Thursday, March 14, 2013

'Beyond Baroque' and Frank Samperi

Claudia Samperi-Warren with Conrad DiDiodato


   "Altho it is difficult to grasp by many or few or none, I am not really a foreigner -- nor do I relish any indirect assaults upon where exactly my nativity is" (Samperi to Corman)


 Though a stranger to the place I felt far from it. But I could hardly believe I was there: to those of us schooled in Canada's version of the terrific California poetry scene Venice Beach seemed hallowed ground (as indeed it still is). American poetry and the always revolutionary conditions of its growth and development always came accompanied--to this very impressionable 70s student of literature--with distinctive names, faces and personalities And I saw a few of them proudly displayed along the upper walls in the 'Beyond Baroque' bookstore: diPrima, Acker, Duncan, Olson and Venice Beach's local poetry legend, John Thomas Idlet. The 'Gas House' and Ellison Hotel were, in the words of local poet and musician Betto, where the poets came for the 'vibes'.

I am not really a foreigner here, either. There is a wonderful 'vibe' indeed (almost aural to this impressionable Canadian) that the people always carry and that I felt, too: it's in their words, tone and the artist's always soft eyes. 'Beyond Baroque' was more than a place (entirely community-supported) of art exhibits, workshops and readings: it was, as Frank Samperi, would say a place where "[t]he angel prepares and disposes" and I felt Frank's angel there, too. 'Vibes', the angel or the softness in a poet's verses--they all collectively were Venice Beach and 'Beyond Baroque', the place's gift to this proud foreigner.

But, above all, it was Frank and Frank's daughter Claudia, host of the poetry reading, and the wonderful group of poets who'd assembled to read from Samperi's 'Trilogy' that I came here for. And I saw Frank and his poetry in the person of Claudia who'd made possible this wonderful homage to a life and work: in the gentle elegant daughter who'd brought us all together to celebrate the Skysill publication of the combined Trilogy works: The Prefiguration, Quadrifariam and Lumen Gloriae.

It was my unique privilege to read from the Morning and Evening in The Prefiguration and afterwards offer my own reflections on the very interesting art and poetry collaboration between Samperi and Petersen that resulted in the Morning & Evening folio published in Caterpillar 3/4 (1967), of which Claudia had displayed at 'Beyond Baroque' the original stoneprinted version (along with an original "A"-12 typescript Zukofsky had given Samperi).

Claudia will shortly post pictures and video segments of the 'Frank Samperi Celebration' event at her blog. Below is the text of my comments on the Samperi-Petersen collaboration minus references (taken from my unfinished literary biography of Frank Samperi).

The entire Frank Samperi reading may be seen here at PennSound.

--------------------------

    The Trilogy began as a poet-printmaker collaboration through which Petersen’s lithography served as foil to Samperi’s own terse formulations of a spirituality gathered in the quotidian. Theirs was artistic effort underscored by the need to remain committed to the work despite worldly pressures to put a commercial value on art, poetry and music in general. It was probably an inability, as Petersen puts it in an undated letter to Samperi, “to exchange enthusiasms” that formed the basis of their 60s partnership, conjoined as this also was to the feeling that their commitment to artistic purity had alienated them from the mainstream. Both Samperi and Petersen (if Petersen’s letters are any indication) were prone to bouts of self-pity and a reluctance to engage more actively with the busy world outside of their own spiritual and artistic practices (as evidenced in Petersen’s Noh and  translation activities and Samperi’s own assimilation of Dante and spiritual poetics). Though Petersen’s own self-loathing was likely more feigned than real, the lament for quiet introspective space in which to create was certainly genuine. The Caterpillar Morning & Evening is an example of the way poetry and the printmaker’s artistry, as well as a friendship based on the need to keep a clear sense of the connections between them always in view, could combine to form a rather remarkable work. It’s perhaps a case of a correspondence and creativity symbiosis that wouldn't be seen ever again in Samperi’s literary career: Samperi’s Origin publications, though a success even in his own eyes, certainly lacked the rich artistic presence of a Will Petersen. Relations between them would, however, later deteriorate to such a point that Samperi (in an undated letter, probably 1980) would expressly forbid Petersen from publishing in his Plucked Chicken magazine a transcript of a recorded conversation that took place between himself and John Levy in 1980.

    Both the Petersen 4 October ’66 and 17 October ’66 letters to Samperi and the Caterpillar Morning & Evening (M&E) folio publication showcase admirably the ideals of artistic purity and the aesthetics of illustration come to fruition. Talents and appreciation of the materials of art and artistic production don’t so much complement as stand respectfully distant from each other, inviting interpretation and respectful bickering over the final form. Petersen says in the 17 October letter, in particular, that though their efforts stand “side by side” they ought rather to purposely look “unrelated or contrary” so that the readers can make the connections for themselves. Eshleman presents M&E as forming part of a larger unpublished work (that is, of course, The Prefiguration) as well as an individual folio available for purchase.The M&E, as embodying a sense of both the work “in process” and finished product (both the end and means of creativity), is very much a synthesis of the qualities of two distinct artistic sensibilities. Petersen had hoped that the portfolio would find its way into print. From Samperi come the spiritual journey motif and the revelatory nature of ‘seeing’ combined with spare minimalist phrasing, the skillful alternation between prose and poetry and sensitivity to the intermediaries of space and illustration; from Petersen, the lithographer’s careful handling of illustration and the nuancing of text that formatting always entails, the creation of a Noh dance of stone work and printing that results in the most unexpectedly original confluence of words and images. There’s always in Petersen the urge to preserve the stark simplicity of Samperi’s poetry by working “in a loose, quick way – putting down ink with fingertips and heel of hand.” I’ve already mentioned the multitasking of an indefatigable Petersen who, among other things, makes editorial recommendations, and continually details the printmaking process to a nervous and expectant friend, even looking to matters of packaging and distribution and a good deal of the public relations work.
 
    The reader of M&E is certainly struck with this purposeful artlessness of effect in the finished product, the play of “fingerprints” on stone and the creatively dissonant patterns of repetition and variation of page design. Petersen thinks, for instance, that the choice of black and white for spiritual verses— particularly in the case of the “last leaf fallen” line in Samperi’s poem—and the oft-times erratic movements from black to white and vice-versa, and even the use of “an early stone to depict the angel” for the “last leaf fallen” page, all seem to nicely accommodate the ambiguity of the nature of fall itself. “Man—do you think perhaps”, Petersen says, “ ‘last leaf fallen’ should revert to ‘man’ rather than ‘angel’ --? If the final is angel leaving the city, passing through, …”Like the unfinished conditional itself, the smudgy, rough-hewn M&E angel figure seems the presentation of a riddle rather than a clearly delineated angel or man. And the purposeful ambiguity is proof of Petersen’s skill as printmaker and illustrator. Art sustains a central thematic tension between the purity it strives for and the limitations of representation to which the very media of language and printmaking seems to restrict it always. Petersen’s lithography provides a sort of sketch for the incongruous visions of the poet-pilgrim living and writing in a crudely competitive America: with its scattered fragments (almost paleolithic) of holes and spaces, palm and finger prints and the most mismatched assemblage of cloudy half-formed shapes (almost surrealistic), the whole looks more collage than a work of representation. But amidst the confusion there does arise, almost out of the dark peripheral borders and disfigurations themselves, Samperi’s angel, sometimes with wings and no head, sometimes a menacing headless Lucifer falling to earth (as in the case of the “last leaf fallen” page) and turning into something decidedly more fiendish than angelic. The wings and other discarded parts alone litter Samperi’s page to make the whole look certainly like a modernist, even surrealistic artifact.

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

Some poems after 'Beyond Baroque'

"Ellison Hotel"
    (for Betto)

I know, I know
where the spirits go--

vibes atop the roof,
Jim, Jim there's yr proof
_____


"Creeley to Claudia once"

said, You're a young diPrima,
the one-eyed to the almond-eyed

_____


"Crows in Santa Monica"
   (thinking of Frank)

Who can gnarl and seethe here,
  & rail the palm from off
    my Tree,

curled round a blenching girl?
               

Why, if the crows can't,
  like desire
then all the thorny cough's for
                              nothing,

under this soft-tailed sky

----------



Thursday, March 7, 2013

Goodbye, Stompin' Tom




"It's true as I feel it" (Stompin' Tom Connors)


Those who've seen Stompin' Tom say his foot stompin' was dithyrambic, at times spellbinding. The tempo was flawless. Those, like me, who haven't  have loved Stompin' Tom all their lives because he was so uniquely one of us: in the faltering speech, self-effacing mannerisms and bar room patriotism. He was the Canadian Hank Williams though, of course, he'd get angry at the suggestion. His life was hard, too; as a child he'd often had to beg for food. And at the height of his career Stompin' Tom 'd turned down offers to go abroad. He never sold out, always true to his roots. He once returned his Juno Awards because he hated to share them with Canadians who'd gone to the States.

Stompin' Tom died March 6, 2013 in Halton Hills, Ontario.

Goodbye Stompin' Tom...I'll think of you next time I go up to Sudbury or Peterborough; I'll  hear your music in rain's pounding splash or a wind's wail against my window, even in the geese's crackling timbre; and I'll appreciate just a little bit more the Easterner whose life's been etched deep in the weather-beaten face. Our very best have always come from there.

Sunday, March 3, 2013

Penn Kemp: "Wait Late" and "Celebrating Sky"

 
Penn Kemp is Canada's greatest sound poet, in the tradition of bill bissett, Honey Novick and the legendary "Four Horsemen". Unlike the crude swag and dissonance of most contemporary sound performers, I always detect a personal elegance, a truly inspired lyricism and real ear for rhythms in Penn's productions. Hers are (always have been) the liberatory forces of the natural world.
 
Please enlarge screen for full audio-lyrical effect.


Tuesday, February 26, 2013

For Dean



My worst moments as a teacher have always been these: when a former student is sadly torn from our love and affections, in death. Dean Cudmore had by the time of his twenty-second year developed a daringly creative flair & edginess that made for great poetry and friendship. The kindly look and boyish smile hid--as I see now four years later--creative forces that always seemed about to erupt, as they did on one special evening in 2009. I was privileged to have been his teacher but, as it turned out, it was Dean and a group of wonderfully talented young people who'd, in fact, turned an English class into a spectacularly special celebration of song, poetry and school community: an entire semester dedicated to a uniquely special celebration of the arts in the form of a 60s coffee house nite.

Dean had been particularly attuned to the dithyrambic lines of Ginsberg and the Beats. I believe it was his own "Rock Out" poem, written for the 2009 coffee house evening, that defined for me the spirit of his own generation (as Ginsberg's did his) though it was ostensibly about classrooms, school life and gratitude. It was Dean who'd managed to transport me back, in substance and style, to a 60s generation that had somehow inspired him and, through him, a class & an entire cafeteria audience. We'd all even dressed in black.

Of Dean I can say (but only in Ginsberg's words) that he was one of the "angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the/starry dynamo in the machinery of night". I grieve for the young poet swallowed by that night but to him--and this gives some consolation--I'm sure the whole thing must have in some devastatingly fleeting way also seemed pretty cool.

Below is the text of Dean's "Rock Out" poem. I dedicate this post to a former student, poet and "angelheaded hipster".
_________________________________

Rock Out
By Dean Cudmore
May 2009

You are receiving direct orders to rock out. To be more specific,
Rock out like you just got good on that first report card, and you know you could count on one hand the hours of homework you’ve completed.
Rock out like you’re eating crackers and cheese and you match up the crackers perfectly with the cheese.
Rock out like you are the last one through a yellow light.
Rock out like you’re the first one at a red and you’re beside a grandmother, and she wants to race and there’s no speed limit.
Rock out like you have the perfect amount of anything: change, beer, people in a car.
Rock out like you have fourth and fifth spare and nothing to do but play Frisbee.
Rock out like you wake up in the morning and you look around and you look up at the ceiling and you are fully awake.
Rock out like you don’t shave for a week and a girl you like happens to ask if you forgot to shave this morning.
Rock out like your parents give you the car on a Saturday night and the only thing they say is: Keep in touch.
Rock out like you found out how much better a beer tastes after you’ve finished cutting a half acre lawn with a push mower.
Rock out like you’re pulling an all nighter for no reason other than to see what it’s like to do it.
Rock out like Mr. Didiodato is arguing with four teenage girls about the likelihood of a psychic being a valid profession.
Rock out like you’re in Mr. Didiodato’s class at all, ever.
Rock out like you’re going to Stratford.
Rock out like you’re going to a party tonight that could easily be the best party of your high school career.
Rock out like you’re playing Assassins and your target asks you for a ride home.
Rock out like you’re playing Assassins.
Rock out like you’re standing at the bus stop on the last Friday of the month and you see three people simultaneously sprint home to change out of their uniform.
Rock out like its prom night.
Rock out like its prom night two times for good measure.
Rock out like you’re camping.
Rock out like you’re camping with your friends and you’re wasted as fudge ad you’re watching the sunset.
Rock out like you finished the last night of the school play.
Rock out like you just slept over at the school one night, just to see if you could get away with it, and you do.
Rock out like your younger brother and sister and cousins all look up to you and aren’t afraid to show it.
Rock out like Rachel Keenan is in a shouting match with Conrad.
Rock out like Nicole is in a shouting match with Conrad.
Rock out like Matt Berkopec is sitting in the back of class stoned out of his mind, reading the Tupac book and applying hand lotion.
Rock out like Eman is... doing anything.
Rock out like when Gougeon looks around for two minutes, checks outside, then grabs his bag and says: “Frisbee?”
Rock out like when Conrad doesn’t care about Frisbee.
Rock out like when Conrad says “smackdown”, “old school”, holds the skull book up, or says anything about back in the day.
Rock out like when he said, and I quote, “Kyle, get your mind off basketball, we’re talking Shakespeare”
Rock out like the day the Red Bull car came to the school and everyone here went nuts.
Rock out like in our Grade Nine Christmas assembly when Mr. Desantis came in on a stretcher and we played Hells Bells.
Rock out like you’ve ever seen Nadine really really yell at someone.
Rock out like it was Kevin Arujo.
Rock out like you’ve ever seen Joel Lane rap.
Rock out like when Mr. Daly came to the school and he addressed the student body without the microphone.
Rock out like you would have passed your last semester of high school if you showed up once a week.
Rock out like you did.
Rock out like you didn’t wear a uniform for a month.
Rock out like you went inside the old school when it was being torn down and saw Mr. Picone’s office, and peed on his old floor.
Rock out like you’re really glad school turned out the way it did.
Rock out like you’re really glad you met everyone you did.
Rock out like you’re really glad you can say:
I went to the original STA.

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Urbi et Orbi, again


 
I knew there was something about this guy I didn't like: and the sudden resignation, with all the rumours resurfacing about sex scandal cover-ups, seems to clinch it for me. Here's something I penned when Ratzinger became Pope, still every bit the crackling harbinger I intended it to be (and that doesn't happen often).
__________________________


When folio editions dripped from the first movable types,
quasars twitched with pleasaunce!
"Please to render unto Spirit what is Spirit's," saith one emerging
Sense, einmal...nur einmal.

With every intention, of course, of ending thought like a dot,
and defending Abelard at the Sorbonne,
&, among other things, his contributions to free love verse,
Aion plied the reins more softly, as it were

and stood to suffer real imprisonment for time bound views!
But how to stop the ungovernable Infinitive!
One did. Unmoved by You or Time, he's authorized to halt any star
and take away its salt,

one Ratzinger who's rung the chapel-bell a lot for inquests
into the matter of bad Aion-Jesuits.
"To be can be construed as an affront, can it not, to Being on High?
Sense is the Es-sence as Smell is the Sense

of all pollen-bearing Plants, is it not?" the Cardinal sniffed and made
the Earth ill. Now Aion replied, pettishly
but the only thing that could be compared to it, for rhetoric & verve
was one absconding God

who cracked his knuckles. "To be is to be for me," the Ratz said, and
one more quasar limped

Monday, February 4, 2013

"A Eulogy for Dirty Stella" by ginamarie lobianco


A superb poem by ginamarie lobianco (reprinted with permission). I thought as I first read it that a  fading lopsided typed 'Form' never suited subject so wonderfully...Verisimilitude can be hard to detect at the best of times but to find her Stella like this, discarded among cds, cigarettes holes and
toilets, is remarkable, indeed. I haven't felt like this in a long while.

Click on poem to read.