D * I * U 3 6 primary election 9 - 10 - 96 day New England Without Emerson Analysis of an International Poetry Conference If one walked, even for yards, into the woods sewn about The New England Center like an ancient chrysalis, one would have seen a "true" assemblage of alternatives. Not far from our self-interred minds, gasping for innovation, there lay a forest where trees made way for boulders to rest, ferns to multiply; that moved with the wind, and invited the sun to sit, as he wished, on its floor. Nearby, a stream somehow too in balance, maintained uncountable life forms with juxtaposing needs, functions, and modes of expression. Perhaps if we had convened _there_, instead of in the artificial cool and fluorescence of a lecture hall, there would have been no doubt that the "International Poetry Conference" held in Durham, NH, August 29 through September 2 under the sobriquet "Assembling Alternatives" was, although expertly organized, merely one brush stroke on a work in need of far more progress. The creative consciousness formed by this brilliant gathering of (predominantly) Language Poets from Canada, Ireland, the United States, and United Kingdom was a commanding event but justifiably criticized by some as only a narrow representation of contemporary poetic expression. Throughout the event there breathed, with due respect of course, an appeal to the esteemed, white academic poetry hierarchy to acknowledge the body of writers represented not as "the" voice of contemporary poetic culture, but merely "a" voice in a much greater chorus, rich with contrapuntal harmonies yet to be explored. Others complained that the power brokers assembled were reprehensibly not using the machine they had created to its greatest advantage. The value of BW's and BP's intellectual commitment, for example, is indisputable, but need not necessarily lead to creative blindness, and devouring of itself in indwelling, exclusive thought. Many would love to share investment brokers with BW, but if participation in life remains at a level of superficiality, there too will words die. With great genius in hand, we have expanded minds beyond the realm of traditional language use. Now, many chided, in semi-silence, we must extend our minds outside the normal parameters of "that" life; those forms and the type of existence that harboured them, before the work itself becomes nothing but unread epitaphs of dead souls. This discourse ended with a well supported parting call to openly acknowledge all past and present works of ingenuity as part of the preparatory work for future unfoldments in poetry, and to offer no support of close to fanatic proponents, with their lack of intelligent synthesis, who participate in a subtle process of elimination of contrary approaches in order to arrive at the vital and "true" contribution _they_ have to make. Beyond most unilateral criticisms, there are equally as valid correlative points to be made. As such, in a parallel analysis of the conference, there were those that agreed it stood unrivaled in terms of the number of poets in attendance and the notable quality of their participation. They were far more accepting of the canonical nature of the group, accepting _any_ group as separative and exclusionary when viewed from the angle of the whole. But they believed the eventual outcome of constructive participation in such group events would be an inevitable movement away from the consciousness of the isolated personality, from narrow to broader acceptance and perhaps even the readiness for alternatives. They hoped that even if the participants were learning gradually, to think in wider, more inclusive, terms their desire for alternatives, for understanding what was before unknowable, would grow contemporaneously. In this movement, they felt certain, were the seeds of innovation, and there was enough creative power demonstrated at the conference, when not turned convolutely in on itself, to confirm the potential for such progress. CB (US), with energy running through his body like a serpent, masterfully displayed the broadest landscape of poetic insight at the conference. NB's closing reading confirmed her authority in using words to connect minds and hearts at a higher level of awareness, a void left gaping by almost every other poet. PJ's reading of "Long After Dreaming of a Flounder" also proved he had been, at least once, to the vortex of all creation, for my mind in listening lost the words where dreams resound, and found instead a sea of deeper consciousness. On podium performance, I will only say that there was a distinct lifelessness and sterility that characterized most of the American poets' readings. This unfortunate cast was dramatically dispelled at one point, however, by the work of CF, who filled the performance space with candle light, dance, chanted sound, and a markedly freer milieu for expression. This alone does not define poetic greatness, but it was enlivening, amidst so much repression and angst which is merely an aggressive attempt to escape repression without a key. Though still dominated by conscious deliberation and mental intentions, large fragments of illumination did rear up in the more experimental applications of language & sound and on-line poetry using various cybertextual modes of expression. Working through two or more dimensions simultaneously has, at its most advanced level, the potential of bringing the soul and the mind into a closer and more established relationship. Thus, great departures from traditional works can be forseen to evolve out of these areas of creative focus. Participants in the conference witnessed varying degrees of advancement in sound poetics. All of the sound poets used their voices with trained instrumental percision, and through the creative reverberation of sound and sounded text caused emotions, thoughts and sensations to appear and disappear as a testimony of response. PD, whose experience allows him to draw upon diverse styles and approaches, used the voice to imitate authentic environmental and natural sounds which became like photographs or paintings of experiences too often lost in a world of dense soundscapes and visually dominant perceptions. He combined these with more visceral, animalized sound expressions of pure emotion that were complete without any need whatsoever for textual references. CB's (CAN) operatic sound poetry employed nonsense syllables with a classic sense of musicality and vocal technique that was in keeping with an elaborate, more balanced form of art. As with all classical contexts, this work is to be valued for its present contribution as well as the more radical forms that may later be derived from it. Still further advanced was the work of CC, who used improvisational tones to extend the vibration of the spoken word and evolved this into an interplay of sound and word images that recreated more surrealist renderings of life. As in the case of works in pure text that will someday enjoin the mind with higher levels of consciousness translating for man that which is now unseen, the current work of sound poets must be encouraged as a step toward still deeper esoteric explanation of sound and the spoken word. Someday such artists will develop a language of sound-word forms, knowing exactly where harmony and dissonance are found and can be recreated; which sound brings absorption, and which release, etc. _This_ will be a time to celebrate innovation. Lastly I must share my deep respect for the pioneering efforts and complex sensitivity of the electronic poets present at the conference, the value of whose work I fear was greatly underestimated by non-cyber poets. JC and JR seem untouched however, by the still prevalent lack of understanding, as they endeavor to create a soul within the seemingly dimensionless body of cyberspace. Driven by the medium like sculptors to clay, they are transfiguring a tool designed for enhanced productivity into a source of inspiration and illumination. They are among the few, but hopefully growing number of artists who realize that if the computer is to become a focal point of future existence, a separate on-line plane of reality, then some opportunity for balance should exist within it, as in any other dimension. (i.e. should offer the means to confront the expanses of man's emotions and soul -- as well as his mind.) The electronic poets are enticed and challenged by a world where text no longer has form limitations, where it moves and breathes in endless cycles, and the audience or user, as JR so beautifully facilitates in his layered works, can participate not only as reader but as collaborative creator. In returning to the whole of what transpired at this landmark event, I will once more echo the position that no writer, even one comfortably illuded by a long list of published works and permanent tenure, can ever afford to propogate the appearance of a closed consciousness. "New" poetic ground may not technically have been broken in our midst, but waves of self-perpetuation may have been parted long enough for light to come, as through the trees, to rest upon our minds. Such progress is, in and of itself, profound. Five New England Days Cloistered in a woodland retreat Worshipping poetic thought, Mental ecstasy, physical exhaustion The next day we bombed Iraq, Again. Signing Off -- The Interpreter E.A. Poe Contacts are made with a strange Lower East Side pool hustler who supposedly does amazing impersonations of Edgar Allen Poe. Since the tour is due to strike Boston, we thought it would be a perfect opportunity to find Poe's original house there and put Dylan in a scene with him. We invite the guy to the hotel for a sampling of his talents. He enters the room, a short, balding, nondescript fellow with a small suitcase containing his Poe costume. He retires to the bathroom for the transformation. We're also thinking about the possibility of getting Burroughs into this scene somehow, him maybe doing a cutup collage with Dylan and Poe. Burroughs wants his money in front though and also to have a formal dinner with Dylan in order to get to know him before we do any filming. Dylan is backing off from the whole idea. Suddenly Edgar Allan Poe emerges from the bathroom, an absolute dead-ringer. It's amazing. Shifty eyes, black tails, ruffled cuffs, the entire essence of Poe down cold. Even though we've asked the guy to do something less well known than "The Raven," as soon as he steps out of the bathroom he's into the first stanza: "Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary..." There's no way of stopping him now. Besides, he's totally hypnotic in his delivery. He's got all the demonic obsession of Poe coursing through him. Everyone's pinned to the corners of the hotel room while Poe rants on through his paranoid vision. It's an electrifying private performance that, once again, we fail to get on film. By the time we hit Boston things were so frantic in the film department that we never did get Poe into the action. The little guy packs up his bags and leaves. --SS One Sea In Antarctica live King Penguins Who patrol the borders of the seas. Resigned, disgruntled, with bugs In the tips of their oily feathers, These once regal creatures have learned What regal really means. The start Of bitter, the tart of loss, their dives Bungee and grope for substance, A depth to depths. Get at political bop. Segue the individual penguin IRS-wise, A faux system in which God hollers "Dante!" Who abruptly tosses his stylus down To dance God's ministrations. I pulled These crusty cases out of the docket holder: The twelve per cent of US population That is Black, the fringes around my lover's Lovely cunt to sing the language that seduces I will beat you up I will beat you Up drum drum to grow old upon love To curse in numerous languages to Enumerate numerous to whip Elephants over Alps to proclaim Victory the triumph of science Is history. Penguins rule! In Antarctica live King Penguins Who patrol the borders of the seas. They busily adjudicate the line twixt Indian Ocean and Pacific, the two Chinese Seas, how far the nets' economy deeds The shirr-run of cod. Now about that Retirement Account -- the Pension Plan was put into Mutuals, see, looking for the best return, Spreading risk, demanding return, little Risk, even invested in the company you work for (Have retirement account from), so to do the best To get the dividend and increase profit They downsized you, I am sorry for irony. I mean, sorry for everything. We know everything Seeing that we watch TV constantly, monitor The monitor, I believe is the phrase, the truth is, We so busily watch we do not see The two candidates are twin-headed Monsters of the same faux system, capitalist Body, which locks the whole thing in place. This Is ok since you are rich and control the media which gives Us shows like Martin and Roseann that delude Things are basically ok. Are they? It is a question, The penguins answer "Aye aye," and I, I sign off here. -- The Penguin Poet (cf. Poetic Penguins by Wm Boyd) from _Heraclitean Fire_ we who once were would word wide webs In a metaphysical Universe playing with fires Bark be my raiment sparksewn through Never into the same flames twice 1. age of reason and us all spasming a seizure or revelation suddenly steps out of character falters falls into caricature Kali -graphic display of most removed cool cloistered violence waving tables War wages in faces and famine manoeuvres between occlusion between any two untenable positions which antidote weighed (at stake wanting) becomings and so holes to blow through bearings only roentgens rising rads and rems odds of further feminine future war rages with images forgeries of orders (of verbs) by the truckload hordes or herds of words thunder across the plain plainly illegible --The Alterran Poetry Assemblage KDIU: 8/27/96 Maria Alice/ D'Zemcontre Pierre Akendengue/ Maladalite Bonga/ Swinga Swinga Super Rail Band/ Mansa Igd El Djilad/ Madaris Mohammed Wardi/ Live in Addis Ababa Glenn Spearman Double Trio/ The Fields Larry Ochs/ The Secret Magritte Rene Lussier & the Now Orchestra/ Le Tour du Bloc Jose Reyes e Los Reyes/ Gitan Poete Morton Feldman/ Why Patterns? Omar Pene/ Fari Oum Koultsum/ Lailet Hob THE RABBIT, THE FOX AND THE WOLF -- A FABLE One sunny day a rabbit came out of her hole in the ground to enjoy the weather. The day was so nice that the rabbit became careless, so a fox sneaked up to her and caught her. "I am going to eat you for lunch!," said the fox. "Wait!" replied the rabbit, "You should at least wait a few days" "Oh yeah? Why should I wait?" "Well, I am just finishing writing my Ph.D. thesis." "Hah! That's a stupid excuse. What is the title of your thesis any way?" "I am writing my thesis on 'The Superiority of Rabbits over Foxes and Wolves.'" "Are you crazy? I should eat you up right now! Everybody knows that a fox will always win over a rabbit." "Not really, not according to my research. If you like, you can come to my hole and read it for yourself. If you are not convinced you can go ahead and have me for lunch." "You are really crazy!" But since the fox was curious and had nothing to lose, it went with the rabbit into its hole. The fox never came back out. A few days latter the rabbit was again taking a break from writing and, sure enough, a wolf came out of the bushes and was ready to eat her. "Wait!", yelled the rabbit, "you cannot eat me right now." "And why might that be, you fuzzy appetizer?" "I am almost finished writing my Ph.D. thesis on 'The Superiority of Rabbits over Foxes and Wolves'." The wolf laughed so hard that it almost lost its hold on the rabbit. "Maybe I shouldn't eat you, you are really sick in your head, you might have something contagious," the wolf opined. "Come read for yourself, you can eat me after that if you disagree with my conclusions." So the wolf went to the rabbit's hole and never came out. The rabbit finished writing her thesis and was out celebrating in the lettuce fields. Another rabbit came by and asked, "What's up? You seem to be very happy." "Yup, I just finished writing up my dissertation." "Congratulations! What is it about?" "It is titled 'The superiority of Rabbits over Foxes and Wolves.'" "Are you sure? That doesn't sound right." "Oh yes, you should come over and read for yourself." So they went together to the rabbit's hole. As they went in, the friend saw the typical graduate student abode, albeit a rather messy one after writing a thesis. The computer with the controversial dissertation was in one corner, on the right there was a pile of fox bones, on the left was a pile of wolf bones, and in the middle was a lion. The moral of the story is: The title of your dissertation doesn't matter, all that matters is who your thesis advisor is. "To fill the hour,- that is happiness; to fill the hour, and leave no crevice for a repentance or an approval. We live amid surfaces and the true art of life is to skate well upon them." Ralph Waldo Emerson * d e s c r i p t i o n s o f a n i m a g i n a r y u n i v e r s e c / o t h e l o g i c o f s n o w f l a k e s poetry@cnsvax.albany.edu http://wings.buffalo.edu/epc/ezines/diu