The Real is an impossible contradiction to our sense of things and of life in the Symbolic order.
And to quote Lacan:
"...the essential object which is not an object any longer, but this something faced with which all words cease and all categories fail, the object of anxiety par excellence."
So that goes a long way in helping me understand how people are not only so wrapped up in forms of semiotic normality but also why few if any people have the least sense of the Real. The Real does not compute. It has no metaphorical referent. It would be even beyond a god. That also goes a long way in helping me understand why I'm rather peculiar, with my decades-long fascination with what I call "the Actual."
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Discard at least half of what you write. Revise at least half of what you keep. Keep private what has no universal resonance. Don't drop the reader into a poem without providing a compass and a context. Remember that romantic effusions are, in most all cases, symptomatic of narcissism.
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Friday, May 18, 2012
The distance from me to Magnolia lay forgotten
until I would remember that town being there.
I'm sure magnolias grew large in Magnolia,
dark waxy leaves and blossom fragrance.
Mornings there were questions, afternoons equivocal,
evenings held murmurs and fireflies in summer yards.
To think that people lived there
when I wasn't thinking about them!...
35 miles due west of my town,
down here in lower Arkansas.
The distance from here to there was peculiar --
those miles of almost metaphysical journeying,
until arrival in a town shrugging its shoulders.
One morning at church in my town I had a vision
from out of nowhere, of odd gentlemen walking
the streets of Magnolia. Everything was so tall –
elongated gentlemen and curving-over buildings.
All those men were Czech lawyers newly arrived
in that small town where briefcases are anomalous.
The vision also held Jesus floating quite distracted,
not too far above them in the narrow wounding light.
Religion gets painted in your young mind
by Dali's nephew twice-removed somehow
way down here in Arkansas on a Sunday.
Outlier towns are phantoms on the periphery,
registering just enough to make you uncertain
and off-balance through days, dreaming nights.
I had two cousins in Magnolia.
Cousins are unusual creatures.
My aunt and uncle are now dead.
Magnolia no longer remembers me.
I'm fairly confident magnolias still bloom there
in that town some Southern Kafka miles away.
Blooming for people even if I don't think of them.
But Magnolia is like a god diluted in solution of time.
Or a summons written on a scroll in disappearing ink.
Copyright 2012, Tim Buck
Thursday, May 17, 2012
I've been reading Will Crawford's book of poetry Fire in the Marrow (NeoPoiesis Press, 2010). There are many things that can be said about it and various avenues of approach. I wish to take a particular path through his poems.
But first, let me sketch out why many poems being written today fail to affect the reader down in his marrow. Too many poems written these days are chunks of air. They don't secrete the necessary calcium of lived context. They are special effects without a foundation. A poem is presented as one drawn-out sigh of transcendence or as a word-jumble trance or as a private effusion with no perspective for the reader. That is not sufficient. The results, oftener than not, are flimsy.
You got to have some bones. You got to have a skeleton if you want to actually go somewhere, be aesthetically ambulatory. You got to build up something – from exposition to denouement. Otherwise, a poem just sits there and squirms in its invertebrate juices. Spirit supervenes on bone, blood, and tissue. Revelatory moments don't come cheap. Flame and incandescence require some kindling.
Crawford's work has a vital structure. Something can burn through it. I think his poems are literature.
This book opens with an eponymous prose piece. Or maybe a fusion of prose with poetry. I reached a line that stopped me in my eye-tracks – sent a burning shiver through my retina. After “she” had spiraled around circles of emotional hell:
There's a pure light source pulsing in her eyes, it's real and empyreal.
This limpid image has broken out from the poison honeycomb weave of intense experience. We as readers are right to be impressed by this startling moment of organic, ocular epiphany.
In “Bluebird Notes,” we are moving through scene and sublimation, all the while to a musical complement. The surfaces seen are raw yet have a dark beauty beneath. From surface and dubious substance, a hot existential shimmer rises:
to be forgotten
then remembered again
in moving sheets of indigo melody
in sustained bluebird notes
in standing applause
like hard clean rain
The pressures of desire, depth, and distance conspire to instantiate an exotic vision in “The River is a Mirror.” Contemplating the looking-glass, which reflects the viewer, we see what water pressure has also wrought into a visage – a lovely form, dazzling cipher of our own riddle. And Crawford's language is carried on an exemplary cadence, of Poundian quality:
remember last November's Diwali
a festival of lights
the heavens touched earth that night
walking through constellated gardens
moving through several milky ways –
horse head nebulae
Tantalus no longer denied by distance
Crawford takes us into a zone of ancient harrowing in the poem “In the Shadow of Arrows.” Intense man that Aguirre. Seeking mammon. A mad, sad tale that reverberates unceasingly. Here, it's down to jungle cases. The anti-epiphany is a heavy thing balanced between stoicism and despair. A millstone lodged in the diaphragm. The brutal Fact pushes against all dream, delusion, and hope:
the blue flame which once danced
quickly fading in his eyes
the hopeless weight of his heart
all bloody and tribal
a mad, simple rhythm of survival
In “Condensed Elegance,” a youth has his normality interrupted by visions of loveliness – Barbara Leigh – by jeweled, ineffable eyes – Julie Christie – and by an open volume of feminine innocence – Laurie Bird.
It's how something changes, how a new air of being rushes into you. When you encounter, say, the difference of Barbara Leigh, up there on the screen and to such a marked degree. Something new has occurred, a complex vision of the sacred and the profane. You are changed. You never forget a real revelation. And the poet imbues the event with a halo of wistful eternity:
realizing she was her own event,
an elaboration of Indian summer
lingering with its own sweet electricity
If you have the writer's fever, innate and slow-boiling, then write you must. Until you write yourself into a dark corner. Lose your bearings. Then comes a time to bust through the shadows accumulated in that corner. A new word. A new way. A new muse. “A Bullet for the Blind”:
after the amateurs are dissected
after the amateurs are dissected
after a bloody beating heart is not detected
and last rites are written
I shall offer my writing hand to one of these new Ophelias
the single crack that occasionally lets some light in
and we'll dance
with the graceful carelessness of children
there's a symphony in every synapse
flash of brass, snap of snare –
a constructive melancholy
that understands the necessity
of succinct suicide notes
the correct sunset for that dangling swan
In Fire in the Marrow, many such moments rise up from these poems, subtly and unexpectedly. It's like a form of matter changing states, from solid and grounded to a glowing red-cell steam.