patrickkanouse.com Blog

Traveler Maps

A couple of years ago, my sister bought a book of poems by Ko Un, a Korean poet much talked about.

The construction of this book is one of the most interesting I have ever encountered. The cover copy says: “Design is based on a 17th-century book of maps used by Korean travelers — something put in their pockets to help find the way.”

Eleven pages that unfold.

It’s really quite interesting.

New Poem Posted

Check out a new poem I’ve posted for a few months.

The Imperatives of Odysseus Elytis

Several years ago, I attended a writer’s conference at Indiana University. I cannot say that I particularly enjoyed the experience, and any plans for me attending another are very unlikely. I am of too independent of a mind, I think, to enjoy sitting around with a bunch of other writers hawking our wares to be commented on in formalized settings by “established” poets. My group’s “established” poet was Timothy Liu, and, all in all, I think his handling of the group was perfectly fine. All were treated with respect, all got equal time. The problem was it was all highly mundane. Very few said anything of real import, for if you did, you were notified by hostile looks and grimaces (not by Liu but by your cohorts) that you had crossed a line. After doing so once, I forgot about doing so again. It simply was not worth it.

This is a long way of getting to Odysseus Elytis. I had not yet discovered modern Greek poetry (and this discovery is probably the single biggest benefit of attending that conference), but Liu mentioned in passing a quote by Yannis Ritsos and then quickly indicated that he thought Ritsos should have won the Nobel Prize in 1979 instead of Odysseus Elytis. I soon thereafter embarked on a study of modern Greek poetry. While I find the sumptious beauty of Giorgos Seferis the height of modern Greek poetry, he was closely followed by Ritsos, Elytis, Constantine Cavafy, and Nikos Gatsos. But of Liu’s comment, I came down on the side of Elytis, who I think the finer poet (at least as I have been able to discern in English translation). Elytis is more in my “frame” of enjoyment, particularly his surrealist and mystical imagery. This is from “Ode to Santorini” (as translated by Jeffrey Carson and Nikos Sarris in their beautiful The Collected Poems of Odysseus Elytis):

You emerged from a thunderpeal’s entrails
Shuddering amid repentant clouds
Bitter stone, proved, proud
You sought the sun for the first-martyred witness
To confront the perilous splendor together
To head out to sea with a cross-bearing echo

Elytis said in his Nobel address:

Of course the enigma exists. Of course the mystery exists. But the mystery is not a stage setting that exploits the play of shadow and dark merely to impress us. It continues to remain a mystery even in absolute light. And then it acquires that splendor of attraction we call Beauty. Beauty that is a road — perhaps the only road — toward the unknown part of ourselves, toward what goes beyond us. Because this at bottom is poetry: the art of leading you toward what goes beyond you.

While Elytis is talking about poetry, I also feel his words relate to music. If I were not a writer, I would wish to be a composer (and those of you who know my complete idiocy in regards to rhythm may laugh). The ability of sounds in a sequence to produce emotional response is to me one of the great mysteries. And words too can do this, which is perhaps why I am drawn to difficult and obscurity-laced poets…because they move toward a sequence of sounds with words. Or…as Elytis has also said: “The duty of the poet is to cast drops of light into the darkness.”

The Doubt of the Writer

Reading some of Norman Mailer’s letters published in The New York Review of Books I found this quote in a letter to William Styron:

But I do feel as if some kind of pressure is off. I suppose what it is is that whether I end up mediocre, good, or great, at least I know I’m a writer, and I haven’t known it all these years.

One often hears the cliche about writing being a lonely affair. The cliche is predominantly true, but it is nonetheless a tired commentary for non-writers. Yes, most writers seek isolation and quiet in which to write. While inspiration, phrases, words, and images can arise in even the most chaotic and public situations, the actual work of writing for many writers is a separation from distraction, chaos, and the public. Writing is an interior dialogue with the self, and thus, the merits of the writing are squarely upon the writer.

Mailer, however, comments on a different aspect of this “loneliness,” that extends to many arts and, in fact, to most people’s lives. Mailer is writing here specifically about finishing his novel The Deer Park. And, oddly some might find given that he had already published one of his celebrated novels — The Naked and the Dead — only after finishing his third novel does he accept and believe that he is a writer…that the merit of his work is undecided but he knows he has found his calling. This pressure of worrying about whether he was spending his time usefully is off. The novel may not be good, may not be great, may be only mediocre, but he is clear about the fact that he is a writer.  No other occupation holds the same value for him.

W.H. Auden fretted every poem he finished would be the last he wrote. This never turned out to be the case, but we will remember Auden for his early poetry, not the poetry he wrote in his later years. His early work is great. His later work is mediocre. Yet, through it all he knew what his calling was and he never wavered from that no matter the doubts about being able to continue in that work. I imagine Auden would have preferred the grave over the inability to write. Yvor Winters, on the other hand, accepted his fall into silence despite the wounds. But Winters, I do not think, ever really believed he was a writer (I think he believed he was a teacher and mentor).

A writer cannot know whether they are really a writer or not until they have faced the task of really working at a piece, and suffering through its creation, and fearing its impasses, and understanding that what that piece is is the fruit of labor despite its testament to the writer’s “greatness.” A writer writes no matter what the result is. More importantly, I believe a writer feels an intestinal desire to write no matter what the result is. The desire may go on hiatus, but it returns and demands payment. Writing is a calling whose certainty of value is unanswerable to the writer. Beware…Moby-Dick was a failure both commercially and critically in Melville’s lifetime. Only in the middle years of the 20th Century was it widely understood to be not only a seminal novel in American literature, but a novel of such importance as to be a novel for the ages.

What Is This Thing Called a Poetry Reading?

Readers of my blog know that I attended a poetry reading this past week. I don’t attend many of these readings, and this past reading is a reminder as to why. Before I explain, though, what went wrong with this reading, you will need a bit of background as to my participation in readings.

At Ball State, where I first began writing poetry in the early 1990s, I attended many open mic readings with fellow students. One of the locations we frequently had these at was a lecture hall at the Teacher’s College building. On Tuesday or Thursday evenings, a couple of dozen young poets would attend to hear each other read. As with so many newly converted, we were passionate and very serious about our writing. As we each explored our creative process, we were often stubborn in our views. Yet at the same time, our passion left us open to alternative methods, focuses, etc. These readings were fantastic learning opportunities.

After I moved to Indianapolis, I attended several open mic readings, many sponsored by the Indiana Writing Center. This was a different world of readings. Cliques were clearly at play and many people had agendas. The most disturbing aspect of these readings was the reason most of the poets were there for: To read their poems. They were not there for the poetry. Instead, Poet X came for the sole purpose of reading Poet X’s poems. If Poet X stayed to hear Poet Y read Poet Y’s poems, it was only out of politeness or because Poet Y was on the sign up list first. This was made spectacularly clear to me at one reading. The sign up list was limited to a certain number, and this poet showed up close to the start time. When she found the list was full and she would not be able to read her poems, she left. The priority was on reading her poems, not on spending an evening with poetry. This was the most clear indication of this attitude, but it permeated nearly every reading I attended. I stopped going to these readings.

Of course, one should be excited to read one’s poems but not lose all sense of purpose. Poetry is a small pond, invisible to the larger culture, and dominated by an academically approved tone and style of poetry. Those who wish to assert their power within this community remind me of a small town mayor who bullies and condescends to his citizens as if the mayor were a position equal to the President. But we know the truth: the mayor is a silly putz who will be quickly forgotten once his time has passed. Readings should be about the poetry, and most readers that I’ve encountered are about themselves reading poems to a group of people who are required to hang on their every word as if they were the latest version of John Keats or Wallace Stevens. None of them are anywhere close.

I participated in another set of readings, though that term should be used loosely. There was a small group of us who would gather every week or so to read our poems and provide feedback. Obviously, the purpose here was instructive. Also, we frequently did not bring our poems to discuss, but read other poets. One evening, we were reading Rilke. It so happened that one of our group could speak German fairly well, so she read for us the original German. Fantastic.

I also attended readings at Butler University as part of their Visiting Writers Series. At Clowes Hall I heard Seamus Heaney read (to date, the best reading I’ve attended). I also managed to weasel my way towards the back and actually meet the man. He was not scheduled to sign books or meet with any of the rabble (Clowes was packed…probably close to a 1000 attendees), but he saw three of us hanging out and was very gracious to us. I also saw Allen Ginsberg at Clowes, which as equally packed for him. Well… I walked out about half way through, disgusted with the spectacle I was witnessing. What threw me over the edge was when Ginsberg pulled out a hurdy-gurdy, started playing, and reading one of his latest poems: “Smoke. Don’t smoke. Don’t smoke. Smoke. Don’t smoke.” Over and over and over. It was a sham. It felt like an act. This is great poetry? I could not stand it. In contrast, Heaney illuminated his texts with his reading. He read only a few poems, but he took the time to discuss some of the context for that poem he was about to read. Heaney’s poem “A Constable Calls,” which is about a Protestant officer appearing at a Catholic homestead. The poems bristles with tension, particularly the sub-surface tension of the Irish problem that is brushed beneath the rug by the friendliness of the constable. The end stanza is

A shadow bobbed in the window.
He was snapping the carrier spring
Over the ledger. His boot pushed off
And the bicycle ticked, ticked, ticked.

I had always read the “ticked, ticked, ticked” as the sound of the bicycle leaving. But when Heaney read it, he took longer pauses. Mine was more liked “ticked  ticked  ticked.” His was more like “ticked       ticked        ticked.” This reading opened for me the interpretation and understanding that that “ticked, ticked, ticked” is the sound of a bomb ticking in addition to the sound of the bicycle. Now there’s a reading for you.

I have also participated in readings where I was a featured reader. Both of these events had open mic components, but I was billed as a featured reader. These were nice compromises. For as a poet with almost no standing in the larger poetry community, these afforded me some notice but did not assume my name would bring enough people to hear only me read. These readings, in my experience, tend to have a better focus on poetry because one or two poets are featured above all others. Another set of readings I attended were readings that had two to three featured readers only. These were conducted in the Irvington (a suburb of Indianapolis) Public Library. A small room with several rows of chairs, a lectern, and quiet (it was a library after all). The people who attended these readings were generally poets and would or had read in this particular set of readings. But this was no open mic. You came to hear two or three poets read and that was it. A poetry focused event. One common feature of both the featured/open mic and few featured poet readings is that they were conducted dedicated spaces: a library or community center. The open mic readings I attended were in bars or restaurants. The distractions of servers, espresso machines, cooking, etc., were particularly problematic.

What is the point of a reading? It is to hear poetry…not the poet. This is a critical distinction. I do not want to seem overly dramatic, but a reading is about the art of poetry, experiencing this specific art of language vocalized. I love espresso and cappuccino, but having to listen to the frothing of milk while listening to a reading is a travesty, and it does nothing to dignify the art. I consider poetry a very serious business, despite its marginal (if that) status in our culture. But just because it is marginal does not mean that it should be treated marginally. We only diminish its importance if we allow that to happen.

So I went to the reading in Zionsville. A featured reading by Dan Carpenter, followed by an open mic session. I did not stay for the open mic session. I was perhaps 10 feet from Carpenter, but I could make out about only half of his reading. The acoustics of the location were awful, servers wandered freely around, the clink of spoons and forks was audible, a non interested party was talking loudly, espresso machines would announce clearly their use, and I thought I heard a steak being cooked. Carpenter was also not a loud speaker, which simply enhanced the near inability to hear him. If I cannot hear the poetry, why did I come? The overpriced beer? Interestingly, as I was leaving, I handed over the open mic reading list to the organizer of the reading. She somehow knew I did not sign up and asked me if I wanted to read. She assumed I was there to read…why else would some one show up to a poetry reading? Poetry should not be only for poets, but by assuming that one will read and by assuming that poets will put up with all manner of distractions simply to have a chance to read their poetry reinforces the marginalization of this art. We are a long way from public recitations of The Iliad, of poetry serving as community memory. I do not expect that poetry should be so valued again (though I often wish it were), but I see no reason why we must contribute to our own diminishment of poetry.

Local Poetry Reading: Update

Poetry on

Date: Thursday, February 5, 2009: 6:30 pm

Location: Plum ’s Upper Room Cafe in Zionsville

NOTE LOCATION CHANGE:  Poetry on Brick Street will meet once again in Plum ’s Upper Room Cafe in Zionsville.  Our new location (G. Simone’s Cafe immediately south of Plum ’s Upper Room) is not yet open for business yet.

Poetry on Brick Street will present Dan Carpenter as the featured poet and speaker at its February event at 6:30 p.m., Thursday February 5th, 2009 at Plum’s Upper Room Cafe; 112 South Main Street in downtown Zionsville.

Featured Poet: Dan Carpenter

Dan Carpenter has published both poetry and fiction in journals including The Tipton Poetry Journal, Illuminations, Pearl , Poetry East, Southern Indiana Review, Maize, Flying Island , Pith, The Laurel Review, Sycamore Review,Prism International, Fiction, and Hopewell Review. A collection of columns written for The Indianapolis Star, where he earns his living, was published by Indiana University Press in 1993 with the title Hard Pieces: Dan Carpenter’s Indiana . A new collection of his poems, More Than I Could See, is forthcoming from Restoration Press. Dan lives in Indianapolis with his wife, Mary, and two children.

An Open “mic” for poets will follow the featured speaker.

For more info on the event and the series, call Barry Harris at 317-733-1811, Susan Miller at 317-587-1438, or email poetryonbrickstreet@cyberroad.com.

For directions to Plum ’s Upper Room:

http://web.mac.com/plumsupperroom/iWeb/Site/Location.html

Local Poetry Reading

I’ll be going to this reading tomorrow night. Perhaps I’ll see you there!

Poetry on Brick Street

Date: Thursday, February 5, 2009: 6:30 pm

Location: G. Simone’s Cafe in Zionsville

Poetry on Brick Street will present Dan Carpenter as the featured poet and speaker at its February event at 6:30 p.m., Thursday February 5th, 2009 at G. Simone’s Cafe; 120 South Main Street in downtown Zionsville. G. Simone’s Cafe is located immediately south of Plum’s Upper Room Cafe.

Featured Poet: Dan Carpenter

Dan Carpenter has published both poetry and fiction in journals including The Tipton Poetry Journal, Illuminations, Pearl, Poetry East, Southern Indiana Review, Maize, Flying Island, Pith, The Laurel Review, Sycamore Review, Prism International, Fiction, and Hopewell Review. A collection of columns written for The Indianapolis Star, where he earns his living, was published by Indiana University Press in 1993 with the title Hard Pieces: Dan Carpenter’s Indiana. A new collection of his poems, More Than I Could See, is forthcoming from Restoration Press. Dan lives in Indianapolis with his wife, Mary, and two children.

An Open “mic” for poets will follow the featured speaker.

For more info on the event and the series, call Barry Harris at 317-733-1811, Susan Miller at 317-587-1438, or email poetryonbrickstreet@cyberroad.com.

Michael Schmidt on Wilfred Owen

I occasionally dip into Michael Schmidt’s book Lives of Poets. I do this because Schmidt discusses many poets with whom I am unfamiliar and have sought out. My recent first encounters with W. S. Graham and C. H. Sisson led me back to Lives of Poets to read up on Schmidt’s critical commentary and his placement of the poets amongst other 20th-Century poets (much of Schmidt’s discussion of 20th-Century poets is broken into “schools” or at least similar tendencies among poets). I found myself drifting through the book, re-readign the sections on David Jones and Wilfred Owen. I know I have commented before about Wilfred Owen and how his war poetry is beautiful despite its subject matter. In fact, the beauty of his language sets in a vivid relief the horrors of war, making the horrors more horrific. Schmidt says,

At heart Owen is less a realist than an idealist. He is drawn to the ugly and sordid because he is attracted to the beautiful. His passion for poetry is not, and never could have been, overwhelmed by pity…. When Owen realized how poignantly the hideous can be conveyed in terms previously reserved for the beautiful, his work developed suddenly and decisively.

I think Schmidt is saying something pretty close to what I had formulated. One of the other items that Schmidt lights on, though, in Owen’s poetry is Owen’s focus on beautiful language. Owen refuses to beautify the image. Contrasted to Rupert Brooke, Owen’s poetry is more telling of the horrors of war. Owen sounds as if he has seen action. Brooke seems to have observed the war from afar. I think this is apparent if we compare a poem of Owen’s to a poem of Brooke’s:

Futility by Wilfred Owen

Move him into the sun–
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it awoke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.

Think how it wakes the seeds–
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sides
Full-nerved,–still warm,–too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
–O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth’s sleep at all?

1914 V: The Soldier by Rupert Brooke

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England’s, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

I have always considered these poems closely related by their subject matter: the death of a soldier. Owen and Brooke approach this topic very differently. Owen’s title immediately alerts us to the view point of the author: This death is a futile death. Additionally, Brooke’s soldier is still alive: “If I should die.” Owen’s is just recently killed (”still warm”). Owen’s soldier dies on foreign soil. Brooke’s soldier remembers the country of his birth. Now, Brooke died in 1915 before the full horrors of stalemated trench warfare on the Western front became apparent. Owen died just days before the armistice in 1918. This may account for some of the variance in tone. But this poem by Owen shows less of the muck and gore of trench warfare than many of his other poems (”Strange Meeting,” “Dulce et Decorum Est”), but I think Owen’s poem seems more authentic in its understanding of war.

But back to Owen’s focus on langauge. His poem refuses to beautify the death of this soldier. He gives us vivid descriptions of a corpse. Yet the language strives to hide this fact from us. We can read the poem almost without reflecting on that idea. This is what I mean by Owen using beauty of language to expose more significantly and clearly the awfulness of war. Brooke’s poem takes us away from the war, hearkening back to nostalgic better days (”And laughter, learnt of friends”). Instead of facing the war, Brooke deflects. Owen faces it even as he tries to hide it…but he tries to hide it by language, which is what Schmidt suggests.

I think these are the reasons more people read Owen or know of him than Brooke.