Ruminate

Not just written by the computer, but culled through Darwinian processes. Publish or perish indeed.

Prose poetry (or whatever you want to call it) came up in a discussion with my Uncle over the weekend. He had never heard of it and asked me to send him some examples.

If you wanted to demonstrate what a prose poem might be and had just one piece you could use, what would it be? Feel free to send it my way, the whole thing or just author/title and maybe source information… I’m very curious what the term prose poem means to different people.

You have to admire the energy of some of the marvellous poetry bloggers I’ve linked to in my sidebar. Where do they find the time? Where do Jim Behrle and K. Silem Mohammad find a spare moment to do anything else? They seem to have discovered the point of blogging– which it appears most are still searching for in (where else?) their own blogs– and latched onto a frenetic and interesting pace that suits what they have to say.

Some folks even maintain two or more sites, one for commentary, another for poetry. That makes some sense to me when there is a more cohesive project, such as Michael Magee who maintains both the often entertaining Mainstream Poetry log as well as the somewhat less interesting (to me personally, and perhaps because I don’t understand it) My Angie Dickinson, dedicated to a series of his poems.

But I’m still not sure what this is all about, or how much value there is to it. Or more precisely, how much added value there is. I see many metaphors for blogging, most of which are meant to invoke the grassroots, egalitarian nature of blogs. They are undoubtedly an improvement over the mimeograph as a means of distribution. But do they create something new or just encapsulate the old? Are the small legions of bloggers, huddled around their particular object of fancy, frantically typing away on their keyboards to spread their word, creating something that wouldn’t otherwise exist?

I’m sure the literal composition of the groups is different, since blogging is not physically limited in the same way as other means of communication, and its asynchronous nature allows for a tremendous force of aggregated opinion to build up that would otherwise be dispersed silently over time… but somehow the whole enterpise seems to be leading to contraction rather than expansion, which is the opposite of what I am most interested in.

This might sound unduly negative, when it isn’t meant to be. I still read weblogs every day and they remain interesting. But from my perspective, for each bridge that is built allowing people with similar interests to come together who otherwise would not be able to, two new walls are formed because folks seek some way to differentiate themselves. There is a guise of generality and eclecticism to a lot of weblogs– particularly poetry blogs, where it stands out because I would love to see poetry blogs that are less like political weblogs– that overlays a manifest specificity of thought, opinion, and position.

Perhaps this is a symptom of, in the minds of some authors, the fracturing of the poetic enterprise, where the dispute over what is within and without the circle has become of paramount importance. In jazz discussion groups and weblogs, for example, there is always aesthetic discussion of what is good and what is not, often disguised in very objective terminology. But the discussion of what is jazz and what is not, while noticeable, doesn’t occupy the same central positions as does the seemingly endless debates in the poetry blogs that ultimately serve only to shift the focus away from the art. I suspect that more jazz lovers come to discussions seeking others who want to talk about their favorite art form, while more poetry lovers come to the discussion seeking to find those who will reinforce their own views of what the art is.

This isn’t a good or bad thing, necessarily, and there is an element of chicken-or-egg to consider, as these debates are as old as the hills. But it seems strange to me that weblogs often seem to result in a cliquish divisiveness where I would have expected something akin to a bazaar, or at least a convention where the spirit of a broader notion of community often prevails.

Laurable asks where have I been, which I understand, but then follows that with a short note about “the acceptability of double-posting” which I am not sure I understand. Is this directed towards me? I can think of a few definitions of double-posting, but perhaps she will elaborate further…

Where I have been is embroiled in contretemps in my offline, fleshly life. This on top of the fact that I am in the peak of a busy summer schedule, so I simply haven’t had a lot of time to write here.

In times of great stress, my passion for poetry increases, but my passion for talking about poetry decreases markedly. I clearly enjoy the theoretical discussions as much as the next person, but in the end it’s all just a bunch of hooha (that’s the technical term, folks) compared to reading and writing actual poetry.

I’ve been greatly enjoying what appears to be a one-man stand by Henry Gould to move past this ridiculously artificial divide between old/new, soq/post-avant, classic/experimental, whatever you might want to call it. The fact that those on the right-hand side of these pairs are so much more vocal can be interpreted in uncountable ways, ascribing various motives to either side. Unfortunately, for too many people it isn’t all in good fun.

My entry yesterday was not about committing “Hari Kari”, as a kind poster inquired. But I can see how it might read that way, and I appreciate the concern. It’s really about acceptance, and perhaps the exact opposite of that which my reader was worried about. Not exactly life-affirming, but by realizing that these boxes we are in really are devoid of exits, there is a strange kind of freedom.

I don’t know if it makes things any easier, but there is some kind of strange hipster zen satori in the freedom of knowing that there isn’t really any freedom. That’s the paradoxical (I hate that word) ace in the hole…

If you are a writer (or sometimes contemplate being one), you’ve surely considered the mechanics of trying to capture those little inspirations that are a part of daily life. In my experience those inspirations come most often at two times: during extreme highs and extreme lows. Fittingly, these are the worst times to try to write something down. During the highs, you don’t want to stop and think about what is happening, you just want it go on uninterrupted. During the lows it makes things too real and makes it too hard to forget.

I know I should be writing things down right now, these thoughts and feelings that we blessedly do not have to endure more than a few times in our lives should be captured. I can feel the stuff of poems (and novels and essays) by the dozen running through me, but I can’t bring myself to think too much about it or to put it through the mill of rumination needed to turn experience to words.

Knowing that I feel this way, in large part because I feel I’m being treated unfairly right now, makes me wonder how other authors do it. Do they rely solely on memory or are they just that much stronger than I feel?

I’ve been in a dark box. I’ve spent a long time exploring the edges, confident in finding the hidden door. Now I find I’ve come full-circle too many times. There is no door. I have no energy to search. I can’t convince myself there’s any reason to keep looking. So what should I do?

Ever had one of those Sundays when you wake up and you are almost immediately thinking about ditching work the next day? You try to pretend that you haven’t made up your mind, but inside there is a kind of relief that the weekend will be one day longer, you are already luxuriating in the extra time even though you tell yourself you haven’t really decided yet.

In some strange way I think I’ve made my decision. I feel a sense of relief. No one wants to be left with only their one, final option to turn to and then find out that option was an illusion. We’ve all got that last hole card, that one more thing we think we can do if nothing else seems possible. Where would we be without it?

So, I’ve made my decision. I’m just coasting on that little bit of extra time I suddenly find myself with, luxuriating in that little bit of space, knowing that the time of pondering is over.