Gertrude Stein: an incompleted portrait

We know now no
substitution was made.

If
a noun is a noun is a noun is a noun
the rose is
no longer red.
Or read.
Or a reed
by any other name.

[By the way, as for Language Poetry, Stein had already done the same bit sixty years earlier. All the fuzzy headed, Socialist criticism of lyric voice and accepted narrative structure is anticipated by Stein in everything she writes, and, it would appear, without having to think about it to the point of absurdity, as in Michael Davidson's assertion that language is a system "that exists in service to ideological interests of the dominant culture." That might be a useful idea to a poet, but as a statement about language is almost certainly ridiculous. But hey, I'm no linguist.]

The previous post was inspired by the September 30 post on Ron Silliman's blog. The subject at hand was the Reality Street Book of Sonnets. First off, let me say I have never seen the book in question, most likely never will. I am unacquainted with most of the contributors, and those with which I am familiar are not so because of their work in the sonnet form, Berrigan included. That should pretty well shoot to hell any street cred I may try to put across as a postmodern sort, but so be it. The point here is, what the deuce constitutes a sonnet anymore?

First, I do not pretend to know the history of the form, nor how it has been exploited by the experimentalists in the aforementioned anthology. Silliman seems smitten by the more oblique examples, those that seem to indicate that anything 14 lines long can go by the name sonnet. And in a sense this is true; as soon as a reader realizes that any poem is fourteen lines long, at the very least it is seen as some kind of 'echo'. And of course if one labels one's work a sonnet, then it forces the reader to consider why exactly it should not be so considered. And Berrigan, for his part, not only titles the work in that way, but uses the device of the sonnet cycle as well. There is a narrative arc, of a kind, and direct (and indirect) appropriations from the Bard. The result of these kinds of experiments is a kind of dialogue with established literary tradition and forbears that can be both entertaining and fruitful for future ventures into formal explorations. The problem is that suddenly any idiot can throw out some random fourteen "lines" and claim the title of "sonneteer". It suddenly begins to resemble current "outlaw" country music or the NFL rebel of today. When Willie Nelson and Joe Namath were doing their own thing, there was something at stake; Terrell Owens and Toby Keith risk nothing with their posturing.

Sonnot

T
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i i
s s
n
o
t
a
s
o
n
n
e
t.

A few words from a starry eyed fan

I know I invoked the name of Roky Erickson at the outset of this blog, and so am moved at this point to make a few notes concerning his work. The immediate reason is that in preparation for an upcoming show of his, I was rereading the book of lyrics, Openers II. I came across this line:

"Modern science turned down reality for industry."

Not exactly your standard pop-rock lyric. For some reason that really hit me; think about the pharmaceutical industry, or Cold War military-industrial complex with its store of nuclear physicists to make it go. For me, that line is just one of those slam-bang moments that make language worth all the hassle. And puts the lie to the claim of science to any kind of absolute truth concerning the world. Everyone, even or especially a research scientist, has an ax to grind or a Boss to answer to.

I have been dreaming for years of writing a big essay (maybe even book) on Erickson's work. Alas, I do not yet have my critical ducks in a row yet to bring it off; someday perhaps. Anyway, I think what got me started on that thought was when I noticed just how much the lyrics on the page appear to be right out of a Jerome Rothenberg anthology. In Technicians of the Sacred, Rothenberg writes that "the translations themselves may create new forms & shapes-of-poems with their own energies and interests..." Erickson's lyrics, translations from song to writing themselves, read just like some of these decontextualized works. There also is a noticeable similarity to several more modern branches of poetry, many of which are themselves a response to some newly discovered primitive forerunner, such as are found in the Poems for the Millennium anthologies, albeit devoid of all the surrounding theory. Erickson accomplishes without self-consciousness or pretense what many poets do only after explaining away the magic with a protective shell of ass-covering conceptualism. To close:

"God horrors fills me I can't write
my hair turns white
but only I know the things that go bump in the night are alright."