Furnishing Intuition

Lisa Robertson’s essay on “Atget’s Interiors” collected in Occasional Work and Seven Walks from the Office of Soft Architecture at one point draws on lectures by Gertrude Stein.

Atget’s neighbor Gertrude Stein said that paragraphs are emotional, sentences are not. We could extend her distinction: A room is emotional; an object is not.

The comparison as it is extended by Robertson continues through some succinct class analysis and then we arrive at the following and we must slow our reading down if we are not to mistake intuitions for institutions.

An item of furniture is a kind of preposition. “By,” “with,” and “of” are material intuitions. Of is a cupboard. With is a table. By is a chair. Each is a kind of household god. It intuits us.

The play with prepositions although it doesn’t specifically mention Tender Buttons reminds one of Stein’s book with its divisions of Objects, Food and Rooms.

BTW, Robertson notes that “Habit is emotional, intuition is not.”

And so for day 1033
11.10.2009

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Sartorial Splendour

from “Value Village Lyric”

We think of the casual bravado of Baudelaire’s tied black cravat against the scrim of white collar in the photograph by Nadar. The fabric of his coat is stiff, with shiny folds at the torso. The shoulders have an unfamiliar, mincing cut. The upper collar is velvet. Where his hand rests in trouser pocket the jacket flips back to show the dark silk facing. We wish we could experience the fit of this jacket, slip our arms into the ruched sleeves of Baudelaire. Its odd skimpiness would translate our stance. Its worn cuff would brush our books, absorb our ink. We would realize the place of the pronoun beneath the binding torso of the tailored jacket, which would give our soul troublesome deluxe shape. We would be handsome and sparkling.

The is the penultimate paragraph of Lisa Robertson’s excursion into the “House of V” and provides a new view on vintage. It is collected in Occasional Work and Seven Walks from the Office of Soft Architecture which is itself a fine accessory to a fitting wardrobe. As a sometimes user of fountain pens, I am particularly captured by the touch of the cuff absorbing ink.

And so for day 1032
10.10.2009

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Haruspical

Poetry is a sort of divination. This is an old and respectable trope. One that plays in the background of “Wabakimi Lake” (in Breaker). Sue Sinclair invites the addressee to be both the subject and object of scrutiny. The twisting intestines of a setting sun provide intimations of mortality. This is a very beautiful conclusion with enticing enjambement and the signifier entrails buried deep within a line as the signified is located deep, deep down on the lake bottom. And there is the predatory note hinted at by the use of lair (indeed one is almost caught by the beauty).

The forces of mind and heart are everywhere visible
in the sublittoral stillness; you are looking far into the eye
of your intended end, feel the part of you that will return
to earth returning already. The dense lake bottom
draws you and the sun’s entrails down, down
into its tawny lair, far out of sight.

“Burn me, I’m a witch.” begins the riposte. We know that witches were often thrown into water: sinking (and drowning) denoting truth telling and innocence; floaters found death by fire (the doom of living by a different truth).

The witch asks “what of the parts that do not return to earth?” and more pointedly: “what parts do not return?” For soothe do we not all die whole — all of us perish? In which case, the poet in the exaltation of the moment might well bear in mind that the stillness is but an artefact of mind and heart. Nothing stops. Motion is everywhere and everywhen. Elsewhere I have commented on Sinclair’s suspicion of the “up” and the “out” intimating that it bespeaks a failure of ecstasy (and I am mightily suspicious of those that stop short of a full embrace of our material embodiment). If the forces of mind and heart are visible in the sublittoral stillness what manifests itself on the shore? I would venture to say that there is a “you” there kin to the addressee that sinks. Someone who is satisfied with a materialism that leaves no parts behind and who consumes fully the lie of its return. Ashes to ashes. All is immolated in transformation: there is no going back only more dispersal. Still it’s nice to hang out in the tawny lair for a while dazzled by the sun’s entrails. And there to remember our travels. “We are stardust, we are golden, we are billion year old carbon” as Joni reminds us (and the class of ’69 Princeton inscribed on a monument in a little garden near the Princeton University Art Museum). Lapidary magic. A stone I am willing to cast and watch sink however deep the water.

And so for day 1031
09.10.2009

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Travels With Oscar

Oscar of Between was announced in Breathing the Page: Reading the Act of Writing by Betsy Warland.

                                                         It was then she became a writer.

Oscar was not yet then, but only Betsy. It takes four and half decades. In her sixtieth year, she chooses a parallel given name. Oscar. Names her unnamed self.

And it takes only an instant to become accustomed to referring to Oscar as she. What is intriguing about the website where Oscar of Between lives is the interleaving of work by Guest Writers and Artists. Along with the curating, moderated comments supplement the work-in-progress. As the work unfolds, one finds there kernels that invite further speculation and elaboration, kernels such as

Post bilateral mastectomy, others’ expectations. For prostheses. That Oscar.

— pros(e)thesis —

a kernel that appears at first to be mere back story and yet enables further unfolding of possible connections when one searches for that exact combination “pros(e)thesis” — thus fans out the theory writing into terms of embodiment and flesh —

[See Chris Land’s marshalling of the construction “prose(e)thesis” in relation to the work of N. Katherine Hayles in Technology, Text, Subject: ‘After’ the Human in Tamara: Journal of Critical Postmodern Organization Science Vol 3 (4) 2005.] More in betweens for Oscar and Warland explorers.

And so for day 1030
08.10.2009

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Least Terms

There erupts a passage from Lisa Robertson “The Fountain Transcript”

Nevertheless, flow in itself, with its fatal grandeur, does not interest us: we prefer to describe obstacles to flow, little impediments, affect-mechanisms, miniaturizations of subliminity.

as I am contemplating poems by Sue Sinclair, twice I find myself missing prepositions that aren’t there. And the publications are years apart (2001 and 2008).

In a poem describing wolf willow the blooms are personified.

Wolf willow: whistle
and it will not come; its tiny flowers
pretend not to hear; hidden in the cleft
between leaf and branch, they close
their eyes, hoping you will go

For no apparent reason (perhaps however conditioned by the expectation of “tiny” made big by focus), I hear a a ghost-word: “between leaf and branch, they close up / their eyes” begging for an echo of something slightly unidiomatic “close up your eyes”. That is indeed the secret — the persistence of the second person singular address meshes via line breaks with the actions of the wolf willow (just who is whistling remains suspended for an instant) — the wolf willow comes to signify you the reader. Notwithstanding the pronouns, the wolf willow flowers are focalized from the narrative position of the reader. Indeed, they are so vividly anthropomorphized that the reader identifies with their expectant position, longing for “the one they want”. See

Wolf willow: whistle
and it will not come; its tiny flowers
pretend not to hear; hidden in the cleft
between leaf and branch, they close
their eyes, hoping you will go
so they can go on remembering her,
the one they want,
the one who isn’t home yet.

They or you or her all mingle in the pervasive scent of the wolf-willow which is by the way the title of the poem: “The Scent of Wolf Willow”.

The next preposition encounter comes for me in the penultimate line of a poem called “Drought” which ironically fills the ears with the sounds of “Bleating crickets. Rustle of dry stalks.” before inscribing silence and a description of its action that comes across as stage whisper injunction.

The silence pushes you toward yourself:
it’s time to walk deep into the heart of what troubles you.

This time I want “out” to orient the movement of the self: a push out towards oneself. Out into the landscape. Out into the rustling. The silence pushes you out toward yourself deep into the heart of what troubles you. That the preposition is only imagined gives pause.

You are made to want to swerve. Sinclair’s anthropomorphism, keen and thrilling, is in the service of the swerving. Consider the car appearing in “March”

in the country. But what are you to do
when even the car remembers the green
sides of the road, the bright air,
how its pistons purred?

The vehicle almost has a mind of its own. It is in its nature to travel. And what is our nature? Perhaps the final lines of a poem devoted to the perennial rain (“St. Phillip’s, Rain”) explain why motion is often skewed offside in a Sinclair poem. The problem is posed of how to exist without a metaphysics:

the rest of us sick with longing for a god
we no longer believe in, our faces
like spoons, plain and hungry.

I will venture that we hunger for exactly this stark nutrient. We unbelievers have an appetite for beautiful images such as the hungry spoon — such a satisfying morsel.

All this prepositional pecking that I have been at is inspired in part by the emblematic least terns whose shell collecting activities are the subject of another poem which makes of them a kind of dream totem for being at home. And like the birds, I pick up snippets on my own terms.

After Sue Sinclair:

When the sky falls
finally
only the tiniest tern
shell-carrier
remembers
storm-saved
mosaic flower in nest bottom

Lisa Robertson. Occasional Work and Seven Walks from the Office of Soft Architecture.
Sue Sinclair. Secrets of Weather & Hope.
Sue Sinclair. Breaker.

And so for day 1029
07.10.2009

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Arpeggio

Two of many things are going on in Hannah Weiner’s “Research Important Conflict Two Obediant” (in Writing 25). One is a set of variations on continuous paragraphs of evocative strings in which words are repeated and transposed — a sort of music ensues. And given this texture, it is not remarkable that the proper name of an American composer is inscribed (by steps) into the sequences. We first get a capitalized “Glass” in a flow of uncapitalized words and further on more of the name appears. And likewise the poet’s own name is subject to a morsel-like inscription. And we have music that reads a little like this sample:

stay with the paragraph until omitted some people document please sentence write backward omitted add climax unfit is unjustifiable long sis its silence power spell requires short period put someone would complete and sentence since its say name you would omit object add sentences style like forbidden we live silently handle properly since its long period some complain entrance toward forgive paragraph someone substructure without cruel would understand speak cruel put in words definite destroy attitude your name would add a hurry structure complete put in another sentence end put name say forward always interest own subject corrected substantive in culture object observative slightly awkward sentence

And of course some semantics are at play in these paragraphs that “until omitted some people” carry on and at times incorporate commentary on the proces — just what the introduction of a name might cause: “your name would add a hurry structure”.

And so for day 1028
06.10.2009

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New Senses Old Work

Each line is a delicate tissue. “The house is each day more fragile. We suffer / And laugh and swim. We go”

Lucretius meets Cage.

The names release birds and animals
into wild chance. Fruit trees
don’t stop changing either — each thing
ripens its own space
and the determined light flows around our bodies
so we become cormorants and gulls
with new senses

Cage salutes Lucretius

It transpires that murmurs and clickings
Are nature to each body
Sound never resolves itself
And what we hear erupts into other senses
Or perhaps it sways like a footbridge
Even our hands dream of stuff
They dream of pigments and fruit trees and puzzles
They dream of the honey that escapes from our work

Two passages from the same sequence. But different. One is populated by punctuation; the other begins its lines with capital letters. Each set in a sense ripens its own space. Each is a fragile house.

Lisa Robertson. Lisa Robertson’s Magenta Soul Whip

And so for day 1027
05.10.2009

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Know Knot

Beyond annoyance accidentals can trigger speculation. Take the McClelland and Stewart 1968 imprint of Black Night Window by John Newlove. The poem is called “There Are No Innocent People in Vancouver”. It begins:

We all know that, or something like it:
no innocent people, that’s your dream,

and it ends:

it said: We all know that
there are know innocent people in Vancouver.

“there are know”

an extra letter? — “there are now”
a wholesale word replacement? — “there are no”
a missing letter? — “there are known”

“know no known now”

And so for day 1026
04.10.2009

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Renovations

“double / back again”

It’s the line break that caught my attention in the poem “Essay: The Love of Old Houses” by Mark Doty

here it’s proved that time requires
a deeper, better verb than pass;
it’s more like pool, and ebb, and double
back again, my history, his, yours,

I first encountered the poem in fire to fire and learnt it came from the collection Source where the information is supplied about an earlier version in the periodical Witness.

Witness was not in any of the libraries I frequent (a university research library and a public library). And back issues are sold out. One kind soul supplied me with images of the Doty poem in Love in America Vol. XIII No. 2 (1999). Here transcribed:

that time requires a deeper, better
verb than pass; it’s more like pool,
and ebb, and double back again,
my history, his, and yours

The enjambement in the later version “double / back again” is more like the flow of a fish arcing its back than the unbroken “double back again” and is more in keeping with the theme of ebb and pool. The new placement of the italicized pass at line’s end lends it more prominence and its cusp position lends it a greater note of transience. As well, the addition of a comma after “yours” orchestrates the linkage into the next stanza.

subsumed into the steadying frame
of a phrase I love: a building
both noun and verb, where we live
and what we do: fill it with ourselves,

And retroactively we sense that pass too is a noun, a place of the going through, much like a line of poetry.

Credit to Doty for inviting a peek at the poet’s workshop (he writes at the beginning of Source that earlier versions appeared).

And thanks to Joseph Langdon, Managing Editor, Witness, for providing me with images of the Witness variants.

And so for day 1025
03.10.2009

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Bouquet

Seemingly intimate with the ways of gardeners, Earle Birney in a poem about visiting for the first time Al Purdy’s Ameliasburg (collected in Rag and Boneshop) supplies a horticultural image in touch with the growing process:

horsecrap-fattened peonies

And Mark Doty brought a singular poppy gathered from School of the Arts and pressed between the pages of Fire to Fire.

Pink fist. Iron frill.
Essential frippery. Fierce embroidery.
Core decor. Severe extravagance.
Lip of otherness. Evidence.

And a spray from Amy Lowell: “The evening primrose, comrade of the stars.”

And so for day 1024
02.10.2009

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