struck me intensely about Dean’s poetry is this sense of earthiness and despair tinged with a dark humor that I so love. An ongoing walk through these dark times is an underlying expectation, an almost uncanny movement toward hope; yet, not hope itself, rather it’s a sort of orientation to the future or forward looking gaze that can almost see between barbed wired clouds on the darkest horizon something strange almost shining through only to be sealed off immediately by the Reality Police who trap us in this bleak corner of the universe. Now by this I don’t mean that Dean is some kind of blipping optimist, no he’s a pessimist or realist like most of us. No that would make things a little to easy and rosy, and Dean is more of a bleak and transgressive churning below the muddy waters. He lives down where the alligators and moccasins move in those black ponds, waiting, harboring nothing but deadly thoughts. Dean’s world is to poetry what David Goodis in Street of No Return is to noir. In that bleak book the main character loses the girl, kills the villain, returns to skid row with a bottle under his arm for the boys in the cold wet sunless streets, where life is nothing but this hollow gesture, a desperateness toward the last dark weave of things: where losers sit in some dark alley passing the bottle around, and nothing could touch them nothing at all.
But then again what does touch us is Dean’s poetry, and it touches us hard and quick like some dark message out of hell; but this is no metaphysical charade – it is our hell, our lives in this god forsaken universe where the thought of salvation isn’t some dream of transcendence, but is rather a movement toward another order of indifference, another and hopeful purgatory across some bleak landscape beyond the lies and deceit of this one.
Do you not see how
to meet the grinning, opened mouth.
In Dean’s Widows he challenges our sense of propriety, brings us two death’s: the death of child, and the death of something else. Even the use of the plural – Widows, as if one may suspect some murderous collusion amongst “black widows”; or, rather the natural order of some dip into Shakespeare’s widowed “witches” from Macbeth; or, more likely just three old mean women out of some southern gothic world who, as the interlocutor tells us – as if it were some dark and sinister story, to be hushed up in polite society – a memory of another child: “the unlovely child you always knew too much about”. And, the interlocutor continues with a double refrain, one that tells us these dark widows are “carrying themselves” and “carrying themselves / with taunts of Spring”. The interlocutor will not say what cannot be said, what it is that these widows have done, or what secrets they hold to their black hearts. But he knows, and for him there is a bittersweet revenge in knowing that what they are moving toward as “they drive” is a meeting with that “grinning, opened mouth” – a death at once comical and grotesque that will undo these murderous widows and their secrets in ways beyond telling.
This is the key to Dean’s art, the subtle narration of certain moments that are never revealed in the full natural disclosure of facts, but are rather revealed more subtly in the voicing of certain affective relations between memory and mind in this ongoing inquisition with the sordidness of our unlived lives. It’s as if in each poem we are seeing slices of a pain, a snapshot of horrors, a visitation of certain indelible blood-lettings that continue to keep the wound of life open to the world. For isn’t that truly all that remains? How many of your memories are of joy? Oh I don’t mean the picture memories you can snap out, I mean the affective memories that stick in the crawl of your thick mind like a bad taste in the mouth. How many?
Dean is a true comic poet as well, full of those sly interventions and evasions, slights of self, incriminations and elisions: “It is you, who have ruined / your life, / with the comparisons … elegies outworn: / embarrassing”. And, even the muse is a fickle mistress a tormentor “the muse still torments me every now and then”, and yet she’s a comical waif as well:
She thinks a psychiatrist / may do the trick: forgetting / she had a hand in the mess.
What I admire is Dean’s pulling out all the stops, no sublime romanticist here; no, instead he’s taken notes from the underbelly of those masters of the macabre and grotesque. All those little oddball peculiarities of the absurd, bizarre, macabre, depraved, degenerate, perverse that are the hallmark of the best of that dark haunting literature, both humorous and earthy, grotesque – can be found here. As Philip Thomson tells us of the grotesque in literature and visual culture: he calls it ‘the unresolved clash of incompatibles in work and response’ and, he continues, ‘it is significant that this clash is paralleled by the ambivalent nature of the abnormal as present in the grotesque’.1 I like to go back to Baudelaire who perfected this mode after his careful perusal and translations of that master, Edgar Allen Poe. For Baudelaire it was to know that one was dammed in this life from the beginning; but it wasn’t a religious knowledge, no it was a secular knowing that this world, not some future abode of despair already harbored enough hate and crime to fill ten thousands hells. Maybe this is why even Sartre would seek in Baudelaire a brother of that darker existential pain that is existence with others, and go on to see “hell is other people”.
One of my favorites of this mode from Dean’s work, and the last one I’ll quote (I want you to cherish a first reading of the rest for yourself) is “Queen St. East””
The jaw slacks, with the weight
of the body’s loss,
to an inexorable acknowledgement
The brain is unfettered
in its jug; spilling over
with the nostalgia of alcohol
Flat on their backs, near Moss
Park, curled fetus-like, the
inhabitants whirl in a static frenzy of
Enfeeblement, any amusement here
sublingual: the posthumous twitching
of cynics en masse
That, my friends, in one succinct movement is the Grotesque Sublime: “the posthumous twitching / of cynics en masse”. It is also the dark knowing of a grotesque humor named “Dean Baker”. Rabelais and Hieronymus Bosch look out of dark chinks in these poems… instead of Emerson’s “Whim” above Dean’s lintel we might assume “Melancholy” resides here… that dark brooding that laughs below, and rises through the bones to jerk you awake from your too lazy sleep of existence.
Please visit Dean Baker’s wordpress.com site: http://deanjbaker.wordpress.com/
and his poetry can be found: amazon.com page.
1. Edwards, Justin; Graulund, Rune (2013-05-29). Grotesque (The New Critical Idiom) (p. 3). Taylor and Francis. Kindle Edition.
by Steven Craig Hickman
Pygmalion and Galatea
I see the crack
the movement in the stone
the flesh, the flesh
a squinting eye
it’s a woman
at my touch
her foot escapes
my knees give way
my skin is pink
the rain upon my face
the scent of myrtle
i turn back
he turns to stone
Sometimes I like to go back and imagine just what was going on when the Proteus that is our brain suddenly taps me and reveals an image, a set of words, a sort of movement of sound and meaning, a momentary slice of that sea of data that we as temporary human agents, temporal stratifications of consciousness in transition suddenly receive messages from that abyss. We know from the partial confrontation with these processes of the brain through the neurosciences that we process data at 100herz, yet still work across trillions of bits per microsecond. If our conscious mind did not have that darkness and was exposed to all this data simultaneously we’d sit their stupefied unable to decide or even move. So we rely on what the brain filter’s out more than what there is in its massive storehouse. This is the semantic universe it has created over our evolutionary lifespan that has allowed the brain to communicate its decisions and its messages to this unknowing cloud of awareness in transition: consciousness. We still know so little of this marvelous mechanism, yet what little we know has allowed our species to construct worlds of meaning that rival the universe itself in complexity and amazement. Our civilizations are nothing else than heterotopias: constructed worlds of meaning that we inhabit as if they were real rather than fictions of our own thought processes to defend us against the alien worlds of life and forces that are this universe.
Poetry is one expression of this. I like to keep notes on poems, so will from time to time show after the fact how my thought processes reflect upon such dubious matters; for we truly never have access to the brain itself directly, but only by inference and illusion at best. But out of these illusions worlds have been born.
In this experiment I was trying to convey in as few words as possible the transition in voices between the male / female, a sort of seamless phase shift from one to the other without a marker or break, or any artificial interposition on the part of author, etc. Yet, still convey the figure of the iconic myth in its intent of metamorphosis of an object at once contingent and inevitable.
It all turns on the signal, the term between… “the rigidness” that is of neither gender and could be said by her or him… it lives in that ungendered space between the two forms that could mean:
early 15c., from Latin rigidus “hard, stiff, rough, severe,” from rigere “be stiff,” from PIE *reig-“stretch (tight), bind tightly, make fast” (cognates: Old Irish riag “torture,” Middle High German ric “band, string”). Related: Rigidly.
This sense of both death’s closure: stiffness as in corpse, roughness of stone as against softness of flesh, severity of the hammer as it tortures the stone releasing its immanent life, stretching the imaginal across the solidity as if wrapping it in a band, etc. Then the release from bondage to death, to the rigidity in “my knees gave way” exposes the female transition, the awakening to life and light…
And, then, the phase shift as he becomes passive, rigid, and stiff in the presence of such beauty becoming in turn what he always wanted: a transition into stone perfection at the hands of the goddess he himself was shaped by…
Of course this is the parody of the Pygmalion and Galatean mythos… it’s reversal in a Greek mode rather than the comic of George Bernard Shaw, etc.
by Steven Craig Hickman
I saw him hanging there on the tree.
His once slim neck broken, swung free.
No one likes to admit this possibility,
the life of man in simple layman’s terms;
yet, here it is in all its glory, burst asunder.
I once saw my friend alive, his eyes
so full of fight and vigor, a man of passion
who lived for god and country,
as if those still meant something;
unlike these days, when men go down and down.
Times have changed alright, but for the better?
Here we are watching on as earth goes under,
and her child humanity expires before the dark truth;
for we will not beget alternatives to our dread
until such time we’ve known that which knows us.
I stand here with this axe and hack him down,
who only yesterday stood on firm ground, my brother,
a soldier warrior blessed by children and a good wife;
but whose mind fell through the black sun,
and gently flitted like a wild bat across the moon.
My brother’s gone who once blessed me with friendship.
Now I must bury him and give him back to earth, his mother.
by Steven Craig Hickman
My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach,
With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes of worlds.
The Art of Reading Poetry is just as important – and maybe even in the long run, more important that learning the craft itself. Why? Simple: to write a poem is to learn the difficult art of interpretation, or misprisioning, or echoing other great poems we’ve remembered consciously or without even the knowledge that we are doing so. And, by poetry I’ll include the great books of cultural reference from the Mahabharata, the Bible, the Iliad and Odyssey, the poems of Greece and Rome, India and China, down through whatever other cultural horizon you might share.
Poetry is both evocative and expressive, it is a compressed and concentrated form of what scholars term figurative language. All the major tropes of rhetoric go into this figurative language and can be seen in every poem in one form or the other: alliteration, hyperbole, imagery, irony, metaphor, Onomatopoeia, Personification, Simile, metonym… and on through all the little turns of the linguistic mill. Kenneth Burke the great rhetorician of the twentieth-century narrowed the focus of figuration down to just four basic: irony, synecdoche, metonymy, and metaphor.
Irony typically commits one to figurations of presence and absence, or in simpler terms the use of irony is to say one thing while meaning something else or its exact opposite.
Synecdoche is what most of us know as “symbol” in which the figure is typical about the substitution of part for whole, or about the use of the notion of incompletion of something within the poem pointing to something outside the poem. One might think of the old haiku or zen notion of the “finger pointing to the moon” a symbol of mind dependence, etc. Or in Hart Crane in which the Brooklyn Bridge becomes a synecdoche for the bridging power of the mind to fuse human insight and the transcendent in a symbolic form that resolves both into a symbol that is both concrete and clear.
Metonymy is a figuration that unlike a symbol is not based on resemblance but on contiguity, in which the name or prime aspect of anything is sufficient to indicate it, provided it is near in space to what serves as substitute.1
Metaphor is simply the transference of meaning or association of one word to another to allow it to emphasize a meaning that both reinforces the original intent and also allows for certain ambiguities, playful puns, and alternatives that take the word out of its common stock or cliché notions and gives it new life. One example is Hart Crane’s line “peonies with pony manes” which uses a pun on “peonies” and “pony” to bring about a typically unassociated meaning to awaken the mind to alternative sounds, pitches, and a strangeness that was not there before. It makes the line memorable.
As Bloom says in his short little book on The Art of Reading Poetry “figuration or tropes create meaning, which could not exist without them, and this making of meaning is largest in authenticate poetry, where an excess or overflow emanates from figurative language” (Bloom, 3). One of the better books on the study of craft is Owen Barfield’s Poetic Diction: A Study in Meaning which illustrates and details out much of the forgoing.
One could almost say that figuration is the concealed truth of poetry, for it goes on for the most part unrecognized as such as one is reading a poem; only later after one has finished reading the poem and begins to wonder how the poet was able to combine language in such a way to give meaning to the words in the form she did. Then one begins to analyze the poem, break it down into its linguistic units, its meter, its figures, its tropes. This takes time and patience and is not easily mastered overnight. It comes from careful study of past masters. Think of it this way: if one was to take up painting, what would be the first thing we’d need to do? Would we want to know about paintbrushes? What about the various easels, oil cloths, oils or acrylics or pastels, and the different approaches to either buying oils and pigments that had been prepared or whether one wants to learn the way the masters made oils on the spot, grinding down pigments from plants, seeds, etc. and mixing them with various oils, etc.? What about technique? Would one need to be apprenticed to someone who knew something about painting like the old Renaissance masters? Say a painting shop with other painters who share techniques and styles, or a school where a teacher can pass on the available knowledge of these various schools of painting and their history?
The point is that one could presume to take up painting and just say, “Oh, I’m just doing it as a hobby to have fun; I’m not out to perfect or know all the details of the craft.” Well, that’s fine, but would one ever grow? Would one have to stumble through most of the lessons of painting the hard way, have to reinvent the boat so to speak? Well, the same goes for poetry, one doesn’t just sit down and begin to write a poem as if -“Oh, that is so easy! And so fun, too.” Of course one could do that and have fun and all, but would one necessarily grow? Or would one begin to notice that one’s thoughts and rhythms didn’t seem to match up very well against the poetry one so much loves? One would begin to wonder why? Why is these poets seem so different? What is their secret? Well just like painting poets must learn the technique and styles of certain masters, depended on the traditions and valuations, cultural references and appropriation, etc. out of which one’s stock of language allows one to enter this realm.
Beyond figuration and craft is something even more important. Memory. “Memory is crucial for all thought, but particularly so for poetic thinking. Poetic memory… allows recognition, which is regarded as – Angus Flectcher tells us “the central modality of thinking, for literary purposes” (Bloom, 9). The point of this type of poetic memory is the way in which other poets or poems are hidden within poems. What I mean here is that as you read a poem there may come a moment of recognition, when something in the poem suddenly awakens a memory; yet, your still on the brink of discovery not quite able to place what it is this poem reminds you of, and then it dawns: it brings back a remembrance of another poem one had read, maybe in high-school or college or earlier/later. It’s images, metaphors, metonymies, ironies, synecdoche’s, etc., and even the rhythm of the meter, echoes or allusively alludes too or is evasive of some other poem. It’s this sudden recognition that is poetic memory. We all do it. We all have moments when reading poetry when we think, “Dam, I’ve read something or heard something like this? Where or when was that? Who was it said that?” Then we begin a little quest, or let it sit there bugging us till we finally wake up and a light goes off and the eureka moment happens… dam, I got it!
The whole art of reading poetry is just that: the mastery of this allusiveness, of discovering in a poet one is reading the figurations that lay hidden in her work, and then of tracing those through other poets or poems until that spark of recognition suddenly unveils the truth of it. This haunting of poetry by its long tradition is what we now term the state of being belated, of having come late into the game of language, of not being at its beginning, of having coined all the words, or discovered all the turns of phrase and figuration. So what is a poet to do? She in our time masters this subtle art of figuration through allusiveness, through a conscious grasping of the past, its memory of itself and making that her strength. That’s the key.
A great many poets have the feeling that if its all been done then what of me, why should I add more to the world of words if its all been done? Truth is that it hasn’t, poetry is always new, and evolving, ever-changing as is language, and will never be done with as long as people are free to speak and think. This is another key. Everything remains to be done.
What is a poet’s voice? In some way’s I tend to agree with Seamus Heaney’s estimation in which poetry is a form of divination, or revelation of the “self to the self, as restoration of the culture to itself; poems as elements of continuity, with the aura of authenticity of archeological finds, where the buried shard has an importance that is not diminished by the importance of the buried city; poetry as dig, a dig for finds that end up being plants”.2 The notion that one digs down into the traditions of poetry as if it was a sunken treasure, or city buried in the sands and once found the poems that one begets become bound up with that past and sprout seeds from it. Even the most mundane of poems might actually have a long heritage in the deepest worlds of lost traditions. Each poem worthy of the name will have a hidden spark, a small gathering of meaning, a knotting into rather than out of that pulls you in, lures you into its heterocosm, it’s own life and world. Within these alternate worlds of poems one discovers one’s inheritance and one’s voice. This is the loam of power and freedom, of love and death, of all the little things that awaken you to becoming a poet(ess).
In my next essay I’ll begin with the notion of the poet’s voice. All poet’s that become a part of that illusive tribe that people feel the ever apparent conflictual emotions over is the Canon. Yet, there are poets that seem to last. What this means is that certain poets seem to be republished and read over and over generation after generation while others seem to fall away and disappear without ever being heard of again. Why? Is there something unique about a poet’s “voice” that puts them into this special category? And, who decides this? Some critics? No. It’s the common or uncommon reader who returns again and again to these poets. And, it is also the poet’s themselves. Poet’s keep the traditions of poetry alive in the present of their poems. So the canon is built up out of our past confrontations with great poetry and hiding it or masking its presence in the present of one’s poetry through figuration and trope. What the greatest poetry does is to give you back your own voice, to allow you to find it, to enable it, to augment it into those poems that are your own unique being.
I’ll talk more on this next time. Stay tuned!
1. The Art of Reading Poetry. Harold Bloom. (Harper Collins, 2004).
2. Finder’s Keepers. Seamus Heaney. (Ferrar, Straus, Giroux, 2002)
by Steven Craig Hickman
You can’t write poetry
you put it down in words like a jazzman does
you sink your ears
…………….till it’s all around
wander through its winds
till the night mind
then you slide back round
touch another scale
……………………………lift that sound up onto those clouds
then you put them notes down
for yourself and hope and pray they play them
………………………..like a jazzman does
by Steven Craig Hickman
“I’m a blue devil in a time-machine:
run-a-way child, run-a-way
devil goin’ to get his due today, child!”
– graffiti on a prison cell wall circa. 2153 B.C.E.
The stranger came to town today.
Nobody knows from where;
he’s got this funny look in his eye
but nobody seems to care;
he seems to stare right through you,
like you was a ghost, or ghoul.
Someone said he took up with Rita
down at the red light tavern;
and he’s been seen at night
carrying a briefcase and a cane;
some say he’s up till dawn, singing;
but no one will blame him,
because he’s the Sleeper Man,
and his eyes never close.
Today he came to me
and asked me to tea,
and I, like an idiot, said yes, indeed.
I’m standing here in the dark
watching the last car go away,
not knowing if he’ll come or stay.
At nine I feel a cold hand
upon my slender neck,
a slow pulsation and a boon.
I feel a knife explode.
Now I know who he is,
but don’t ask me to resist;
this dark love is real and true.
Now if white lie be told:
I just tell the girls
he’s just a slick ‘blue devil
in a time-machine’,
a gypsy joker, a fool
who fell for me;
and now he’s slipped below
where all good children go,
and angels desecrate;
to that vacuous paradise
this side of hell,
where time stands still
and we like lover’s spin
in cruel delight, a respite
from flesh and bone
our wedding vows
to the gray stones
below the threshold,
where that black world
that is our alien life erupts.