This interview took place during the summer of 2013, in Paris. The conversation is structured in two parts; the first concerns the relations of language and writing, the second the relations of language and politics (as well as some concluding thoughts on the current politics of Europe). The concept of translation sets the context of the conversation and acts as a bridge between the two parts. This interview was originally conducted and recorded in French and transcribed/translated to respect the fidelity of the original interview.
Pablo Bustinduy: I had the chance to meet you while translating one of your books into Spanish, and I guess you’ve had many conversations of the kind we had then. I was looking at your library and wondering: do you know how many languages your work has been translated into? Do you have copies of those editions?
Jacques Rancière: It’s difficult to know, because there have been different types of translations—books, articles, also pirated translations—and there are many that I simply don’t know about. There are probably translations of my work into at least 20 different languages, including many that I cannot read, of course, like Japanese, Korean, Chinese, Turkish or Arabic. I do have plenty of those books. For me, many of them are something like souvenirs of a relationship, not exactly objects of collection but of some sort of witnessing…witnesses of a friendship, a connection, the fact that there are people who read the Korean or Turkish equivalent of what I tried to convey in The Ignorant Schoolmaster, for instance. Continue reading →
Karla Kelsey and Aaron McCollough, editors of SplitLevel Texts, talk to their latest authors, Carla Harryman and Catherine Meng, about their new books.
Karla Kelsey & Aaron McCollough: Catherine and Carla—thank you for doing this interview with us. We are so pleased to release both of your books as the second “pairing” of SplitLevel Text titles. The first question is broad but comes out of working so closely with W—/M— and The Longest Total Solar Eclipse of the Century, and speculating about process. We wonder if you could describe the relationship that you had to time when you were composing your books and whether or not it shifted during development and, if so, how. Do you feel your books are “of” or “in” a certain time? “About” or “at?”
Catherine Meng: Most of my work is the product of self-imposed constraints. I prefer to write first drafts in forms or off of word lists in particular. I find a sort of security once I assign myself perimeters in which to write into. In this instance, it was Daniil Kharms’s mandate in The Blue Notebook to write every day “at least half a page”—if you don’t write at least write “today I wrote nothing.” Continue reading →
Cecilia Vicuña is a poet, visual artist and filmmaker born in Santiago de Chile. The author of twenty books of poetry, she exhibits and performs internationally. A precursor of conceptual art in Latin America and an early practitioner of the improvisatory oral performance, her work deals with the interactions between text and textile, language and earth. Her multidimensional works begin as an image that becomes a poem, a film, a song, a sculpture or a collective performance. She calls this participatory, impermanent work “lo precario” (the precarious), a series of transformative acts or “metaphors in space” that bridge the gap between art and life, the ancestral and the avant-garde. In Chile she founded the legendary Tribu No in l967, a group that created anonymous poetic actions throughout the city. In l974, exiled in London, she co-founded Artists for Democracy to oppose dictatorships in the Third World. She has lived in New York since l980.
April 28, 2013
The first and last time I saw you perform was at Naropa in, I think, 2005. I remember ephemeral fragments of the performance in the auditorium filled with bodies, dim lighting, a soft and gentle movement beginning from somewhere, I forget where, in the room. I remember clearly and for some reason only, the words the word is thread. And red (or was it white or was it both?) thread hung from the ceiling (or was it not hanging, but spread around between bodies seated in aluminum chairs?). I was standing only a few feet away from you and heard whispers, barely audible in memory. I hesitate to listen to your recordings. I am trying to work through memory of that occasion.
“memory is the chain of resurrection
memory is the future
because you will
remember in future tense
you will remember
whatever you did
and others did
and others will do
that is the change”
Facebook was the only way to reach you. I’m thinking now of the three w’s, as in www: waves/weave/we or world? I’d love to hear more about these connections between word (thread), weave (the binding of body and text—written word on paper or digital) and waves (of information in the Internet). “Writing is a sensorial disorder, she says, arranging her threads. Writing wants to be three-dimensional.” (Dennis Tedlock, Spit Temple).
In 2007, I founded the Mark Allen Everett Poetry Series. This series curates between 10 to 15 readings a year in Norman, Oklahoma, and features poets spanning a broad spectrum of poetry communities and styles. Past poets who have read include Tom Raworth, Hank Lazer, Mei-mei Berssenbrugge, Lorna Dee Cervantes, Arthur Sze, Natasha Tretheway, Myung Mi Kim, Charles Alexander, Joe Harrington, Afaa Weaver, Shin Yu Pai, Leonard Schwartz, Hugh Tribby, Gerald Stern, Sy Hoawhwah, Alexandra Teague, Kate Greenstreet, Dean Rader, Zhang Er, Julie Carr, Tim Roberts, Grant Jenkins, Keorapetse Kgositsile, Duo Duo, Wang Jiaxin, Glenn Mott, among many more.
In this Everett Series conversation, Myung Mi Kim and I discuss her work in relation to a set of tensionally paired nodes (such as fragment and whole, monolingualism and polylingualism), and explore questions of teleology in experimental writing in relation to other cultural discourses, like philosophy and religion.
Myung Mi Kim is a Professor of English and a core faculty member of the Poetics Program at the State University of New York (SUNY) at Buffalo. She is the author of Penury, Commons, DURA, The Bounty and Under Flag.
Mary Cappello: You open your new collection of essays with a wonderfully suggestive epigraph from Terence: “That is true wisdom, to know how to alter one’s mind when occasion demands it.” Of course the words “occasion” and “occasional” function in variously meditative ways in your collection, and I don’t want this question to serve as a spoiler, but I was curious to hear your thoughts on the difference between being what used to be known (and maybe still is) as an “occasional poet,” and how the idea of the occasion(al) figures (differently) for you in these essays, or in the history of the essay. Mainly, I’m struck by the way the Terrence epigraph might speak to the utter adaptability of the essay form, and therefore—here’s my question: of the essayist? What might that mean for you?
David Lazar: Thanks for this question, Mary, because it’s rather central for me. The occasional poet, say in the Laureate sense (Larkin turned down the Laureateship because, among other things, he couldn’t imagine writing “occasional poems”) hews to an event, current or celebrated, of public import. The poem may veer to more personal moments, but it’s essentially a public form and its themes shoot larger rather than smaller. The occasion in the essay is frequently quite different. Certainly, large themes and events may come into play. One hopes they do. But more often than not essayists are moved to write by events, ideas, problems, questions, coincidences, conundrums…that are smaller and closer to home. Because the voice in the essay is so often intimate, we like to know, fairly early on, why it is the essayist is writing the essay, what brought her here, in short what the “occasion” of the essay is, what stirred her to write. And I divide the occasion into two crude categories, “ostensible” and “actual.” The actual occasion might be there right from the beginning, upfront. But it also might be discovered; it might be hidden from us, the way dreamwork hides our deeper anxieties, and the “ostensible” occasion, which got us writing, allowed us to wade into where we needed to go to find our “real” or at least more necessary subject. So this partially explains my invocation of Terence. The other part is simply the necessity of being able to think and change one’s mind while writing an essay. In fact, it’s impossible to write essays without being able to do this. Let me go further: I can’t imagine wanting to write essays unless this is an essential part of your makeup—the desire to change something in yourself, to move it off the mark, unsettle it. When I begin an essay, I have a rough idea of the subject and the occasion (the two might merge or overlap) and perhaps a few things I think I might want to say at some point, some pieces of narrative I think might be useful. But then when writing I might find that the essay needs to be broken up in a certain way (which I do very selectively) or that my original idea was just a hedge, or that some of the thoughts at the beginning of the essay were timid and that I need to go much further, or that they were reckless, and I need to pull back. If you look at the Montaignian essay or the Hazlittian essay you find coils of intensity. Part of my resistance to the subgeneric categorizations of the essay (segmented essay, ekphrastic essay [aren’t all essays ekphrastic?], lyric essay), in addition to the fact that they’re just academic inventions of creative writing programs that are mimicking the academic development of poetry, is that they stifle the ability of students to do what they most need to do: allow their minds to voluptuously, expansively, historically and contradictorily develop a sense of what they might say in an essay, and then how to write stunning sentences to speak them. The second part is hard to teach. I mean, you can always do forms. Continue reading →
In his monthly poetry podcast, Radio Free Albion, Tony Trigilio interviews poets about their recently released or forthcoming books. Always informal, each interview is a conversation—two poets talking about the work and play of the creative process and showcasing some of the most innovative new work in contemporary poetry.
By the 1980s, literary studies had begun to recognize traditions of African-American literature and of women’s literature. But the emerging African-American canon usually meant male, and women’s literature usually meant white. Hazel Carby, in her 1987 book Reconstructing Womanhood: The Emergence of the African American Woman Novelist (Oxford UP), showed otherwise, recovering a black “women’s era” of writers from the narratives of the enslaved to intellectuals and activists, such as Frances Harper, Ida B. Wells and Pauline Hopkins, active at the cusp of the twentieth century.
Carby did graduate work at the now legendary Birmingham Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies, co-editing, with Paul Gilroy, one of its noted collective volumes, The Empire Strikes Back: Race and Racism in Seventies Britain (Hutchinson, 1982), which includes her essays “White Woman Listen! Black Feminism and the Boundaries of Sisterhood” and “Schooling in Babylon.” In the 1990s, Carby looked at the other side of the coin of gender, masculinity, publishing Race Men (Harvard UP, 1998), which surveys black public figures from W. E. B. Du Bois and Paul Robeson to C. L. R. James, Miles Davis and Danny Glover. Cultures in Babylon: Black Britain and African America (Verso, 1999) collects a wide array of Carby’s essays, notably those from Empire Strikes Back, a cluster on black women in music and a set on multiculturalism.
Hazel Carby was born in Devon, England, in 1948. She received her BA in English and History (1970) from Portsmouth Polytechnic and an MA in Education (1972) from London University, and worked as a high school English teacher in London from 1972 to 79, as she recounts here. In 1979 she joined the program at Birmingham, receiving her MA (1979) and PhD (1984). She visited and did research at Yale in the early 1980s, moving to the U.S. in 1983. She taught first at Wesleyan University (1983-88) and then at Yale, where she is currently the Dilley Professor of African American Studies and a Professor of American Studies, and directs the Initiative on Race, Gender and Globalization. She is currently completing Child of Empire and beginning work on a new project entitled Treason-Workers.
This interview took place on 5 November 2007 in Hazel Carby’s office at Yale. It was conducted by Jeffrey J. Williams, then editor of the minnesota review, and transcribed by Marisa Colabuono.
Jeffrey Williams:Reconstructing Womanhood came out twenty years ago. In it you talk about black women writers of the 1890s who were virtually erased from cultural history, but you discover a “women’s era,” as one writer called it. Maybe you could talk about the moment when you wrote that book, which seems distant history for a lot of my students, and its cultural politics.
Hazel Carby: I think it’s good that it’s distant history for your students, because that means that they take for granted that there is a history of women writing, and that there is a history of black women writing. That was not taken for granted then. Much of the work of recovery was undertaken in isolation, in that the fields, whether you’re talking about women’s literature, whether you’re talking about American literature, or that more generic title of black writing, did not imagine that there were any black female writers there to be discovered. Continue reading →
This monthly series features highlights from the Cross Cultural Poetics archive. Cross Cultural Poetics is one of the longest-running radio shows in America focused on contemporary poetry and poetics. Based at The Evergreen State College and hosted by Leonard Schwartz, the entire archive, running from 2003 to the present, can be accessed on PennSound. Continue reading →
Toward the end of the Spring 2013 semester, Introduction to Critical Theory undergraduate students at Naropa’s Jack Kerouac School read Suzanne Scanlon’s Promising Young Women (Dorothy, 2012) through the lens of feminist and gender theories from Susan Bordo and Judith Butler. Over the summer months, Scanlon engaged with our questions about gender and mental illness, as well as questions about her practice as a writer.
Interviewed by Alexandria Bull, David Chrem, Jacob Cohen, Lauren DeGaine, Charlie Epstein, David Hall, Elizabeth Kichorowsky, Anna Meiners, Jade Quinn, Georgia Van Gunten, Chey Watson and Indigo Weller.
The Class: We are curious about research that may have gone into Promising Young Women. The experiences of Lizzie and her fellow patients are specific and realistic—did you conduct interviews or observations of women in mental health facilities?
Jon Curley: Can you envision what kinds of poems, whether structurally or thematically, you might consider writing beyond the realm of your past practice? Are there elements of poems outside your usual patterns and activities you might try to integrate into your work? Continue reading →
Nature Theater of Oklahoma talks with Lebanese visual and performing artist Rabih Mroué—about so many things!—but mainly about difference and similarity, self and community, solo and group, inside and outside, original and imitation. Though we both make performance and theater, we come from very different backgrounds and environments and even different working situations. What are the influences that make us who and what we are and what we make? And what has been his particular experience growing up and making art in Beirut?Continue reading →
Karena Youtz: Upon first entering Bravura Cool, at the title “The Better Condensed,” I encounter a poetry familiar, and am called to poetry as “trade.” “Two” at the start suggests dichotomy or pair, but it will not be this simple. A sonic series of ors/oars follows. These include: “languor-scored,” “journey,” “Newark” [new ark], “Airforce,” “or,” “cellular,” “Monitory,” then a transition to “perfidious” “her,” on the way to a “hunted certain idea,” and this is where one wishes to discover how to find the idea. In the next poem, “Outering,” music is offered up as a potential form of discovery (“Hear its phasing—”) resonant with phrasing:
“What I hear is murmur” in “The Freight.” What is carried by sound, language and music?
“The Freight”‘s own question: “what are you driving at/driven to?”
In “Errata”: “does it say”?
Of the many measuring devices and scientific implements, in “Oscillate/Oscitance” the body also becomes a conductor at: “coherer [heart]
From my reading of this poem, writing is more of a voice than a human voice is, because of the human voice’s physiologically limited frequencies. A sense develops of poetry as an instrument able to, in “Never Saw So Much Field,” “see sound” (what does sound carry?).
We have already been asked in “The Freight” to “look at this new ground of mine” with its:
to particle, parallel waste,”
to which as a reader I
add lines, waves
Returning to “Never Saw So Much Field,” with its recall of Robert Duncan’s “Often I am Permitted to Return to a Meadow,” I feel it is alright to accept the ground here as poetic. The dioptra, and any other type of scope or measurement device used for scientific observation (measurements and explorations by implement), can be equated to your book’s poetry. Measure becomes a form of observation that does not need to be separated from scientific observation, but simply counted as another instrument among the many one could pick up and observe with, in whatever manner the implement was constructed to observe.
What do you think of science and poetry in relationship over the centuries? I am thinking of times when the universe had been measured out as more orderly, and sonnets could be written with great honesty, partially because there was more of a sense of ratio or rationale instead of string theory (somehow held together), chaos theory, quantum fields, etc., where observation effects what is observed, which tempers knowability and ontology.
Jane Lewty: Many of the poems in Bravura Cool in some way allude to that relationship, whether it be the speaking self in deliberation with the various permutations and problems created by technology; the failure of the instruments we make to bridge the gap between tangible and intangible (and how they often serve to illuminate what is not there—that our efforts, theoretical or practical, are a pale imitation of mind-to-mind transference, the ultimate communication); how our attempts to connect with another often seem like a supreme effort to maintain orderliness in a world that becomes incoherent in all its possibility.
I hope that the book does attempt to recognize futility in the act of naming. Observation and instinct are all we have. The dioptra is obsolete, a tool used by Greek astronomers to chart point-to-point in the firmament, knowing stars are a state of matter, that there is a fall-off curve even for the straight line between each point, between each noted value—which is what also happens in the volume trajectory of sound. And in an attempt to answer your question, “what does sound carry?” In this poem it is perhaps the hope for an end to itself, the “limit” in the third line, whereupon an understanding of a message contained within sound can be achieved. Human utterance, as you say, is not enough. It dissembles. It concludes abruptly. The poem could be the “new ground of mine,” as evoked in “The Freight” not a “murmur[ing] ha” of lost language that dispatches itself to waste.
I love that you notice the “or/oar” sounds in the opening poem which do, as you imply, gesture towards a journey that has binaries, opposites and possibilities, but can only be undertaken by a sole, often lonely, self. In talking of alternatives, I tried to say that the “either” in certain situations is no better. For example, the “frontage road” in “It’s That Place of Blanched Variety, First of Dream” that becomes “very real, most real” is terrible in actuality, rather than simply a feature of an internally constructed landscape. And “In Case of No Case for Madness: Bilocation” implies that transgressing from that lonely self can result in irrevocable mental fragmentation. In one way, I hoped to invoke the beginning of an ordeal or a quest—I guess even a homage to Pound’s “Canto 1,” with the “swart ship” that “Bore sheep aboard her.” It was at a later stage in the composition of Bravura Cool that I realized it was a composite whole, an orchestrated journey that involves so many misapprehensions of action, sound and, as you say, “scope and measurement.” I also recognize there are a lot of questions throughout: Will I hear you? Do I believe you? And many other phrases envisaged but never uttered, many truncated sentences. There’s also a “mistake,” or a “poor accident,” a “hallucination” that hovers behind many of the poems. This mistake can be interpreted as human error, but it also reflects upon any (including scientific) experiment that never reaches its potential. Here I could add to what you say about chaos theory, or quantum physics which, I think, enacts its own perfidy or treachery (by promising so much by its ideation), but nevertheless alienates us by impenetrability. You need a code or a kind of priest-like fervor to be initiated, or the patience to loop back to its simplicity, the original idea.
In terms of code, I encounter The Transfer Tree as a living world that unfolds gradually. By that I don’t simply mean the natural environment, but a pantheon or ecosystem, a collective force without the restricting ideology of individualism. A book that rises to life in its connection to what Don Mee Choi wonderfully calls “an aching fairy tale world.” But isolation also occurs in that world. Is that why the paralegal and the researcher are named so—as paracletes to guide the “felt self” towards understanding? In the final poem, a new map is unrolled. One of my favorite lines is “I forget earth it remembers itself” (“Ursa Major and Ursa Minor”). But throughout, the two guides seek to illuminate the hidden. They also engender discomfort in the process of understanding. In the poem “Peek out of the Black Hood into Abject Darkness, Feel Further (The Split Branch’s Fist-Size Bole),” you write, “He talks me through: Want fear / to be of something? Want reasons / it would not be interesting to reduce?” What are these lines referring to?
KY: These were dream and vision figures that would combine at times, then split into their different functions as guides, comforters and hubs of information. They appeared in these roles. Once I started to get past some of the personal connotations and narratives I imposed on the dreams, I started to understand this figure more and more. It remains hugely difficult for me to have betrayed him into the evidence of text, but I hope he remains unfixed. For each person, if needed, certain figures are going to appear in their particular forms in dreams and other places, and they can help (in abandoning the subject/object split). The paralegal researcher is specific to my experience, and yet when the roles and words of the name come up, there are collective elements. People can feel these other realities, if not measure them rationally or hold onto them in a fixed way. When these guides show up within feeling and other senses, the “felt self” or experiential, an inwardly observable version of reality becomes available (in my case slowly). For me, in these moments of inward sensing, reality is primary.
I also like the name because it sounds sort of official, like a title, like he earned it, which he did. He can go back and forth effortlessly because he doesn’t experience the divisions. I want people to be able to observe and experience the realities they need. The speaker needs him.
You write “isolation also occurs in that world,” the world of the book. Isolation occurs as a form of exile. The fact of the existence of reality pushes fantasy away, pushes the “known self” into discomfort and worse. In my book, the speaker at first encounters the paralegal researcher as a vital source of love. In the first moments of their togetherness she receives the information that he will never harm her. No harm can happen in the places where he appears. No matter what takes place and how bad it feels, she understands he will never hurt her. Trust develops. She has to stop fighting the discomfort and loss. When the new map is unrolled at the end, he gives her the foundational information—the “key” “into the center of every direction.” You wrote that the book “unfolds gradually,” as do the speaker’s awareness and perceptions.
To “illuminate the hidden,” as you write, there has to be a sense of the known, of the many functioning structures of observable reality, some of which are concealed based on our conditioning and definitions. The paralegal researcher arrives in a liquid sense, rather than from the factions/fractions of dogma and exoterism. There is nothing to experience in an explanatory narrative. The speaker drops her “story,” and I hope other people who read the book also see “a living world that unfolds gradually” as you do, because that is what I hope for when the speaker (anyone) surrenders to reality and accepts what is happening. Personally, I fought (and still fight) hard to make a life I think I should try for, that is so different than life is. Somehow, by some grace, I have been able to slowly begin to see a living world, not the deadness and fixation of the rational-material. I wish I were more near whatever the light is (lights are) that shines to illuminate. Does it have a source or sources? I want to be near, inside, connected—not push away with rational explanation or definition.
Conversely, in “Never Saw So Much Field” in Bravura Cool, the poem asks:
What is the new instrument.
What am I missing.
Due to the punctuation, the question itself (“What”) is the new instrument. And “I” could either be missing the instrument/question, or the I itself could be missing. When “I” or perception is called up as an implement, I am wondering whether you retain any sense of the “I” or self as a special problem of poetry. If it is another implement with its limits, (missing things, sometimes not being present), is that problematic any more than any other limited method of observation and measurement? As in: A telescope and a microscope cannot be used for the same types of observations. Certain selves will have certain limits. Does it matter that the “I” has these limits in the context of poetry as a type of observation? This brings me back to Niedecker and the word “trade.” Starting the book with all the “ors.” Aren’t we always making choices about what we pay attention to, and how, even if unconscious choices? Do you think that the provisional nature of the data the “I” gathers disqualifies it as valid data?
Also, as poet, why condense? And how?
JL: I’m glad you refer to that line. It’s certainly debatable as a signal to something larger. “What am I missing” is not used interrogatively but elliptically. It alludes to the identity of something that can’t be defined any other way, like the “whats and hows” of a process. Within this poem, “what” (and the search for it) is allowed to proliferate. But as you ask, does “the provisional nature of the data the ‘I’ gathers [disqualify] it as valid data?” It’s not that I see the “I” as a problem to or within poetry. But in Bravura Cool I wanted to investigate the “confusion in the threads”—I’m quoting here from the poem “Ib/Ba,” which takes much of its impetus from the Egyptian Book of the Dead, a text that has no single author but exists as a collection of hearsaying (funerary texts written on papyri that were specific to the individual deceased person and, as a result, they’re detached from the reader/interpreter). In that poem I also talk about “amentia,” the slow dissolution of the mind, where sometimes all you retain is a symbol that replaces a memory.
Elsewhere in the book there’s “agraphia,” “aphonia,” “aphasia,” all of which are impediments to gathering data that allows us to function as a sentient being. Referring to those conditions might be rather inelegant and literal of me, but I use them to point out that the “certain selves” in Bravura Cool are faulty mechanisms. Personae who have no hope of decoding their environment with any kind of veracity, and therefore condense it the best they can. They are not me, but I wanted to try to write from the vantage point of delusion, extreme loneliness, starvation or a convulsive moment of violence (to oneself or another), whereupon attentiveness is askew and one’s unconscious dictates. As the person who constructs the speaking selves, it’s hard to resist storytelling. That’s why I included the piece “Find Poem,” which is basically a field manual of lines/items that condense other poems. The speaker says: “I think surveillance is ‘magnetic observing.'” Content-wise and structurally, the line is truly meant to be evasive, disconnected to the others, like notes jotted down. But in terms of how I think of the “I,” perhaps to insert an “I” in any poem denotes a certain control, a monitoring of the kind of poem that operates via its speaker—or rather an intense attraction, a decision to create that speaker, the only voice who can transmit the idea. Many of the poems in Bravura Cool are contingent on those erratic, most definitely limited, broken-down and malleable “I”s.
KY: I’m wondering how you feel about the apparent divide between the disciplines, while reaching over into the language and accouterments of the “hard” sciences. Has this been an intuitive poetic act for you?
JL: Very much so. I really do feel a symbiosis between the disciplines. Radio was a catalyst for many of the poems. When writing Bravura Cool, I was occupied with early 20th-century applications of electricity, manuals that sought to name the smallest of devices (like a “fault searcher” in cable repair), and coined terms like “rheotome” that are still used. Such language denotes an action more specific to the way I use it in a poem. Those words imply a singular way of thinking. But when I’m trying to encapsulate one of my own theories, I find a kind of creative refuge in scientific vocabulary. It’s not clinical or merely quantitative in my mind. For example, I emphasize the two actions of “lag” and “lull” throughout Bravura Cool, as psychological impulses. But their mechanical system seemed so apt: induction, intervals, angles, entropy. “Lithium ion” (“Aporia Poem”) is a battery component, but I imagine its degradation to have a color (“silvering”). That, to me, vividly resonates as “posturing more” (a person struggling to activate themselves despite a mental weakening).
In terms of the malleable nature of words, I have an ongoing fascination with “trans” and its relation to “trance” [from its Middle English “traunce,” from Old French “transe” (passage, fear, vision), from “transir” (to die, be numb with fear), from Latin “transre,” (to go over or across)]. Derrida talks about the “role of the inspired trance we habitually call writing,” also the bringing-to-light, in the act of translating, that which has been obscured. In the bringing-across or to-light, there will always be a “between,” an indefinable space that divides. Your premise is “transfer,” which is more active: to move, copy, convey, metamorphize: “the cloth of story has been pulled away.” But I also see the elision and osmosis that occurs in a literal trance-state, and the trance-state of writing (“it will not be yourself that looks out through you,” “You yourself become the automatic / of me,” with both lines spoken by the paralegal, an office which, by definition, is a kind of medium between one entity and another). There are many instances of quasi-possession, the repeated affinity with the snake and others: “My friend wears the diadem of stars I wear his voice.”
There are also moments of stasis. In the poem, “Cannot Be Transported or Preserved,” the natural world remains immobile. A rock is “to be / broken up” and not yet malleable. In “Felt Sense Reconvenes” the question is asked: “Isn’t it impractical? I ask / to live as one dead.” My question is inspired by the opening lines of the poem “By Accident Tracking Him Where He Went”:
Following the paralegal’s vanish I stop / transplace / without manifest quiet and wide Full of / images flash to life / a continuum does not dream / or decide.
Do you feel as though “transplace” is where these poems take place, in that “between”-state? That there is no specific definition of “trans–” in the book?
KY: The paraclete intervenes in non-transfer. The poems happen, yes, without manifesting in a rational sense, and this area of activity is what wound up as “transplace,” beyond or between place, yet also located in text and context. There is always doubleness (or more), and that is how the paralegal researcher manages to effortlessly shift around from paraclete (comforter, intercessor and yes, an esoteric version of the New Testament meaning), to paralegal (I like “para” here as “parameter” and also in the Sanskrit “beyond”), to researcher (seeing back), and the combinations of all possible persons within the name.
As far as a between place: I feel like it’s all between. The state of one to the other is a problem the speaker has. She wants to get across or over to him, and he’s already around or beyond or in. It’s this almost impossible action, for her, of getting into the infinite gap or space of reality.
I find Bravura Cool to be an intricate book of many textures and states that yields up its poems to effort and observation. The writing is incredibly skilled and deliberate. I went with close reading, micro, in order to get to the poems. Is there a way you would lead me to a larger sense of the book as a whole, on a macro level? How would you like the book to be observed? Which tools might help a reader most?
JL: Thank you so much for enquiring, for appreciating the book in this way. I do agree that some of the poems are tightly sealed, revolving in their own argument even though the outcome is an [inter]connected narrative. The issue here is that I tend to think associatively, superstitiously. In life, generally, I’m alert to clues and cues. Or else I create them. I wrote Bravura Cool in such a manner. The title is sort of a misnomer. I had in my mind the slow burn of ice. Extremes of temperature proliferate in the book, meteorology, the meeting of extreme weather fronts, “convex heat binding with cold” (“Squall Line”) and how glass is made—molten fluid that hardens into cool alloy and back again in glass-transition, amorphous to brittle and so forth. One final image is the “fernseed after fire, that’s what I feel,” with fernseed being the minute spores by which ferns reproduce themselves and, mythologically speaking, thought to confer invisibility upon whoever holds them. As in James Frazer’s The Golden Bough, perhaps:
fern-seed . . . would seem to be an emanation of the sun’s fire at the two turning-points of its course, the summer and winter solstices.
Here I wanted to mimic emotional and interpersonal experience; how “bravura,” a bright performance of great confidence and versatility, can easily change. I think the state of disappointment is just that: the benumbing of what you hoped was vibrant, blazing and alive. And then “what are you driven to?” when your own apparent virtuosity (intellectual, scientific, practical, physical) cannot save you and you feel the “sheer unbearable of not having” whatever you wanted. Then madness. The need for religion. Irrevocable stasis. The state of indecision due to fear, a “whiteblaze kind of settle.” Or even worse, to realize the poem cannot help, it is “a working-jaw kind of silence,” which I sometimes felt as the writer of Bravura Cool. Many of its poems enact those anti-solutions, in a variety of ways. For example, I repeat the letters “lim,” not only to denote mathematical sense (when a function, metric or topological, reaches its capacity), but also as the first syllable of the word “limerence,” otherwise known as obsessive love. In “Find Poem,” the “hunted certain idea” of the opening poem “The Better Condensed” is repeated. The potential discovery that you mention is not the “you,” the “me,” “God [or] the weather” or “a love song or a myth,” all of which occur in Bravura Cool. The discovery is always subject to codifying, a word I use in the last poem, “Give.” It is re-told and re-visioned and re-ruined time and again. That is why the poems inhabit and message each other. They are “storied-into,” diagrammic, telegrammic . . .
Stylistically, I often use forward slashes (//) to in some way denote breakage, and I observed they are also present in The Transfer Tree. In “By Accident Tracking Him Where He Went” the lines are punctuated by those incisions, which occur elsewhere in the book. But they seemed so prominent here, in a poem that relates “Points of attention [that] / vanish into attention / canceling perception.” Most crucially, “Every connection he gaps / as meaning” (the noun utilized as a verb gives a fleeting optical illusion of “gape”). Is the (/) essential to not only “the spectral alphabet / impossible on his page of the absences / whose signs are never transitive” in this particular poem, but to other poems and perhaps the book itself? Is this condensery?
KY: In “By Accident Tracking Him Where He Went” the forward slashes function almost as dynamic parentheticals, staked in, rapid, unremovable. They have to do with a basis. To me, they appear connective and directional. In the book the action is further and further in. When two are together around a word, there’s a way to embed. When a forward slash separates words in other poems, the words are two sides of a coin. Forward slashes feel so fast, like a synapse jump. There are places in the book with two slashes in a row. Now I write poems with up to five in a row ///// It’s like: Let’s go . . .
I guess it’s a lucky person who loves punctuation.
Jane Lewty is the author of Bravura Cool. She currently lives in Amsterdam.
Karena Youtz lives and works in Boise, Idaho. Her book The Transfer Tree is available from 1913 Press.
This is the final conversation between CantoMundo poets in a three-part series, featuring Amy Sayre Baptista and Millicent Borges Accardi. In “The Fishermen’s Daughters Speak,” these two poets explore their Portuguese heritage, the challenges and reward of translation and the influences of powerful women on their work.—Rosebud Ben-Oni
Rosebud Ben-Oni: As we begin this conversation in mid-July, both of you are in Portugal right now. Did you plan to be there at the same time? What is the occasion?
Millicent Borges Accardi: Amy and I were in Lisbon for the Neither Here nor There conference, for a panel entitled “Narratives of Those Who Left and Those Who Stayed Behind,” and also a reading: “A World of Possibility: Portuguese-American Authors Perspectives on Writing and Life.”
How we got there was that last spring, at the Massachusetts Poetry Festival in Salem, Amy and I decided to travel to Porto for Portuguese language classes since we were both woefully behind in learning our mother tongue. I was still at the Sim! Sim! Bon dia stage. Acquiring a language builds that way, word by word.
Amy Sayre Baptista: I stayed in Portugal for a little over five weeks, to complete three weeks at Vivap Sala de Explicaçoes in Porto, and to do research for a poetry manuscript in Alcobaça. Antonio Lobos Antunes said once during an interview that reading a translation is like viewing a black and white photo of a color image. Taking the immersion class was the reverse; suddenly with Portuguese everything was vivid. It was like Dorothy stepping into Oz. Even though I did not quite gain fluency, I realized that I could. By the same token, you also realize the distance that you will always have from a language that was your second, or in our case, a simultaneous language that was withheld or given to you in small doses like a sweet. In Porto, the first time someone addressed me in Portuguese on the street, and I responded without thinking, that was epic. But cultural references and idioms keep linguistic intimacy at bay. Continue reading →
The Conversant has invited some of our favorite journal and book publishers to curate interview series focusing on their authors. textsound here has asked the contributors to a recent issue to construct collaborative recordings.
David Abel is a poet, editor and bookseller; sometime teacher, performer, bibliographer and curator. His publications include Float, Shawarma Tractor (Apothekaraoke Zip-link Editions), Tether (Barebone Books) and Carrier (c_L Books). He is a founding member of the Spare Room reading series, now in its 12th year, and has devised many solo and collaborative performance and intermedia projects. As the proprietor of Passages Bookshop, he organized and curated the recent exhibitions Object Poemsand Chax Press: Publishing Poetics. With Sam Lohmann, he publishes the Airfoil chapbook series. He lives in Portland, Oregon.
James Yeary is a poet, performer and publisher. His press, c_L books, has published several handmade chapbooks, over a dozen newsletters and (with FLASH+CARD) co-released Sandra Gibbons’ OBJECTS, a box of full-color poem-comics illustrating Gertrude Stein’s Tender Buttons. He has been involved in various collaborative publication projects: Nate Orton’s psychogeographic my day zine and editions plane (with Charles Seluzicki). His (and maybe your?) new imprint, Great Fainting Spells, published a collaboration with Sam Lohmann, Rolling in the Easy Circumstances. Two more from Great Fainting Spells are forthcoming: Who Killed My Chicken? with Chris Ashby and Packing Slip with Kyle Schlesinger.
In the hopes of encouraging a broader exchange among U.S. and Canadian poets, H. L. Hix has designed a series of one-question “mini-interviews” for his Canadian peers. A selection of these interviews will be incorporated into his forthcoming book Ley Lines (Wilfrid Laurier Univ. Press, 2015). The subject of this interview is Erin Knight’s Chaser.
H. L. Hix: The epigraph from The Plague (“Ah,” Rieux said, “a man can’t cure and know at the same time. So let’s cure as quickly as we can. That’s the more urgent job.”) seems like a clue about how to read the book, but I’m curious about what kind of clue. Rieux’s position is that one can’t cure and know, so better just to cure. Chaser is full of poems in which the relation between curing and knowing matters. Is it written in affirmation of Rieux’s position or as an “argument” against Rieux’s position, a way of saying that we can’t separate curing and knowing?
In the hopes of encouraging a broader exchange among U.S. and Canadian poets, H. L. Hix has designed a series of one-question “mini-interviews” for his Canadian peers. A selection of these interviews will be incorporated into his forthcoming book Ley Lines (Wilfrid Laurier Univ. Press, 2015). The subject of this interview is the journal Rampike, edited by Karl Jirgens.
H. L. Hix: In your introduction to the current issue (21:1) of Rampike, you speak of “moving towards revisionist understandings of discourse.” The texts (and images) you include in the issue move toward revisionist understandings, but so does the issue as a whole. How would you speak of your editorial role as a movement toward a revisionist understanding of discourse?
This interview series, “Conversations after the Fall: Interviews with Contemporary Russian Poets,” began as part of my Thomas J. Watson Fellowship year (1992-1993). Born in 1961, Anna Kurt graduated from the Institute of Foreign Languages in 1983. For a few years she worked in the State Museum of Literature. In addition to writing and publishing her own poetry, Anna Kurt has worked as a translator and editor for numerous publishing houses in Moscow, where she currently resides. She has been a member of the Russian Union of Writers since 2003. This initial interview took place in 1993, but was extended in 2013 with a postscript.
Philip Metres: When did you begin writing, and why?
Anna Kurt: I’ve been writing poetry seriously for four years. I wrote poems in my youth, like everyone, but only a little. And then a kind of change occurred. Since then, my writing became my profession and my vocation, not just a hobby, and also my passion and happiness. I treat it very seriously. Continue reading →