In Search of Picabia

Last month I went to see the “Modern Antiquity” exhibit at the Getty Villa.  Visual pairings of pieces by contemporary masters and classical Greek artists/artisans were dusted off for public consumption.  As a poet, I frequently reference visual art pieces and techniques.  My thought pattern is one that generally turns from prosody to visual piece and back.  I have not found myself working from visual art to poet on very many occasions.  Perhaps only for research purposes when I studied Italian art history and sculpture as an undergraduate; I would move from a painting to a poem produced in the same region and time period as a way to culturally contextualize the visual piece.   During my visit, most foot traffic became congested around the Picasso paintings.  But it was the large-scale, dreamlike, myth-scape transparencies, or panels by Francis Picabia (1879-1953) that compelled me to stand in one spot for over 10 minutes.  I wondered where they belonged.  Originally, who did these paintings belong to besides the artist?  Not which museum or collection had loaned them to the Getty, but where were they made to hang?  The size of the panels seemed so deliberate, the order of their hanging so specific, that they functioned as visual stanzas.  I had no idea that Picabia was too a poet when I initially viewed these pieces. 

Thanks to the exhibit curators, I read on a small card that the panels were commissioned by Picabia’s art dealer as a gift to his wife and featured in the “Home” section of Vogue.  If my analysis of the photograph tells an accurate story, these panels were made to be hung in the couple’s bedroom.  Panels by a French Surrealist/Dada painter in Vogue??  In someone’s bedroom??  A quick search on my smart phone resulted in many biographies of the painter and poet.  I wondered how his poetry faired in the commercial market of France during his lifetime.  Had his poetry been translated into English? 

In fact, yes.  Marc Lowenthal translated 2/3 of Picabia’s published poetry and prose for the 2007 collection, I Am a Beautiful Monster.  It should be mentioned that I could not find any other published English translation of Picabia’s prosody.   Reviews of the collection reveal a critical consensus: that prior to Lowenthal’s translation, Picabia’s poetry and prose had been long overlooked by scholars.  A quick search of Marc Lowenthal directed me to Wakefield Press, the independent publishing house he started about 9 years ago in Cambridge, MA.  The press is dedicated to translated works, “overlooked gems, and literary oddities” according to their website.

A drive down PCH to the Getty Villa in Malibu led me to the east-coast based Wakefield Press, where there is a catalogue of intriguing reads. Here, I am bound to discover English translations of several poets I have only read about in brief references to European art movements.

I have just ordered I Am a Beautiful Monster and the exhibit publication for “Modern Antiquity,”  Modern Antiquity: Picasso, de Chirico, Léger, Picabia by Christopher Green and Jens M. Daehner.  I’m waiting for my books to arrive with more questions than I began with at the “Modern Antiquity” exhibition.  I’m on my way to discovering Picabia as a poet, but isn’t Lowenthal too a poet?  By most biographical accounts, Picabia was an inter-genre artist, working with paint, prosody, prose and drawings.  Perhaps Lowenthal has provided this student with a contemporary example of inter-genre artistry: translator of poetry, independent publisher and scholar.  Thanks to Picabia, I have a better idea about how contemporary poets, even translators of poetry, can fuse their variant creative interests.  And, I have started to explore how variant art genres can become fused by the nature of my own curiosity to search for answers. 

Here are links to some of the sites that I explored in the writing of this blog post:

http://www.getty.edu/art/exhibitions/modern_antiquity/index.html

http://mitpress.mit.edu/catalog/item/default.asp?ttype=2&tid=11247

http://www.artbook.com/wakefield.html

Poetry: The Movie

Poetry is a 2010 South Korean drama by writer/director Lee Chang-dong. The movie is about an elderly Korean woman, Mija, who takes up poetry writing in an attempt to stave off symptoms of her early-onset Alzeimer's disease. Though that sounds depressing enough, the film's two subplots--involving her ne'er-do-well grandson and the stroke patient she takes care of--are even sadder. But to speak further of them would ruin some of the film's bleak surprises.

What was most interesting to me--poetry-wise--was to see a depiction of someone engaging with the act of writing poetry with almost no concern for her audience. Mija wrote only for herself. She was often captivated by the beauty of nature and hoped that expressing that beauty in words would heighten her appreciation of it.

As someone who has also taken poetry classes, the idea of not being concerned with my audience was almost revelatory. I have not only been concerned about my audience--what they will think of my work; whether the will understand it; whether it will resonate with them--I sometimes find myself driven to distraction while writing as I imagine the reception a poem will get.

While I do think considering your audience can be helpful--in moderation--watching Mija write a poem for herself reminded me that poetry need not be created for the benefit of others. Writing poetry can be a way to self-reflect that produces a poem which can--or perhaps should--be appreciated by the author far more than anyone else.

overused words...

It seems most poets and writers have pet peeve words. "John Tottenham says that saying 'awesome' in his presence is like 'waving a crucifix in a vampire's face [http://www.latimes.com/news/local/la-me-holland-20120106,0,2183189.column?track=icymi].'" I could go a lifetime without hearing "ethereal" or self conscious theory terms like "objective correlative" or "slippage." Anyone care to share theirs?

See More Beauty: Poetry According to Salinger's Glass Family

J.D. Salinger's scorn for academics is well-known. Take, for instance, the dedication that greets the reader of Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour – An Introduction: “If there is an amateur reader still left in the world – or anybody who just reads and runs – I ask him or her, with untellable affection and gratitude, to split the dedication of this book four ways with my wife and children.” Here at Foothill, we're grad students, and when we go through batches of submissions we do anything but read and run. We read and reread poems, discuss, read again, sit with poems and meditate on them, let our thoughts marinate, and discuss them anew. In spite of this, I like to think that the way we read poems wouldn't generate Salinger's contempt. In fact, I think what we're looking for in our poems is pretty close to what Salinger was looking for.

Salinger made his thoughts on poetry known through the Glasses, the fictional family of child prodigies who peopled his last published works. Seymour, the eldest Glass child, was a poet who left behind 184 unpublished poems that serve as the standard by which his younger siblings come to judge poetry and art in general. We don't really get to read Seymour's poems, but Buddy, Seymour's younger brother and chronicler of the Glass family saga, tries his best to describe them: they “are as unsonorous, as quiet as...a poem should be, but there are intermittent short blasts of euphony...which have the effect on me personally of someone – surely no one completely sober – opening my door, blowing three or four or five unquestionably sweet and expert notes on a cornet into the room, then disappearing.” A poem, Buddy tells us, should be both quiet and loud – it's a subtle and precise craftsmanship that produces the most striking effects; it's an unassuming posture through careful articulation that clears the way for exuberant, drunken feeling and expression. And when a poet manages to do this, to borrow the words of Franny the youngest Glass sibling, he leaves “something beautiful after you get off the page.”

While we may not be the amateur readers for whom Salinger reserved “untellable affection and gratitude,” we are a bit like the Glass children he loved so dearly. We appreciate “terribly fascinating, syntaxy droppings” as much as the next, but what we're after is something lasting. We may be discerning and demanding, but we are also truly grateful for each time we witness something beautiful through poetry. And, like Buddy, who believes that Seymour's poems “can be read by anyone, anywhere, even aloud in rather progressive orphanages on stormy nights,” we're convinced that poetry and its beauty are meant to be shared.

Poetry in California

Can you really blame us for falling in love with a poem about a red bicycle on a day like this?

The Dog Days of Poetry

The Dog Days of Poetry

As both a student of literature and editor for Foothill, it is critical to approach both what I study in class and what I review for the journal with an unbiased eye. Long gone are the days when I could simply write off a poem as “good” or “bad”based solely on my gut reaction. Now, a nuanced approach is needed. Aside from the formalist value of a work, what does it capture about a state of being, an emotion, a cultural fixation, even the zeitgeist? As graduate students and eventual scholars, we are not simply arbiters of what is good or not, but investigators, charged with drawing out and interpreting the value and relevance of what has been, and is currently being, produced.

But. Academic goggles aside, there is a single topic that captures my heart every time. One that, if you are looking for it, is ubiquitous not only in English literature, but in Greek Classics, and all the way back to the first written communications on cave walls: dogs.

Our interactions and relationships with dogs is easily taken for granted. You, if not someone you knew, grew up with dogs in the home, and it is not uncommon to encounter them on a daily basis. Indeed, their presence is so normalized that the millennia it took to foster this bond –and what a bond it is – can be overlooked because of how natural it seems. But leave it to the poets to remember this, and to untangle and illuminate the subtleties inherent to the beauty, sorrow, and poignancy that exists in this most ancient and singular of relationships.

Poet Chase Twichell confronts this topic not only in her collection Dog Language, but her whole oeuvre is rife with it. Communion with animals not only enables us to confront out humanity, but at times, to be free from it. In her poems, riding a horse frees the soul from the husk of the body; an encounter with a deer or deer carcass – the head of which one of the dogs bring inside the home in one poem – can put us in our place; the necessity of brutally killing a garden snake to preserve the safety of the home illuminates the brutality of nature. These animals remind us of our human frailty; the dogs – companion to man but pure animal – serve as a link between the human world and the natural.

In “Soul in Space” the speaker says, “I want my obituary to say that/I wrote in the language of dogs” (for excerpt: https://poetrydispatch.wordpress.com/tag/chase-twichell/) (182). For Twichell, this language is one of intuitive understanding and non-judgment. To the former, Twichell takes dogs out of the corporeal sphere, drawing them not as earthly creatures, but cosmic beings. In “Cities of Mind” she writes,

Raised on classic myths,

I see the drift nets of latitude

and longitude on the night sky

inhabited by beasts and gods.

On Pegasus I fled the hunter,

the centaur, the satyr,

riding the star-horse out to free

the greater and lesser bears,

the major and minor dogs,

caged in their constellations. (187)

The poem’s subjects are time and history (portrayed through the writing process, an aging father, and the plastic decorations that appear at any birthday celebration). The poet, caged in time and the relentless pursuit of productivity, realizes at the end that when she can submit to the natural unfurling of time “. . . before you know it/. . . a jewel of history glint[s] in your eye” (187). When this happens, the poem opens up, the material world is abandoned, and history is laid out for the taking. This is when the speaker rises to the heavens on Pegasus, consorts with the animals of the constellations, and frees them from their cages. The dogs – both “major and minor” – are her last stop in this cosmic foray, a symbol of permanence and other-worldliness amid the human realm of fleeting time.

The non-judgment of dogs is exemplified in “Dog Biscuits,” where a father’s “secret violence” and his “escapades” are buried with the dogs (read and listen here: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/181225). The mourners “each drop a few/dog biscuits into his grave.” The animism of this act positions the very essence of “dog-ness” as a thing of redemption. This father, mentioned throughout the collection, is painted in a respectful though dubious light. In “Dog Biscuits,” his abuse towards his dogs is mentioned outright, and yet it is with the very accoutrements of those dogs with which he is buried and in essence, forgiven. Where a dog is concerned, there is no past, there is no future, only the moment in time and the full, bodily experience of that moment. Their present-centered reality takes them out of time, and thus out of the world of resentment and scorn.

I actually encountered Chase Twichell after hearing a poem read by playwright Edward Albee (Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?), and was struck by the similarity in content between his poem, “Samantha,” and the aforementioned poem (read “Samantha” here: http://tiptoe-marie.blogspot.com/2010/10/samantha-by-edward-albee.html. Also available in the anthology Unleashed). Told from the perspective of his late, beloved Irish wolfhound, the dog recalls the incidents of his death and his perspective on his human counterparts. Unlike the other-worldliness of Twichell’s dogs, however, Samantha (the speaker of the poem) is firmly rooted in the mundane, and it is through this straightforward simplicity that the transcendent qualities of her dog nature are revealed.

When she dies, she awaits her owners’ return from a vacation in Grenada; lays “curled in a frozen sleep.” Her owners “dug a hole and put me in it,” and much like in Twichell’s poem, they “baked clay biscuits for me/placed them.” Grandiose reflections on the nature of death are markedly absent from this rendering. But the slow, measured pace, the sense that this is occurring in real time and is not an obscure lyrical reverie, adds a gentle somberness to the dog’s recollection. Her reflections are simple. She is please to be laid on the point with the other dogs, “Poochie, Jennifer, Harry, Andrew, Jane,/and the cats,” and simply wonders, “Will [the grave diggers] be put here too?/On the point? By the ocean? With us?
/I hope so.”

Any dog owner will grow noticeably quiet when confronted with the reality of their dog’s mortality. Our closeness to them (we live together, eat and sleep together) makes them remarkably human-like, yet their lives are cut precipitously short in comparison with our own, forcing us to grapple with a loss that defies the trajectory we expect a life to take.The paradox of the dog, then, is in its essence of other-worldliness – wisdom, intuition, and the like – concurrent with a raw corporeality. To this point, Billy Collins’ “Dharma”comes closest to pinpointing the dog’s quintessence (read and listen here (queue to 2:48): http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2010/06/05). He writes,

Off she goes into the material world


with nothing but her brown coat

and her modest blue collar,


following only her wet nose,


the twin portals of her steady breathing,


followed only by the plume of her tail.

If only she did not shove the cat aside

every morning

and eat all his food

what a model of self-containment she would be,


what a paragon of earthly detachment.


If only she were not so eager 
for a rub behind the ears,


so acrobatic in her welcomes,


if only I were not her god.

John Updike said: "Billy Collins writes lovely poems . . . Limpid, gently and consistently startling, more serious than they seem, they describe all the worlds that are and were and some others besides." True, yes. But Updike could very well have said this very thing about dogs, “more serious than they seem, they describe all the worlds that are and were and some others besides.” They both raise us up to cosmic heights while reminding us of the earth below, and all the while remain constant, loyal, and silent in their multitudes.

Not all poems are great poems. But if it’s about a dog, it’s good in my book.

Twichell, Chase. Horses Where the Answers Should have Been. Copper Canyon: Washington (2010).

Hemple, Amy; Shepard, Jim, eds. Unleashed: Poems by Writers’ Dogs. “Samantha,” by Edward Albee. Three Rivers: NY (1994).

Collins, Billy. Sailing Alone Around the Room. Random House: NY (2001).

The name's the thing

What’s in a name? For a poetry journal, a lot. Or so it seemed to us. Settling on Foothill was the first major decision we made as a group.

We looked to several literary journals for inspiration. Their titles ranged from the wildly inventive to the mundane: The [insert name of university, town, or region] Review. Our discussions on a name were, much like those for a masthead and logo (see below post for March 9), at times tense, at times fruitless, but always respectful and spirited. Similarly, we wanted the name (somewhat like the masthead and logo) to reflect our concept: a journal celebrating the work of poets laboring through a difficult stage in their development toward something, well, higher.

Everyone contributed names, and to venture one took some amount of courage: the best met with contemplative nods and non-committal “that’s not bad”s; the worst, laughter. Below is a list of the top 10 we voted on (in no particular order) accompanied by notes from a meeting where we went over literal meanings and a few cultural evocations.

Promontory: land the juts into water.
Foreland: land in front of a geographical feature.
Embers: related to CGU’s the Flame Magazine, glowing coal in a dying fire, the name of a bankrupt pizza chain.
Foothill: low hill at the base of a mountain, name of the road that runs by campus (route 66).
Skyline: outline of a structure defined against the sky.
Right turn on Red: In Annie Hall Alvy Singer says this is the only cultural advantage of living in Los Angeles.
Sparks: related to the Flame magazine, fiery particles, a disgusting alcoholic energy drink produced by Miller.
Germinal: a germ cell or embryo.
Inceptivus: Latin for “to begin.”
American Elm: rare trees that line streets in Claremont.

Inceptivus? you ask. The disgrace is mine. For shame.

What we were going for was a name that wouldn’t disappear among the raucous jungle of exotic titles, nor one too bland and forgettable, nor too irreverent. We wanted a name that was precise and clear. Foothill. As Brendan described it, Not a home run; more like a double.

We’re in scoring position, at least.