Friday, May 17, 2013

Friday, June 7th @ 7:30pm with Sara Wintz, Megan Breiseth, and Grace Marie Grafton

Join us on Friday, June 7th for readings by
Sara Wintz, Megan Breiseth and Grace Marie Grafton! 

Event begins at 7:30pm
Beverages and snacks will be served

With host Bryn Lee Garrehy

We hope to see you there!

+ Come early for Bites Off Broadway: amazing food outside on the Studio One Lawn, 5:30-8:30pm 


 
Sara Wintz’s work brings together text and theater in a practice that encompasses research, poetry, and performance. Ugly Duckling Presse published her book about the twentieth century, WALKING ACROSS A FIELD WE ARE FOCUSED ON AT THIS TIME NOW, in December 2012.  

 Sara Wintz is a contributing editor of Ugly Duckling Presse’s annual performance art sourcebook, EMERGENCY INDEX, and a member of the Board of Directors for Small Press Traffic, a literary arts non-profit based in San Francisco. She is a recipient of a grant from the Fund for Poetry, and a graduate of Mills College and the Milton Avery School of Graduate Studies at Bard College. 

Her writing is published in JacketThe Poetry Project Newsletter6x6Big Bell, Openned, Try!HTML Giant, and in the anthology The Sonnets: Re-Writing Shakespeare (recently published by Telephone/Nightboat Books). She lives in Oakland.



 

Megan Breiseth comes from Illinois and has lived in the Bay Area for 13 years. She’s the author of the chapbook Zia and the manuscript Fur. In addition to writing poetry, she also teaches, coaches, and reads tarot cards.






Grace Marie Grafton’s newest book, Whimsy, Reticence and Laud/unruly sonnets, came out in Spring 2012 from Poetic Matrix Press (www.poeticmatrix.com).   Her book of prose poems, Other Clues, 2010, was published by Latitude Press (rawartpress.com).  A chapbook of wordplay poems, Chrysanthemum Oratorio, 2010, is available from Dancing Girl Press. 



She has worked for many years with CA Poets In The Schools, teaching children to write poetry.  For her teaching work, she received numerous CA Arts Council grants, as well as being named Teacher of the Year by the River Of Words youth poetry and art annual contest, co-sponsored by Robert Hass, US Poet Laureate.



Her poetry won first prize in the Soul Making contest (PEN women, San Francisco), in the annual Bellingham Review contest, and Honorable Mention from Anderbo and Sycamore Review.  Poems recently appear in Anderbo, Ambush Review, Talking Writing, Theodate and The Offending Adam.          




Tuesday, April 23, 2013

Friday, May 3rd: Studio One and Quiet Lightning Collaboration, feat. erica lewis and Adeena Karasick

Studio One and Quiet Lightning present: Studio Lightning/ Quiet Studio/ One Lightning! 

Featuring the work of erica lewis and Adeena Karasick 
+ many others! 

Show curators: Nicole McFeely and Janey Smith


Doors @ 7:00 PM; Show @ 7:30 

Snacks and FREE Lagunitas Beer will be served 
(donations accepted)



Featured Reader bios:



erica lewis lives in San Francisco where she is a fine arts publicist and ran the Canessa Reading Series. A graduate of Northwestern University and Mills College (where she was the recipient of the 2008 Mary Merritt Henry Prize for poetry), her work has appeared in various journals and anthologies. Books include murmur in the inventory (Shearsman Books, January 2013), the precipice of jupiter (Queue Books), and camera obscura (BlazeVox Books); the latter two books are collaborations with artist Mark Stephen Finein. She was born in Cincinnati, Ohio.
  


Adeena Karasick is a poet, media-artist and author of seven books of poetry and poetic theory: Most recently,This Poem (Talonbooks 2012), which opened on the McNally Best Seller list and voted top 5 books of 2012, All her work is marked with a neo-fluxus, post Flarffian conceptualist, urban, Jewish, feminist aesthetic that continually challenges linguistic habits and normative modes of meaning production. Engaged with the art of combination and turbulence of thought, it is a testament to the creative and regenerative power of language and its infinite possibilities for pushing meaning to the limits of its semantic boundaries. Her writing has been described as "electricity in language" (Nicole Brossard), "plural, cascading, exuberant in its cross-fertilization of punning and knowing, theatre and theory" (Charles Bernstein) "a tour de force of linguistic doublespeak" (Globe and Mail) and "opens up the possibilities of reading" (Vancouver Courier).  She is Professor of Pop culture  and Media Theory at Fordham University in New York.


Wednesday, April 3, 2013

A Conversation: Michael Zapruder and Sheila Davies Sumner


Michael Zapruder and Sheila Davies Sumner discuss 
the musical illustration of poems




I think that without the chorus-like parts of the record, the sense that this is an effort to pull songs into the world of poetry would have failed, and it would have seemed much more like a collection of experimental poetry, as opposed to a record of experimental, yet very songlike, songs.

 - Michael Zapruder


Sheila Davies Sumner: You began by listening to poets read, collaborating with your “inner ear’s inner ear” to hear the songs within poems. Six years later, you’ve recorded twenty-two songs on a CD that accompanies your project, Pink Thunder, which turns these poems into song. You write, “my inviolable rule was that the poems must control the music and not vice versa”. This sounds very hard to do, to sing these poems as closely as possible to a typical reading –– almost like translating. How did you keep from you from going astray? What signs were there that held you to this disciplined, controlled path? 

Michael Zapruder: There really weren't any signs that held me to a path. I think the songs would have turned out pretty badly if I had held any certain expectations or even if I had been looking beyond myself and my intuition that the poems were a) not being destroyed by the music and b) that the music was still songlike.

The poems probably don't control the music as much as they guide it. I have a hunch that neither poetry nor music is likely to work well if the process is overly controlled by some outside force. 

SDS: Your voice can sound a whole bunch of ways –– tuneful and tuneless, hard and surrendering, with sweet notes and tender breaks in tone (see some examples below). I’m curious about the decisions you have to make about a poem to establish the voice or voices of a song –– the who who sings.

Lonely:                         None of this matters to you anymore  (James Tate, “From an Island”)

Earnest:                       These boobs are real  (Dorothea Lasky, “Boobs Are Real”)

Yearning:                      Songs of the past noelle  (Matthew Zapruder, "Opera")

Gentle:                         She has a dream and she has the same dream (Bob Hicok, “Twins”)

Soft introspection:        Unsoothes you where you slip (Hoa Nguyen, “Calmly Grass
                                     Becomes a Wave”)

Clarity:                          I was the smallest thing in the world / fragment of spit, rumor of mud 
                                     (Dara Wier, “For a Chinese Poet Writing Through the Night Up on
                                      Mt. Pollux”) 

MZ: This is a great question. Recording these vocals was, as I think I mention in the Introduction to the book, very confusing, since the poems seem to speak from such an ambiguous place. There isn't always the strong sense of self or clear emotional tone as you find it in songs. Maybe it's something to do with the fact that you can't really sing to yourself (in your head, at least), whereas if you're reading poetry, the kind of language in these poems is not that different from what you might think to yourself at any given time.

It might also have to do with the idea that these poems are usually read aloud in a certain environment—one that is almost like a ritual space. Music can create that kind of space, but then words seem to dilute that effect by engaging the thinking mind.

In any case, these words, combined with music and the fact that I had to sing them, didn't always seem like they needed to be sung. And of course they didn't, since they were already fully functional poems. 

SDS: Some poems are litany-like or have the equivalent of refrains. I’m curious how you develop or compose through these. For instance, in Dorothea Lasky’s poem: “They stole, They knocked, They killed, They cut, They pierced, They ran, They played, They loved, They gave.” Did these repetitions facilitate or obstruct the songwriting? Did you resist or welcome them? 

MZ: I don't think I resisted anything, partly because I only worked on poems that, from the start, seemed to be likely to lead to songs fairly easily. Things like the repetitions in Dottie's poem actually provide a more familiar foundation for being songlike, since song has such a copacetic relationship with repetition. It's easier to sing lines like the ones you mention above than it is to sing line after line with no obvious common characteristics. Eventually, dissimilarities that come one after another in a song will break the listener's trust that this is in fact a song. The piece might be amazing, but it becomes something else. 

SDS:  In your Artists’s Statement you make the observation, “Ultimately I came to think that the music of a poem is like a mobile,” which confirmed as well as influenced my listening experience. Your music does take on different shapes, which is part of its pleasure. These songs feel constructed to showcase equilibrium: rods as music, weighted objects as words –– in sculpted motion, in stillness, in balance.

Many songs make use of the chorus in this compensatory way. For instance, the swelling chorus sound in “Florida” by Travis Nichols; the choral distance in “Last Words” by Sierra Nelson, or the remote hari-krishnas in “Book of Life” by Noelle Kocot; and those lovely, soothing harmonies in “Chia Pet Cemetery” by D.A. Powell, in “Civics” by David Berman, and in “Word” by Joe Wenderoth. Would you talk about the role of chorus in your translations of a poem into a song? 

MZ: Great question. One of the real dangers of these songs is that they just end up seeming like a bunch of random ideas strung together. I was always on the lookout for any opportunity to drop into a chorus or a repetitive cycle, to balance out the free-verse sections. I also wanted to believe that the poems do have refrains in them, even if they are extremely subtle.

I think that without the chorus-like parts of the record, the sense that this is an effort to pull songs into the world of poetry would have failed, and it would have seemed much more like a collection of experimental poetry, as opposed to a record of experimental, yet very songlike, songs. 

SDS: You sing the poems “with music happening.” Which turns out to be a rich selection and inventive use of strings, horns, percussion, synthesizers –– aural spices. And the musical structure is complex. One example is “My Grandmother” by Valzhyna Mort (translated by Mort & Franz Wright). More than halfway through the poem, at the line, Her arms like stork legs, the song seems to unfold into an altogether new genre –– a torch song, to my ear. Is this what you mean by “deep verses”? 

MZ: Actually, no. To me, that's one of the best examples of a chorus that seemed to emerge from the poem. After a number of through-composed, non-repeating lines, suddenly the song finds itself in a big refrain. Bob Hicok's "Twins" is a better example, where, after a refrain-like section in the middle, the music has to support quite a bit more text, and it does so with new musical ideas.

Any new idea, or a variation of an idea, that appears for the first time late in a song can weaken the sense that a piece of music is in fact a song. I don't know if this is some fundamental law of song or if it's a convention, but most of us expect songs to introduce most of their ideas by somewhere close to the midpoint. There are exceptions, but I think they prove the rule. 

SDS: “Birdman” by Gillian Conoley, is spare and off-key, with percussively-appointed sounds. And “Storm Window”, by Mary Ruefle, is so nursery-school bright, with its emphatic, happy rhythms. I love this particular segue or pairing of songs –– we slide off Now I am a yellow hammer and jump into She sat writing little poems of mist. What in these poems inspired such disparate types of music? 

MZ: Well thank you! It's funny, Birdman was one of the first of these songs that I wrote, and Storm Window was one of the last. And it wasn't the poems that inspired the different types of music, so much as the music that inspired the different kinds of poems. Basically, when I did Storm Window, I picked it in part because I needed something faster and brighter to balance the overall group of songs. That's such a vivid poem, it's so easy to see the whole situation, that I think it would be possible to write a very good slow song based on it, as well. 

SDS: New meters and line breaks are created in the way particular words and phrases are vocally or musically stressed. Words like Heavyassedness (Carrie St. George Comer), Occupant glow (Joshua Beckman), and Opera (Mathew Zapruder). And phrases like Along the way to civilization (Tyehimba Jess) with its crescendo, or She wore it to the opera (St. George Comer again, from At Play in My Garden on a Sunday Morning”) with its high frequency EQ. This placement of the emotional charge seems to give some songs a playful feel of improvisation, even after many listenings. 

MZ: I'm very glad to hear that! 

SDS: The book, Pink Thunder, has drawings by Arrington de Dionyso that support the text in an engaging, honest way. The poems are hand-lettered, instead of being typed, changing in thickness and color and size. Overall, there’s a direct mark approach. What was behind this approach or the decision to not type the text? Was that part of the book-design influenced by the way you sing the poems? 

MZ: The idea to have the poems hand-lettered instead of typeset came from the basic understanding that Pink Thunder is not really a poetry anthology, so much as it is a set of "musically-illustrated" poems. Each of the songs really ended up representing a kind of very specific reading of the poem, and the music made those readings very colorful, textured, and limited, but in a strong way, I think. The music eliminates a great deal of ambiguity from the poem, since each tone is either warm or cold, smooth or not, familiar or unfamiliar, and so on. Sounds seem to create visceral reactions that are connected with emotions or meanings, and the sounds on the record do that. So having the poems hand-lettered has a basic resonance with that aspect of the songs. Also, it just looks so amazing and Arrington did such a fantastic job! 

SDS:  Your comments on silence in the Statement are also provocative. You say that within the infinite potential of silence, poets can achieve the most accurate communication, and that the “music of Pink Thunder aspires to, but never fully achieves the condition of silence.” How did this thinking contribute to your song writing? 

MZ: I kind of talked about this in my answer to your question about the book design and why the poems were illustrated. The abstract architecture - and just plain old texture - of music is paradoxically specific. Weirdly, although it has no literal meaning, music creates meanings for listeners that are probably most notable for how specific they feel. When I say that the music in Pink Thunder aspires to the condition of silence, I mean that I wanted it to have as much potential to mean things to listeners as silence has. 

SDS: What are you working on right now? If any, what is the impact of Pink Thunder on new work? 

MZ: I'm composing a lot of instrumental music, I'm well into working on a new record of my own songs, and I'm beginning to read poems for another volume of songs like the ones on Pink Thunder. I also made a version of Pink Thunder as an art exhibit of music-playing found object pieces, and I'm interested in that format for releasing new works both by me and by other artists, as well.

The poems that I was fortunate enough to be able to use for this project were so strong and durable, and they produced songs that are funny, poignant, but above all surprising, that it's definitely made me question everything about the kinds of songs I want to make. On one hand, I plan to continue to investigate these new directions in songs. On the other, I'm also excited to investigate the most basic and traditional song forms, as well. I'd like to write some songs that work well without asking the listeners to do any work to understand the music. 




Michael Zapruder is an award-winning songwriter and recording artist, and a co-founder of San Francisco's Howells Transmitter arts collective and record label. His albums include 52 Songs, This is a Beautiful Town, New Ways of Letting Go, and Dragon Chinese Cocktail Horoscope, which won a 2009 Independent Music Award for Best Folk / Singer Song-Writer Album. His most recent work is Pink Thunder, a collection of free verse pop art-songs made from the poems of more than twenty contemporary American poets. Contributors include Noelle Kocot, James Tate, Bob Hicok, David Berman, D. A. Powell, and Valzhyna Mort. michaelzapruder.com



Sheila Davies Sumner has an M.F.A. in Poetry from St. Mary’s College of California. She has also written short stories which appeared in Rampike, Alcatraz 3, and in the graphic-story magazine, one of one, published by Burning Books. In addition, she has written and produced radio dramas, commissioned by New American Radio, including What is the Matter in Amy Glennon, which was nominated for the International Prix Futura Award.







Friday, March 29, 2013

Friday, April 5th @ 7:30 PM with Matthew Zapruder, Gillian Conoley, Jason Bayani, and music by Michael Zapruder

Join us on Friday, April 5th for a reading with Matthew Zapruder, Gillian Conoley, and Jason Bayani. Plus music by Michael Zapruder from his album
 of poems turned to song, Pink Thunder!

Event begins at 7:30 PM.
Beverages and snacks will be served.

We hope to see you there!


Matthew Zapruder is the author of three collections of poetry, most recently Come On All You Ghosts (Copper Canyon 2010), a New York Times Notable Book of the Year. His poems, essays and translations have appeared in many publications, including Tin HouseParis ReviewThe New RepublicThe New YorkerBombSlatePoetry, and The Believer. He has received a Guggenheim Fellowship, a William Carlos Williams Award, a May Sarton Award from the Academy of American Arts and Sciences, and a Lannan Literary Fellowship. He works as an editor for Wave Books, and as of fall 2013 will be a member of the Faculty of the St. Mary's College of California MFA in Creative Writing. His new book of poems, Sun Bear, is forthcoming in 2014. He and his wife, an urban planner, live in Oakland.

Gillian Conoley was born in Austin Texas, where, on its rural outskirts, her father and mother owned and operated a radio station. She is the author of seven collections of poetry, including THE PLOT GENIE, PROFANE HALO, LOVERS IN THE USED WORLD, and TALL STRANGER, a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award. Her work has received the Jerome J. Shestack Poetry Prize from The American Poetry Review, a National Endowment for the Arts grant, and a Fund for Poetry Award, and is widely anthologized, most recently in W.W. Norton’s new Postmodern American Poetry.  A new collection, PEACE, is forthcoming from Omnidawn in spring 2014. Her translations of three Henri Michaux texts, never brought into English before, will also appear next year, with City Lights. Editor and founder of Volt magazine, she is Professor and Poet-in-Residence at Sonoma State University. 

Jason Bayani is a graduate of Saint Mary’s MFA program in Creative Writing. He is a Kundiman fellow and a veteran of the National Poetry Slam scene. His work has been published in Fourteen Hills, Muzzle Magazine, Mascara Review, the National Poetry Slam anthology, Rattapallax, Write Bloody’s classroom anthology, Learn Then Burn, and other publications. He has been on 7 National Poetry Slam teams, he is a National Poetry Slam finalist, and was the 2010 International World Poetry Slam representative for Oakland, California. He is also one of the founding members of the Filipino American Spoken Word troupe, Proletariat Bronze, and has been an organizer for the Asian and Pacific Islander Poetry and Spoken Word Summit. He currently lives in Austin, Texas. His first book "Amulet" is being released by Write Bloody Press in April, 2013.

Michael Zapruder is an award-winning songwriter and recording artist, and a co-founder of San Francisco's Howells Transmitter arts collective and record label. His albums include 52 Songs, This is a Beautiful Town, New Ways of Letting Go, and Dragon Chinese Cocktail Horoscope, which won a 2009 Independent Music Award for Best Folk / Singer Song-Writer Album. His most recent work is Pink Thunder, a collection of free verse pop art-songs made from the poems of more than twenty contemporary American poets. Contributors include Noelle Kocot, James Tate, Bob Hicok, David Berman, D. A. Powell, and Valzhyna Mort. michaelzapruder.com

Friday, March 22, 2013

Studio One Spring Calendar

Friday, May 3rd-- Doors @ 7:00 PM; Show begins @ 7:30 PM
(In the Studio One Auditorium)

Studio Lightning: A Special SF/East Bay Collaboration between Quiet Lightning & Studio One

Featured Readers:
Adeena Karasick
and erica lewis

Friday, June 7th @ 7:30 PM

Featuring:
Sara Wintz
Megan Breiseth
and Grace Grafton

Saturday, March 9, 2013

A Conversation: Joshua Edwards and Sheila Davies Sumner

Joshua Edward's new book, Imperial Nostalgias, is out from Ugly Duckling Presse this month 
He will be reading at Studio One on March 21st @ 7:30 with Farnoosh Fathi 


"At times, a poem arrives when language pushes back against the self."
-Joshua Edwards



Sheila Davies Sumner: Your new book of poems has an arresting title –– Imperial Nostalgias. Both words have an ineffable quality and taken together that quality is increased tenfold.  It seems that any of our senses can be metabolized into homesickness, remembrance, melancholia –– or into the absence of “the bright feeling of belonging.” The word imperial has a second meaning, it’s a synonym for non-metric, for standard weights and measure. Thus, I found myself wondering about the mass and action of nostalgia in your book, particularly in the title poem. What were your reasons for choosing this title? Also, in your acknowledgements you write that the title is based on a series of poems by the Peruvian poet César Vallejo. Can you say what in your work resonates with or is inspired by Vallejo’s?

Joshua Edwards: First off, since I’ve had the chance to read some of your questions in advance, I just want to say I really appreciate your insightful, considerate reading of the book. I’m so glad you find the title arresting, and I’m pretty sure I chose it as a title for the book before I wrote the eponymous poem. I stole Vallejo’s phrase for a few reasons. First of all, I like its sound and tension (especially since “imperial” translates so unfortunately well into contemporary American English)—it’s ineffable and heavy, imposing and deflated. Secondly, I love Vallejo’s writing and I wanted to reference his itinerancy, poetry, and legend. Although I wouldn’t single him out as a particular influence for this collection—which was written over the course of many years and came together as poems gradually found each other—his agitated lyricism, dark imagery, and use of form and archaic language have definitely shaped my work. Finally, I wanted to create a context for the book in which my position in the world is implicated or exposed. I’m of course against imperialism, robbing people of their land and livelihoods, drone warfare, and any sort of institutionalized violence, but imperialism is in the cereal I eat and the culture I consume, and the ghost of Manifest Destiny looms large in the histories of the states I’ve spent most of my life in Texas, Oregon, Washington, and California. I hadn’t thought about the imperial measurement system until you mentioned it, and I like thinking of the force and mass of nostalgia. The nostalgia I want to come through in the collection itself is quite different than the one evoked by the title, and could perhaps be described as the measure between volition and the present moment. I could describe it as nostalgia for the now—a sense that what’s going on is lost in the happening.

SDS: There is something about your eponymous poem that brings much excitement and much grief. It reverses time and entangles space in a concise, almost scientific way. I wonder if the poet is in conversation with an earlier speaker who asks whether “travel is an enemy to ends.”

JE: I think all the poems emanate from the same speaker, but one who is in different (non-hierarchical) stages or states of being. This is probably the poem that is the most political in that section in some ways, and the "Departures" poems were written while reading a bit of cultural criticism, so there's definitely a link there.

SDS: The arrangement of poems in Imperial Nostalgias is thoughtful and elegant. There are five parts, which I’ve identified in this way: Parable, Lacunae (silence), a Reverie in sestets, a Chorus of forms (sound), and 31 Micrograms. How did you come to organize the book as you have? Assuming there is a story you tell yourself when you write, how does this storytelling help or complicate the way you structured this book?

JE: The sections were each written during very different times in my life, in different places, and the story I told myself came in the selection of the work instead of its writing. Although I often use aphoristic and declarative language, I’m more interested in uneasiness than resolve, so I wanted to convey a sense of a consciousness coming apart while being reformed, opening up as it becomes more focused.  The poems aren’t arranged chronologically, but I did want to create the texture of time’s passage.

SDS: I’m impressed by images in your poems that are both visceral and figurative. For instance, the smell of an “approaching language frontier”; a ceiling fan that “helps heighten the hotel’s diction”; time being “something that leaks from lungs”; a speaker needing to “dislodge the extra voice caught in my throat”; and an outsider who “stuck the real up into the imaginary.” It seems that you allow tandem realities –– sensational and imaginal –– to compatibly occupy a phrase, which in turn offered the chance for me to practice playing around in two worlds at once. 

JE: I hadn't really thought of that, but thanks for pointing it out! I'm guessing it has something to do with my interest in photography and poetry, how they interact in matters of truth and imagination.

SDS: In the section called Two Parables, the man in “The Traveler” and the man in “The Outsider” possess essential but opposite attitudes: sacred & secular, wise man & trickster, pedagogue & performer. Each man draws a crowd to his specialty; each awakens the crowd differently. In what ways do these parables act, throughout your book, as a reader’s travel guides?

JE: I guess the figures in those poems are meant as guides through the book, but I’m not sure I know how they work. Even if I did, it might be better for me to allow them to exist in their ambiguity.

SDS: “Valley of Unrest” is a series of photographs that follows the parables. I think it’s interesting that we traverse these images, allowing for sudden, silent time to look around before arriving at the first poems in “Departures”. What was behind your decision to place this valley, just so?  What are the challenges or what kind of time do you imagine the reader experiences? Are they meant as preparation for or as a kind of mnemonic for poems encountered later? In one poem, you write: “images are more demanding than ideas.” Since you worked extensively with photographs in your earlier book, Campeche, I’m hoping you can describe some of these demands or challenges.

JE: I take photographs to apprehend lyrical moments. I photograph things that move me, or I take a photograph when I want to remember a moment in time or record an image for further meditation and inspection. I wanted “Valley of Unrest” near the beginning of the book to put the reader in the role of a watcher. When I wrote “Departures,” I was sitting in trains, looking out windows, so having the photographs immediately before that section may help recreate that way of seeing. Some things resonate between the images in the collection but there’s no narrative to search for (except for the implication of an ending with the last image), and I wanted to establish this paradigm. Besides all this, my dad (with whom I collaborated on my first book) and several of my good friends are photographers. I’ve learned a lot from them about vision and accumulated meaning.

SDS: Ideas, images, and tightly wound theories are held to place by the reliability of the sestet form in “Departures”. There’s a noise of regularity –– train wheels on tracks –– that is comforting and, because of that, develops awareness of your language of motion, as if your words travel in their own poetic textures.

JE: I really love traveling by train, and at that point in my life I found journeys to be comforting partly because the confusion I found in the world –– which became more apparent in new surroundings while having a traveler's mindset –– seemed to dwarf my own.

SDS: I’m curious what you would answer to the question you ask in one of Departure’s sestets: “What are poets to do with the silence they put their poems into?”

JE: I don’t know, but maybe once the silence is gone it’ll be time to stop writing.

SDS: An emotional fatigue travels through some of these poems. Their tones or atonality are charged with a kind of unction and spiritual significance, like “a journey between exhaustion and joy”. Often, emotions “arise between a verb and its object,” as if sadness, bitterness, and attacks of love exist in a transitional space between the environment and the individual; as if emotions are indigenous to specific sites, and thus discoverable and borrowable. One example might be this stanza:

“I have formulated a new type of / resistance, against my own ignorance: / I transplant my mind a few times a day, / replacing it with unreliable / algorithms aimed at solving problems, / known as poems. I call them departures.” 

JE: I wish I had time to look up some psychoanalytic stuff about the totem to address this idea of emotions as indigenous to specific sites, but as you know I'm on the road again tomorrow. I pick up pretty strong vibes from places, or else I project my own anxieties and such onto places, and that transitional space of which you write does often feel very real. To me, it seems even more present between language and the self, than between the environment and the self. At times, a poem arrives when language pushes back against the self, and this happens a lot for me in environments.

SDS: Throughout Imperial Nostalgias the poet chronicles or is accompanied by crowds –– obedient crowds that listen, rebellious crowds that don’t hear, “crowds trapped in margins of stale air,” crowds made up of Beat poets, ancient and modern philosophers, a bunch of sightseers, ghosts and workers, notable photographers and visual artists. These crowds seem to have a vital, psychological function in relationship to the individual. You seem to be saying that the individual requires the crowd to make sense of himself?

JE: Community is something I think about a lot, and I’m glad you pointed out the crowds in the book because I hadn’t realized they were so prevalent. I recall the first time I was in a mosh pit, as a sophomore in high school…I was a really small kid, and I got slammed around really, but I enjoyed it a lot and it changed my thoughts about music, which until then had been a rather private joy in my life. It’s baffling to think of the powers at work in a violent mob or a bhikkhu-sangha joined in meditation.

SDS: On a more personal note I’m wondering what you’re doing these days? I know you’ve been involved with translating and teaching, that you’re the director and co-editor of Canarium books, and you’ve been living in Germany. Please talk about any of these things that seem relevant or of note.

JE: Since October, Lynn and I have lived near Stuttgart at the Akademie Schloss Solitude, an
amazing interdisciplinary residency where I’m on a yearlong fellowship. Our apartment is in an 18th Century palace that’s surrounded by forest, up on a hill, and we don’t go to the city much. Most of our time is spent at a shared desk, or else walking in the woods or hanging out with friends. I feel extremely fortunate to take part in the academy’s international community of artists and thinkers. Besides learning a lot, I’ve had the opportunity to collaborate with several friends I’ve met here: composer Peter Jakober, architect/artist Alan Worn, and artist Charlotte Moth. The past few months, I’ve also been working on the upcoming Canarium Books collections, freelance jobs, and my next book, Agonistes. After we leave Europe in December or January, Lynn and I will settle (at least half-time) in Marfa, Texas. We’re working on the design of our home with a friend and my dad, and we’ll build it from the ground up with the help of family and friends.


Sheila Davies Sumner has an M.F.A. in Poetry from St. Mary’s College of California. She has also written short stories which appeared in Rampike, Alcatraz 3, and in the graphic-story magazine, one of one, published by Burning Books. In addition, she has written and produced radio dramas, commissioned by New American Radio, including What is the Matter in Amy Glennon, which was nominated for the International Prix Futura Award.

 
Joshua Edwards directs and co-edits Canarium Books. He's the author of Imperial Nostalgias (Ugly Duckling, 2013) and Campeche (Noemi, 2011) and the translator of Mexican poet María Baranda's Ficticia (Shearsman, 2010). Currently a fellow at the Akademie Schloss Solitude, he divides his time between Stuttgart, Germany and Marfa, Texas.




Monday, January 21, 2013

A Conversation: Joshua Clover and Brian Ang

“The new poetry won't present itself to us because we have theorized it correctly, 
but because the situation is new and we have entered into it alive.” 

--Joshua Clover

"Riot Flowers" by Banksy


“I disagree with the dichotomy in “The new poetry won't present itself to us because we have theorized it correctly, but because the situation is new and we have entered into it alive.” Theorizing correctly is the aim to historical self-consciousness, to enter the present situation most accurately, including poetic practice adequate to the present.”

--Brian Ang 

Brian Ang: In a recent interview on Maisonneuve posted May 9, 2012, you express, "I think that politics may be a place of ought, of should. Poetry isn't [....] I wouldn't have [people] write a different kind of poetry, I would simply have them recognize [their poetry] as a minor task. I think that if everyone engaged in militant political action, we would have to stop worrying about whether our poetry is good for something, or has the right politics or something. Write poems about flowers and how they’re pretty in your spare time, and as long as you’re doing what needs to be done in the rest of your time, why should you feel bad about it? That’s great!"

I've observed you repeat this aesthetic openness in interviews for years, and I fully agree with the urgency for militant political action, enabled in recent years. The interview closes with, "If I was to make the strongest case I could for poetry it wouldn't be as a political intervention but as a mode of thought which I find to be well-tuned to thinking about our changing global situation—or something like that." This connects to your arguments for a renewed Marxist reading practice, most recently in "Georgic for theWorld-System," which includes the declarations, "Always totalize!", "there is no serious question for art or politics other than what stance to take in relation to this [long twentieth century's transition]," "We have no aesthetic mode whose very thought is the whole, a mode that can accommodate totality," and "Aesthetics and political economy will henceforth [from Mallarmé] have to be thought together [due to the twentieth century's annihilation of their separation]."

Given these potentials and urgencies and that the urgency to militant political action has been registered, why the contradictory reluctance to equally strongly theorize politicized writing practices adequate to the present? 

Joshua Clover: Well, if I were committed to rescuing myself from contradiction, I would perhaps develop the difference between what individual poets ought to do (about which I really have no prescription) and what I myself find interesting, or what tasks lay before us all. But I am probably just contradictory here. Certainly my own poetry, in the book I am finishing, is obsessed with the romance of value, "the real movement of history," economic crisis and the place of poetry within it, the question of militancy and the experience of revolution and counterrevolution. But these are my fascinations; people write about what they can't escape. 

If there is a real contradiction here, it is not between differing verdicts on what kind of poetry to write, or how to think about poetry. It is between poetry and political efficacy. The reason I would stand up for the flower poem is not because I am opposed to what you call "politicized writing practices," or don't find them interesting. I do. But I don't mistake them for political struggle. My own observations of the last couple-few decades are that the effort to "strongly theorize politicized writing practices" has, intentionally or not, functioned to legitimate the capacity of poetry for intervention. I am not convinced. Indeed, that's probably the worst thing to happen to poetry in the current era. It comes largely from a misreading of materiality routed through certain poststructuralisms (and now through the poststructural quasi-Marxism of people like Toni Negri) such that discourse is imagined to be a material thing, existing at the same substrate as political economy. It's not surprising the poets were enthusiastic about this "discovery." In train, the capacity of poetry to intervene in political struggle has been not a little overstated. 

If that has been a trajectory of the last, say, 40 years, one would both hope and guess that in the current conjuncture — as the crisis ramifies and openings for direct struggle present themselves — that inflation of poetry's political force would start to fade. I think that in some places it has. But not so much. Instead we get Bifo Berardi, who is in every way a lovely guy, saying "the revolution will be neither peaceful nor violent—it will be linguistic, or will not be at all." Or at least that's from the short description in his new book, which I assume he wrote or authorized. Really, it's embarrassing. 

Now I realize that the happy resolution that lets everyone walk away from this feeling okay is to say, well, we should all do both, should have a strongly politicized practice and also engage in more direct forms of struggle. This is always the magic resolution. It’s okay to vote for Obama despite knowing what we know because we plan to do all kinds of other political work, pressure from below, on the streets organizing. But in my life I haven't much seen this. The people who think voting matters think it matters enough; they don't do that much else, as best I can tell. Except for maybe take positions, say stuff. In practice, in my experience, it's most often one or the other. And if that's the case, I'd rather write flower poems or whatever all else, and get out there and fight, in Exacrheia and in the schools of Santiago, in Mahalla and in downtown Oakland. Better that than making mistakes about how much political force our poems have. 

Someone said that the act of pure poetry calls the unpaid debts of history back into question. I'm not sure that's poems, right now. It might have been at a different moment, but that's not my sense of the present. But here you are: convince me otherwise! 

BA: There is a difference between no prescription for writing and the position that people should write about anything they want. In the contradiction between poetry and political efficacy, no prescription for writing neither contributes to nor detracts from poetry's potentials for empowerment to political efficacy, while the position that people should write about anything they want detracts from poetry’s potentials for empowerment to political efficacy by encouraging depoliticizing pluralism. A politicized poetry requires immanent politicized direction: prescribing “[w]rit[ing] poems about flowers […] as long as you’re [engaging in militant political action]” is a “magic resolution” of this contradiction. In Chris Nealon’s lines, in the fraction you present as exemplary of “his masterwork ‘The Dial’” in your introduction to your recent portfolio, “The Insurrectionary Turn”: “let me mention what my friends were up against // First: other poets // the ones who’ve always said it was arrogant to have a politics […] Then: the police […] Finally capital.” From the position of poetry, poetry, the police, and capital are widening concentric circles of political confrontation.

In contrast to your experience that people either privilege politicized writing practices or more direct forms of struggle, leading you to decline theorizing the former, my recent experience has precisely been their mutual empowerment. Sublating the last 40 years of politicized writing practices empowered me to engage in more direct forms of struggle, enabled in recent years. Politicized writing practices adequate to the present begin with the insistence on extrapoetic political struggle. It’s mutually empowering to advance them dialectically.

My efforts in response to your “Georgic” arguments, agreeing with emphasizing political economy toward a reading of totality, is to advance the implications of that reading toward writing the presently absent aesthetics that can confront political economic totality, which I also agree is the only serious present question for poetry. My current poetic project, The Totality Cantos: An Investigation of Epistemological Totality, specifies in its title that it is not yet that absent aesthetics, yet has other politicized potentials including providing the scale and resources toward writing that aesthetics.

While declining to theorize politicized writing practices, you do make gestures to aesthetic value, as in declaring “The Dial” Chris’ “masterwork” for “captur[ing] [the] complicated and uneven shift [of the last year or two’s leaping of poets into direct political antagonisms and the global economic catastrophe] most eloquently.” I’m interested in an argument for its mastery, and given your portfolio’s emphasis on the contemporary and its turn, the poem’s dominant use of over-40-years-old Frank O’Hara technique ought to be addressed. Relatedly, I found it wanting that the portfolio’s poetries were ambiguously selected as products of “this exposure, this opening, this Insurrectionary Turn” without addressing why they are exemplary. 

JC: Ah, but I haven't done anything like "prescribing “[w]rit[ing] poems about flowers […] as long as you’re [engaging in militant political action]." 

I don't know how many ways I can say this. I'm not opposed to theorizing a politicized poetry. I'm not opposed to politicized poetry. I have watched, over the last 40 years, the political efficacy of poetry qua poetry be systematically exaggerated. To my measure, it has been at the expense of other political engagements. 

Now, there are good reasons for this. I wouldn't change that history. But history itself has changed—the situation has changed. There are openings for non-discursive interventions that weren't there in the United States in 1979, 1985, 2000. I believe in the possibility of those interventions. I'd like to see the poets fighting, and organizing, and engaging themselves directly in political struggle. I'd like to see that for non-poets too. It's certainly my ambition for myself. It's well and good to say, ah, politicized writing practices and direct antagonism advance together. If they do for you, Brian, that's fantastic. Most of the "poetry of Occupy," as they say, was written by people who were not much involved in the organizational work, the provision of food, the security, the building of barricades, the cleaning of pots. 

I love poetry. But I feel if we lose a few poems — of any stripe — and gain a few new political practices, I'm okay with that.  

BA: You expressed the position to “Write poems about flowers […] as long as you’re [engaging in militant political action]” in the Maisonneuve interview I quoted at this conversation’s beginning. If you advocated political struggle with no comment regarding writing, I wouldn’t have issue and I agree. But as I differentiated in my previous message, in advocating political struggle in the contradiction between poetry and political efficacy, which I’ll take up in your realignment of my initial presented contradiction regarding your own theorizing and lack of in reading and writing practices, you expose yourself to critique on those terms.

Diminishing poetry to advocate political struggle, repeating a position in your 2012 piece co-written with Juliana Spahr to “give a lot of our time to other matters, and […] write less poetry,” is uncompelling for bracketing poetry’s empowering potentials as its argument for extrapoetic political struggle is admirable. I want to emphasize statements in that piece embedded in service to that conclusion, that “a great deal of the thinking and the motivation that got [poets engaged in political struggle] came from being a poet” and that “writing poems is one possibility in trying to figure out what is needed.”

These statements are more closely related to your and Juliana’s 95 Cent Skool’s statement in 2010, which “beg[an] with the assumption that poetry has a role to play in the larger political and intellectual sphere of contemporary culture, and that any poetry which subtracts itself from such engagements is no longer of interest. ‘Social poetics’ is not a settled category, and does not necessarily refer to poetry espousing a social vision. It simply assumes that the basis of poetry is not personal expression or the truth of any given individual, but shared social struggle.” I agreed with this position and launched my magazine ARMED CELL at the 95 Cent Skool’s sequel, the Durruti Free Skool, in 2011: the magazine stated its aim “to be […] a site for the study necessary for executing political actions.” In my sustained editorial argument I’ve continued to publish the poetries I’ve found to be most empowering for being self-conscious of their writing practices in tandem with participations in contemporary social struggles. The last 40 years of politicized writing practices are to be sublated and should not detain us.

It seems that a difference between us is that in the contradiction between politicized writing practices and direct antagonism, I regard them as mutually empowering while you feel that you must choose direct antagonism. In your paraphrase “politicized writing practices and direct antagonism advance together” of my “It’s mutually empowering to advance [politicized writing practices and direct antagonism] dialectically,” I want to specify that dialectic as empowering for subjects, and not an autonomously advancing historical dialectic. The dialectic firstly empowers me, and I seek to manifest that empowerment in my writing, editing of comrades, and direct antagonisms in order to make contributions to test them socially and empower others, as others’ contributions have empowered me. Subjects construct history.

Since you seem to be more interested in extrapoetic political struggle than writing practices, I’m interested in what defines kinds of struggle as adequate to the present for you, as you’ve stated voting and poetry not to be, and specifics on your sense of present openings for struggle. 

JC: "[I]n advocating political struggle in the contradiction between poetry and political efficacy, which I’ll take up in your realignment of my initial presented contradiction regarding your own theorizing and lack of in reading and writing practices…" — I'm not sure I follow this. But I admire your inquisitorial zeal, your rage for a certain kind of internal consistency!

Actually, I want to turn things around. You've been generous in along questions and I should turn some back on you. I get how, if one assumes that some kinds of poetry are "empowering for subjects," one might then spend a good bit of time worrying over which is the right kind to do all that empowering. And I confess I want this to be true. But my own theorizing and historical analysis indicates to me a couple of things that I have tried to say as clearly as I am able. One, your assumption is not a break from but a continuation of the assumptions of the left-theoretical wing (if you'll allow me) of North American poetry in the post-Fordist era, the limits of which I have already discussed. Two, I think we find ourselves in a meaningfully changed political situation, where discursive interventions (or "empowerment") have less traction than they might have had before — because of the material character of the crisis, which is far more immediately one of political economy than was the period around 1968 in the west. So I have laid out why I am skeptical about the relationship between poetry and political efficacy just now. Why — this is my question, finally — why do you assume a relation? On what grounds? What is it about poetry and our present situation which leads you to believe it is "empowering" in ways adequate to our situation? How is your position different from the positions taken by the left-theoretical wing of North America since the seventies? 

And maybe a sub-question, or terminological one. I don't think we are using the word "dialectical" in the same way. When I use it, I refer to the relation between two elements in a contradiction that constitutes them as a unity, such that one can't exist without the other — but always, as Marx says, "a moving contradiction" wherein the dynamic of the two pushes in a direction, has a tendency internal to its contradiction. I can't really see how that's at play in "It’s mutually empowering to advance [politicized writing practices and direct antagonism] dialectically" — since, for example, one could do away with politicized writing practices without abolishing political antagonism, and moreover the relationship there isn't one of will, wherein one chooses to "advance" these elements together. So you see I am just asking my question again: is the relationship dialectical, in a materialist sense? If not, how do you understand that relationship? 

(best on a rainy Sunday,  
Joshua) 

BA: The contradiction in your theorizing and lack of in reading and writing practices is as much your work in itself as its accentuation in my relation to it: having taken up your concern with totality, I needed a more systematic writing practice than “people write about what they can’t escape.”

I have a different reading of the “limits [you’ve] discussed” of “the left-theoretical wing […] of North American poetry in the post-Fordist era” in “legitimat[ing] the capacity of poetry for intervention” as “com[ing] largely from a misreading of materiality routed through certain poststructuralisms […] such that discourse is imagined to be a material thing, existing at the same substrate as political economy.” I don’t observe in this poetry a dominant poststructuralist imagining of discourse equating political economy so much as an underemphasis on political economy and that the imagination for intervention concerned social ideological composition rather than extrapoetic direct antagonism.

In “The Political Economy of Poetry,” Ron Silliman, emphasizing cultural production over capital proper, wrote, “The potential contents of the text are only actualized according to their reception, which depends on the social composition of the receivers [….] Poetry […] reflects struggle […] as much [as] between audiences as […] between poets (or, to be precise, it is one between social formations).” Bruce Andrews is the poet of this era most concerned with totality but emphasized ideology over political economy: for instance, in “Total Equals What” and the recently made available “Rewriting Society:Poetics, the Self, Ideology,” in which he most directly registers his antipathy with poststructuralist anti-totalization. The concerns with social composition and totality continue to be essential, but to be adequate to the changed political situation’s crisis, more immediately one of political economy with openings for direct antagonism, poetry’s social composing needs to be in the provision of resources for subjects empowering direct antagonism and totality needs to be read through political economy. Poetry that can empower direct antagonism in this situation becomes more important rather than less: I regard poetry as useful study materials for engaging in direct antagonism and not merely direct antagonism’s products. My first attempt to theorize this and distinguish my position from positions since the seventies was in 2011’s "Poetry and Militancy," reflecting on the University of California protests that began in 2009 in their inertia and my first books written while a participant: “Poets must become militants themselves [….] [W]hat operations of poems might be useful for militancy? […] Provision of arsenals of theory and experience to form a saturated structure from which to issue attacks.” Advancing the presently absent aesthetics that can confront political economic totality would be included in this theoretical arsenal, the most urgent work in poetry to do.

I agree that my use of the dialectic above is not quite right: I only want to emphasize that concerning politics, poetry can empower subjects to direct antagonism and that direct antagonism is to be the principal aspect. 

JC: Those are useful statements, and I think they bring us toward some clarifications. But I must note that my fundamental question remains open. You again assert, "poetry can empower subjects to direct antagonism and that direct antagonism is to be the principal aspect." But what is your argument for believing that assertion? And is it a universal argument, about the intrinsic nature of poetry? Or is it a historical argument; is there something about this present moment that lends poetry that capacity? 

I find no fault in Language writing for being directly poststructuralist. I think that the heroic attempt to square the circle, to synthesize poststructuralist propositions and historical materialism, was in almost every sense the necessary intellectual path in that post-68 moment. But the limits of that synthesis are something I have tried to be thoughtful about. I actually think you affirm my position, though you reformulate it slightly. In your words, there was "an underemphasis on political economy" which allowed "the imagination for intervention concerned social ideological composition." Ron SIlliman "emphasiz[ed] cultural production over capital proper." Bruce Andrews "is the poet of this era most concerned with totality but emphasized ideology over political economy." I guess I would just say, yes, that is a way of saying what I meant to say: that their analysis of poetry's political status, of the political effects of certain formal practices, exaggerated those effects to give them a kind of primacy they don't in truth have. I think this exaggeration is routed through a political-economizing, as it were, of poetic form — I hardly need to cite the passages in which semiotic categories are aligned with commodities and etc. I know you know them well. 

And for all that, I would not have Language writing be any different. I think it more or less rescued US poetry, with its inventions, its commitments, and its thorn-in-the-side-of-banality zeal. I'm just registering the specificity of a break with that moment (rather than a modulation). For me the break is in the world. 

And that's the position to which I'll hew. I believe in thinking the totality. But that's a great distance from thinking the totality into being. The totality is the form of the unfolding of the contradictions of class society at any given historical moment. In your model, thought (for which poetry seems to be exemplary) necessarily precedes action: "Provision of arsenals of theory and experience to form a saturated structure from which to issue attacks.” Now in many ways I like this formulation. It's pretty deft in gesturing at the entanglements of thought and action, how we can't help but produce a false separation between the two but should rightly grasp the ways that each is always arising out of the other. I see that you are not intent on providing recipes for action, but something like an intellectual ambience from which actions are more likely to leap in effective ways. I like that. It's optimistic, but I like it. 

And yet, it still seems abstract to me. It still has an odd priority. The kind of theorizing you prefer still seems to me to do a lot of predeciding. It says theories are already in place before the action. It still generates "poet" as an autonomous role; in this model, a poet's contribution could still be this provision of theory, this production of a saturated structure, from which others could then "issue attacks." Now I know you will want to say, well, in our model, it should be the poets who are also engaging in the direct struggles, having done their assigned homework saturating structures. But in reality this doesn't necessarily happen. This kind of division of intellectual and manual labor happens. You get a lot of poets saying, well, my poems are my contribution — poetry retains a certain elite status.

I still want to affirm that poetry, just like theory, is immanent to given struggles. Poetry isn't the saturated structure from which they arise — though history is, history containing some poetry, to invert old Ez — but arises from struggle. As a proposition, what I am saying is not particularly new. But the situation is new. The situation we are living through now is new. The new poetry won't present itself to us because we have theorized it correctly, but because the situation is new and we have entered into it alive. 

And my optimism is that we can get to a place where there is new poetry, but no poets. People will write poetry. But the autonomous role of the poet, which as it exists now is a consequence of this historical division of manual and intellectual level — that role won't exist. Now I should say, at last, that you keep insisting this account of poetry, where it is immanent to struggle, is a "lack of" theorizing poetry as political practice. I'm not sure I agree. It's actually a pretty explicit theorizing. It simply isn't prescriptive. It's a theory of poetry and political antagonism and their relation, not a theory of what kind of poetry poets should write.   

BA: I’m more interested in an historical argument than a universal argument for asserting that “poetry can empower subjects to direct antagonism” because I’m most interested in the political novelty of recent years for present practice. My argument arises from my own experience of being motivated to direct antagonism by poetry and its historical political concerns cultivated in capital’s margins, and my consonant observation with yours in “The Insurrectionary Turn” that in recent years “there has been a striking leap of poets into direct political antagonism,” to which I would add that poets have frequently been key actors. “Poetry and Militancy” is an historical argument situated in “the post-2008 market crash’s systemic re-exposure of capitalism’s brutality at the level of everyday life and resultant re-ignition of political imagination and praxis for the efficacy of activism, call[ing] for a greater insistence on poetry to contribute to militancy.” As you emphasized, theory is immanent to struggles, my theorizing first arising from the experience of the University of California protests. Due to these historical experiences and observations, it seems worth theorizing their intuitions to advance the novel contributions poetry may have for subjects in contemporary struggles. It’s possible that its contributions are limited to a certain abstraction: accurately delimiting its potential enables its full utility and the exceeding of it for other activities as useful.

I don’t observe an alternative theorizing tendency for writing adequate for wholly breaking with Language writing: more is lost in forcing a break than modulating at this time. Potentially useful tendencies should be mastered as they arise. I agree “in thinking the totality” and not “thinking the totality into being”: I’m not advocating the latter.

I agree that “in reality” the “division of intellectual and manual labor happens […] [that] [y]ou get a lot of poets saying, well, my poems are my contribution”: may those tendencies be ceaselessly criticized to the dustbin. “Poetry and Militancy” includes, “If elements of poetry posture to be concerned with politics at all, they need to contribute to thinking and acting toward [militancy] or they are useless at best and reactionary at worst,” as a contribution to their critique and a motivating self-critique.

I disagree with the dichotomy in “The new poetry won't present itself to us because we have theorized it correctly, but because the situation is new and we have entered into it alive.” Theorizing correctly is the aim to historical self-consciousness, to enter the present situation most accurately, including poetic practice adequate to the present.

My insistence was on your lack of theorizing writing practices, which you confirm as a lack of prescription. So your theorizing of poetry as political practice is toward a future post-poet society. Orientation toward the future is only useful insofar as it directs present practice: my advocacy for prescription is that it is agency for present practice, part of a writer’s activity toward historical self-consciousness.  

JC:  Thanks for extending the generous offer to close this conversation. I worry we have gone on a bit long trying to surmount a real impasse. It may be (warning: here comes the Easy Way Out) that we are simply using the term "theorize" differently. But maybe not, as I still can't see it.  

From here, you still seem to be offering a prescription based on an assumption about the political efficacy of poetry which is in turn based on anecdote, on "[your] own experience of being motivated to direct antagonism by poetry and its historical political concerns." You then announce a "historical argument situated in “the post-2008 market crash’s systemic re-exposure of capitalism’s brutality at the level of everyday life and resultant re-ignition of political imagination and praxis for the efficacy of activism.” That all sounds right, descriptively: economic catastrophe, intensified exposure to immiseration among the poetried classes, new or restored politicization and practice. We have both stood somewhere in the midst of that, for sure. But then you conclude, "call[ing] for a greater insistence on poetry to contribute to militancy." That's a call. An affirmation.

But it doesn't tell me how poetry does this, or why we should believe poetry empowers anyone, or contributes to militancy, aside from your personal account. Perhaps more significantly, it doesn't speak to the particulars of the present situation, and whether it bears an underlying relationship to poetry's efficacy. Instead, basically, you offer a historical invariant: poetry does this. Things are especially intense now, you indicate, so poetry should do this especially intensely. As far as I can tell, that's not a theory. 

The theory on which I hang my hat is a version of that good ol' hat-rack, historical materialism. This theory suggests that theory itself is immanent to struggle, and so is poetry — that politicized, political poetry will arise from antagonism, from its development. Theory doesn't prescribe, in that sense. Theory is the opposite of prescription. I think we share the idea that poetry can itself be a theory of the historical moment, and perhaps even of the struggle. But this will be true in so far as it arises immanently

And I feel curiously optimistic in this unfolding. Which is to say, while I am open to all kinds of poems, including the dread flower poem, I believe that if we involve ourselves directly in the central antagonisms of our time, that it will change our poems. Probably not so many flower poems, or maybe really excellent flower poems. We will get more and better politics in our poems not because we should, or because that's a desirable goal, but because we have so involved ourselves. We are seeing this already, I think. That said, what a pleasure to take a break from that involvement, and from the miserable shit of labor, and the lovely scraping work of friendship and of love...what a pleasure to take a break from that to read poems with you and Lyn!