Friday, November 11, 2005

Jack Spicer, Olson, and some things

"Culls become frozen orange
         juice. The best oranges are eaten."

     Jack Spicer

Another, and another.

Perhaps a response to W.C. Williams? :

A Red Wheelbarrow

Rest and look at this goddamned wheelbarrow. Whatever
It is. Dogs and crocodiles, sunlamps. Not
For their significance.
For their significant. For being human
The signs escape you. You, who aren't very bright
Are a signal for them. Not,
I mean, the dogs and crocodiles, sunlamps. Not
Their significance.

Oddly enough, Spicer also studied some of the theories of pre-Chomskian linguistics, which I just happen to be indulged in at the moment (my studies taking me further into the Chomsky stuff--as my prof likes to say, we're Chomskian babies). Makes sense some of my poetry contains such references and that I've always been drawn to such things quite naturally, as my reading tells me Spicer's work has, although I've yet to come across a poem of his referencing such morphemes. Combined with my affection for the Olson school of the projected line/form, the linking of perception rather than logic, the line as breath and utterance, and of poets that had been influenced by Blaser's presence at Vancouver's Simon Fraser University such as Daphne Marlatt (who incidentally I met this past spring; she's lovely, poetry's invincibly brilliant), Roy Miki (his new work seems really moving and beautious), Barry McKinnon (of that area in B.C. anyway, not sure if he's had any affiliation with that S.Fraser university crowd/school), and I've even been moved by some of George Bowering's poems, among others from that area (and, this is not a definitive list of what I read, just some of the west coasters that I think may have been influenced by that Black Mountain School of poetics)...I'm managing to move toward a personal poetic that may even itself out a bit in the coming months. I've been playing with many forms and have heard some wanting to refer to my poetry moving toward the confessional poetic, and others still think me rather an experimentalist, I've yet to choose either/or, or to forge an entirely distinct recognition within myself. If I happen to fall upon it, maybe I'll let you know. (but really, I can write whichever damn way I want.)

For now, I'll keep reading. It's the best thing any one poet can do, anyhow.


3 Comments:

Blogger dfb said...

miss w

i love spicer - he has the schooling but didn't let it inter fear with his poems witch arrived word by line nightly any way please email me your address and i will fhole you very soon i doubt my city will be return but i will just build another

love
dfb
fholepoems@gmail.com

8:31 AM  
Blogger kemeny babineau said...

hey, i got here off dan's blog- fine
writing! i just want to add
that in poetry, you can
forget everything but sound

that's the base, so when you're not makeing sense, make sound

make sense

kemeny babineau

11:53 PM  
Blogger MissWanda said...

Hey thanks kb. Real nice of you to say. I picked up some of your things at the Toronto small press fair in the spring '05. I liked the smallness of your spaces--spots to live in between.

Mmm. Sound. I tend to agree. The agility of words proves little action without the tender use of sound. I tend to use it within that "field", displacing my chosen composition as gently as plucking raspberries, and then, throwing them with volition across the page and letting words settle where they may. Deliberate, and then not. I'm probably most interested in the play between those deliberations. If those choices I make were to elicit sound, maybe it'd be a pluck, then a crash, or maybe the other way round.

11:39 AM  

Post a Comment

<< Home

unique visitor counter