Questionings of a daughter

A poem I wrote a few years back when rhymes were all the rage. I then thought (and perhaps I still do) that 'rhymes' with the aid of some abstractions could take the edge off some pretty terrible moments.
___________________


Seated on his right, heart open and glowing,
she fills calendars with dates and casts for saints
days in her most adorable White going!
Fear of nights, dabbed in shades, & Dad's complaints

can't be assuaged, she thinks, by strings of x's and o's
Face resting in linen, she stares him in the eye
and, lowering like lids, two orchid lids, shows
a grey-veined floor's a Space where daughters can lie

Tic tac toe! the comb hairs and bees spin the wheel,
make a move and be the boss by flexing me--
am I free to run in parks, or rise to skies of teal,
sewn, like reeds, in stinky ponds of Galilee?

She pats Dad on the hand tic tac! just like that,
determined to prove marble's not so hard on the knees
The stars don't impress her much either so
the sweeter to be-- I have to pee, excuse me, please

Jessica Ghawi

Sometimes life's cruelties are too unbearable to utter, except through poetry.

_____________________________

"Eulogy" by Kevin Young (which I dedicate to Jessica)


To allow silence
To admit it in us

Always moving
Just past

senses, the darkness
What swallows us

and we live amongst
What lives amongst us...

                           

On Looking into Hutchison's "Sacred Stories"

It's always been a habit of mine to read transfixed to a single impression, to one significant moment and place: to the one truth that seems to speak for the rest. And when I'd found it in Joseph Hutchison's book of verses Thread of the Real, I knew I could now begin. "Sacred stories" is that bearer of truth and a starting-point, seeming to me marvelously representative of an entire work and perhaps of an entire body of work (though I've known the poet for only a few short years and am unacquainted with his other writings). And yet it is its own singularly unique self at the same time. Heraclitus is the work's epigraphical center, and with good reason.The single poem I've chosen--or rather the primacy of the poem-- must serve as a first and final step into the poet's Heraclitean waters.  And it does. In fact, any line from it will always suffice to give you a marvelous sense of the whole opening before you. Such as.

     "But true to your class,/you keep on dreaming of being let in" (Impression)

Reading from "Sacred Stories" will make Hutchison's world look neither illusive nor allusive. Words do stand for things. But things just don't follow after, servilely obedient to plain succession. It's a chronicle of "sacred stories" and sacred stories here are never at outs with the world.The whole (in true conflux) preserves a significant sameness--call it tradition, perhaps-- though respecting life's bruising particularities. And people, places and events have made a world of difference in the poet's life. To be found expertly interlaced in every poem are biographical details, excursions through landscapes and the generous lyrical insights they give: such as the admonition from a dear mentor George McWhirter and his rhapsodical "foothills and plains" to let it "be enough" ("Thread of the Real,or the old woman "with stick-legs" found adrift in a poet-narrator's dream ("Adrift"), or the "crazed razor" tribute-poem to South Korean poet Ko Un ("After Ko Un's Flowers of a Moment") or even a sense of the latter's own misplaced Eastern ritual settling uncomfortably on the poet himself. Impressions as beguilingly varied as these always suffice.

     "Breezy golden light/on the mountain"(Place)

Such things as "smoky quartz" and "mauve thistles" ("Three Sentences Toward Evening After an Early Spring Storm"), "mesmerizing" waters ("Kooser Creek") and an old woman's "ragged cards" ("Solitaire") come up hurriedly to the poet who's always attentive enough to fix them as parts of his own uniquely rough idyll.  But, despite even the "Sacred Stories" beginnings and a line like "Breezy golden light/on the mountain", there's no jump over the border into convenient symbolism or metaphor. There's no resting in cozy southern hemispheres. It's not easy to go beyond the gravelly experiences of the poetry alone, somewhere to rest the Yeatsian head. And it takes a kind of daring to move on with the journey, following the thread of the real, into places like the winsome murmurings in a spring ("The Spring"), "blazing bees" in Montana ("Winter Sunrise Outside a Café Near Butte, Montana): and, perhaps most daring of all, the derelict behind his "cardboard sign" ("Crossroads"). Wherever you go and look, there's a type of claritas that stings rather than sings ("Claritas").

     "...how bleak/this valley was before/their ancestors sailed" (Moment)

What a faithful gathering there is of American soldier, jihadist and torturer("Tests of Faith") now that the Signifier and Signified have finally split! And wherever there's the show of some poetic justice, with imaginative truth put forward, the reader still asks how this ghoulish mélange's possible at all. The answer is fated to come, of course, as the equation in public opinion of severed child limbs with one caged dictator, who picks at his lice ("Opinions"), of "slaughtered fighters" with skillful CNN camera work ("Ambushed by a Scene on CNN"). The American audience is always assured of media objectivity, notwithstanding the glaring two-headed monsters, assured typically to a point of numbing imbecility. Hutchison discloses an American media that do not reveal shadows on the border: but that rather crackle and burst with their own deadly "shock and awe". To read is to see more of the same pathetic resumption of war glory. Here is the stream's silent treacherous deep end.

    "Sacred Stories"(Truth)

But there is truth in the poet's heart, the sense of sacredness in change itself that the whole work never lets go, of which I take his "Sacred Stories" poem at the end to be the embodiment. But not in the sense of being transcendent over the Colorado mountains and plains but as just this abiding restless permanency to be found everywhere (which I take is Hutchison's own sense of the sacred). Take any line from it and read: the real that threads through begins and ends here  Take an impression such as that given by the narrative obstinacy of "pine tree/people" and "iron-jawed" settlers and see it refracted in an old woman's "ragged cards"; take a moment such as when "big desks" and "pistols" in 1929 successfully substitute rapacious "Easy Street fortunes" for aboriginal stillness and see even here the same two-headed beast in CNN coverage of severed child limbs.

Since "No stories here/mention you" there is entrance only through imagination. None of the self-absorbed "technics" of contemporary poetry here. To be "let in" is to both be a part of the unsettling dust up of history and rely on your own imaginative wits. The stories, though no longer constant to paradigms of the past, can be yet as pleasant as folksy Niedecker tributes, biblical passages and "rough-barked" characterizations; as houses and yards, valleys and ancestors. But we shouldn't be taken in. There is a truth keen as poet's westwarding dreams that's never veiled or only half revealed, for poetic effect only. Again, though something may appear independently, like good camera work or a signifier/signified split, it can only be a reflection of everything else. When everything's already known, you don't seem to matter at all, only "dreaming of being let in."

I admit my reading of Thread of the Real may be a little fanciful but then it does take some imaginative effort to follow what I've seen as the most skillful threading of parts. And picking "Sacred Stories" as a beginning may seem even more wilful (even self-absorbed). But if this were true, Hutchison would have stopped me at the gates. I do urge anyone to repeat my little inquiry into Hutchison's "Sacred Stories", and feel the same tenacity of impressions, moments and events I've felt: the same Heraclitean truth at work. Or choose another poem, such as "Mortality", my favourite in Hutchison's collection.  And having dropped the intrusive you, to step courageously into the stream.

Sacred Stories

Breezy golden light
on the mountain.
Breath by breath,

you climb the rope
of listening and vision
down into the valley,

where the pine-tree
people have already
slipped into a tall,

swaying sleep, while
(in their slim shadows)
the grass people lean,

whispering their most
sacred story: how bleak
this valley was before

their ancestors sailed
an ocean of wind
into its barren folds.

                  *

Your ancestors came
from Germany via Ukraine,
from Ireland and Scotland.
Dirt farmers, mostly,

mostly half-assed about it,
buying rocky ground (sight
unseen, but cheap), then
trundling west in Conestogas,

iron-jawed women birthing
and burying along the trail.
Wherever they settled, they'd
one day head to town and glare

into a lens for a family portrait.
What can you buy with joy,
their lampblack eyes would ask,
on this enemy Earth?

                        *

Here where Arapaho and Ute
hunted deer in summer, cut poles
for tents, told sacred stories--here
your people platted cramped parcels,
hammered cabins out of scabrous

pine logs, so that moneyed types
could flee the flatland swelter
and odious foreign laborers. Then:
1929. At big desks of burnished oak,
ruined men pressed pistol barrels

to their heads, leaving only a stench
of saltpeter and scorched pomade.
Soon the elite sanctuary's gates
were flung wide to almost anyone
with cash. If not for those shattered

Easy Street fortunes, there'd be no
you pondering these pines, that grass,
that ginger-furred fox, that Taoist
flash of a magpie into the leafy brush.
Why this melancholy, then? You grasp

the meaning of your past, the present
with its evening sun bleeding down
beyond the ridge. No stories here
mention you. But true to your class,
you keep on dreaming of being let in.

The people's poetry: a discussion

Milt Acorn, founder of People's Poetry

Reprinted with permission here is Chris Faier's post on an excellent discussion of People's Poetry, the only alternative there exists in Canada (imo) to the prevailing academic and mainstream poetries. I'm happy to have shared the discussion with Canada's foremost 'people's poets' Chris Faiers and James Deahl.
______________________________________

Deahl/Faiers & DiDiodato discussions on People's Poetry

July 7, 2012

Dear Chris & Chase,

Below is a draft of my definition of People's poetry.

What do you think?

. . . James, Norma, & Rocky


People’s Poetry

by James Deahl


Although its roots lie deep in the Confederation Period (1880-1899), people’s literature as we know it today, both in poetry and in fiction, has been the central literary tradition in Canada since the mid-1920s when Frederick Philip Grove published his first Canadian novel, Settlers of the Marsh, in 1925. Grove’s poetic counterpart was Dorothy Livesay, who published her first collection, Green Pitcher, in 1928 and whose Day and Night (Governor General’s Award for Poetry, 1944) would set a standard for People’s Poetry that would be followed by Milton Acorn, George Bowering, and Ted Plantos, among others.

People’s Poetry is founded on two concepts: 1. That progress can be seen in the human universe — in terms of what might be called “social physics”, this means that society moves from disorder to order (thus, society improves, becomes more fair and less governed by social Darwinism); and 2. That humanity is perfectible within history. That is, humans play a (if not the) major role in their personal and collective salvation from the flaws of human nature.

 From these two principles it follows that: People’s Poetry promotes peace, equality, and human goodness; People’s Poetry opposes racism, sexism, and other forms of discrimination; People’s Poetry opposes classism and class systems. It is, in short, art made for the people, not the elite. People’s Poetry works to preserve and enrich our natural and human environment.

In practice, People’s Poetry tends to: be committed to Modernist concepts while retaining key Romantic ideals; support Socialist / Social-Democratic political movements; oppose large-scale capitalism and its attendant “business culture”; encourage all people to participate in building their culture.

From the days when Grove and Livesay were writing and publishing their early books, realism joined with idealism has been the hallmark feature of people’s literature in Canada. This sets it apart from Post-modern, Imagist, and Confessional poetries, which also are present in our contemporary literature. Leading People’s Poets today include John B. Lee, Robert Priest, Ronnie R. Brown, and Chris Faiers.


            Note: People’s Poetry is a term generally used only in Canada. In the United States this type of writing is usually referred to as Populist Poetry, and in Britain as Public Poetry.



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late July 7- early July 8th, 2012

Dear James,
Thanks for giving me the opportunity to read & discuss your draft definition of (Canadian) People's Poetry. We were both fortunate to have the definitive Canadian People's Poet, Milt, as a comrade (in the Canadian Liberation Movement: CLM), as a friend (and roommate), and as a poetry mentor.

Knowing Milt so well, perhaps it's easier to define what a People's poet is, and that basically everything a People's Poet writes then becomes some aspect of People's Poetry. Some poets may write a People's poem from time to time, but not necessarily be considered representative People's Poets. Likewise, a true PP, like Milt, wrote lots of poems which, if read individually, wouldn't necessarily be obvious examples of People's Poetry, but which did form parts of his development, or explored aspects of his broadest world view.

I believe you pretty well nailed the development of People's Poetry and most of its primary features, but for the above reason I intuit that it's more practical to apply a definition to poets, rather than to the individual poems they create.

peace & poetry power!
Chris ... and Chase wrffffffffffffffffffffffff! (hi Rocky)

p.s. Another poet I consider a prime exemplar of PP is bill bissett. Like Milt, bill has encouraged progressive poetry through a broad range of activities, such as founding & operating blewointmentpress, doing countless tours across Canada (and Europe), mentoring and encouraging other poets, and constantly exploring and expanding our knowledge & practice of poetry, consciousness and social progress.

p.p.s. I'd like to post this discussion on my blog - I'm sure it would stimulate some feedback & perhaps even some controversy. OK with you?

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July 8, 2012

Dear Chris,

You are quite correct in the observation you made yesterday. There is People’s Poetry as a literary movement, then there are individual People’s Poems, and finally there are People’s Poets.

A true People’s Poet is one who writes People’s Poetry most of the time: Acorn, Livesay, Souster, bissett, etc. There are not many of those still around.

Then there are those who start writing People’s Poetry before moving on to another type of poetry, but who always acknowledge their roots in People’s Poetry. George Bowering comes to mind. (He has always acknowledged his great debt to the poetry of Acorn, Livesay, and Purdy.) And so does Irving Layton.

And there are individual People’s Poems such as my “On The Line”, “The Great Lakes Shipping Strike”, and “Hiorra”.

What we see today are a great many Canadian poets (actually the majority) who have come out of the People’s Poetry Movement, but who seldom write a true People’s Poem today. Souster and bissett are among our few living poets who have devoted their lives to writing for The People. But Souster is 91 years old. bissett is 72.

Actually, Norma can be viewed as a People’s Poet in that she was inspired to write poetry at all (and she had already turned 40 at the time) by first reading Souster and a bit later by reading Layton’s A Red Carpet for the Sun (he was still writing P.P. at that time). She still writes for The People. But my sweetheart will turn 84 in less than two months.

It is perhaps not good that our People’s Poets are all Senior Citizens, but I simply do not see younger poets who devote themselves to the Canadian people and to the struggles of their people like Livesay and Acorn did.

Nonetheless, all the time I meet younger poets (by that I mean poets in their 40s) who admire Purdy or Livesay or Acorn or bissett.

A bit odd. What do you think, old Buddy?


Poetry Power!

. . . James

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July 8

Hi James,
Yes, I like your clarification of three distinct aspects of People's Poetry: as a literary movement, individual poems, and then People's Poets. I find the distinctions very helpful and astute.

And something else you relate which I hadn't thought of is that some are People's Poets for the earlier part of their literary life (career is so inaccurate in Canada!), and then they go on to other things, while some poets develop into People's Poets later in life (like Norma, and perhaps Robert Priest).

Another issue is the quality of the poetry. There are many political activists who write People's Poetry, but most of them are more committed to their activism than to their poetry. And so the poetry suffers. On last night's walk along the river with Chase, I mused that if Milt had been a 'better' progressive activist, if he had been capable of organizing Canadian unions, say, then his attention might have been focused there and we would have lost our best national poet.

I'm also biased towards considering non-academic and blue collar poets as more likely candidates for being People's Poets. I'm thinking of Martin Durkin, the young prole who closes the Purdy tribute anthology, AND LEFT A PLACE TO STAND ON. Of course Purdy, and MIlt, and even Ray Souster all worked at prosaic day jobs - they had to earn their bread and butter among the people, not sheltered in ivory towers, and their poetry reflects this.

And there is an 'outsider' element to People's Poetry. All the best PP have been outsiders - thinking esp. of bill bissett here - there is an almost shamanistic pattern in the lives of our best People's Poets - a separation from the tribe, and then a rejoining, with the means of communicating the new experiences gained during the separations necessary for tribal growth being the poetry.

And yes, it's sad, but completely understandable that there are so few younger dedicated People's Poets. It isn't any sort of career by the standards of our capitalist and materialistic society. So the young poets become profs, or journalists, or give up on poetry and literature completely as a primary lifelong activity. As I've said in a few emails, I've recently been hanging out with poet/novelist/raconteur/hipster Jim Christy. He's now 67, and still hard scrabbling for paying literary and artistic gigs. I've joked that he should receive some sort of lifetime guaranteed income - Canada Council? Ontario Arts Council? some private foundation?

Maybe that's part of the test of the mettle of Canada's People's Poets - surviving in a culture which needs your work so desperately, but which will consciously neglect you to the point of leaving you bedridden in your own excrement in a flophouse (Milt at the Waverley Hotel). With examples like this, no wonder so few are genuinely following the path Milt trail blazed.

peace & poetry power!
Chris and Chase ... wrffffffffffffffffffffff! (glad my dog ESP was working last night!)

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Conrad DiDiodato has left a new comment on your post "Deahl/Faiers discussions on People's Poetry":

Great discussion, guys

I'd just like to add that (imo) the real American exponent of the People's Poetry movement ideal in Canada was probably Cid Corman. He worked tirelessly all his life (mostly from Kyoto Japan) to publish, support and encourage mostly non-mainstream, non-academic poets. There was once a Corman-Souster relationship that resulted in Souster's inclusion in some issues of Corman's "Origin" literary mag.

But certainly Milt Acorn is the quintessential people's poet: and particularly for the reasons that made him also(from what people who knew him have told me) instantly likeable as a person: I guess it's true to the say the people's poet emphasizes the person of the poet over any fake ('illustrated')personas or methodologies. The poem is the person, the poem being always the indelible imprint of the person.

I'd like one day soon to continue this vital discussion at my site.

A good day to you both!



Posted by Conrad DiDiodato to Riffs & Ripples from ZenRiver Gardens at 8 July 2012 09:57

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July 8, 2012 - part 2


Dear Chris,


I have long noted that the poets who enjoy what I call “comfortable money” are almost all professors with their Ph.Ds. Then there are a great many poets who have a much lower income than the average Canadian. (I worked at wage-slavery from the age or 21 until I was 61 — four decades. In only one of those years did I have an annual much income above the official “poverty line”, otherwise known as the “low income cut-off” to government folk. Some years I earned only half of a poverty line income!)


While it must be acknowledged that some People’s Poets did teach university, by far the majority of our People’s Poets did not. Some I know worked as dishwashers, taxi drivers, loggers, bookshop clerks, and hospital orderlies. (I was a “professional” dishwasher myself on three occasions.) Very few People’s Poets ever earned $100,000 per year.


A comfortable income is more likely to be found among the writers of other types of poetry.


What do these facts mean? Hell if I know. All I do know is that when I was a student at West Virginia Wesleyan I had to decide on an academic career or poetry. I was certain I could not pursue both. (Here I speak only for myself since I cannot speak for any other person.) Thus, at age 66 I am poor but happy, and I have written a few books that are, at least in my opinion, pretty good.


I must add here that some professor/poets I have known (once upon a time I was a member of the inner circle of the League of Canadian Poets) turned out to be decent people. And I must also add that a few People’s Poets turned out to be complete jerks. In short: bad people can write good poetry and good people can write bad poetry.

Again, these are simply facts. Make of them what you will.


Fraternally,

. . . James

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Conrad DiDiodato has left a new comment on your post "Deahl/Faiers & DiDiodato discussions on People's P...":

James,

the academic is generally unfavourable to the people's poet (as I've discovered) for two reasons: 1. academics don't write or don't encourage anyone to write til they've been vetted and approved by the right'committees' or 'review boards' and then university presses who round out the process (I ask you, Who would ever have published Silliman's monstrosity of book of poems titled "the Alphabet" if not the Alabama Press to which, of course, Silliman is attached via his 'review board' friends Bernstein and Lazer?)I've always maintained that the academics and, in Canada, the arts funding regime, have virtually monopolized publication in the arts.

2. academics who happen to teach writing, working in cahoots with the academic publishing industry, create instant ready-made audiences (in the form of their own classes)for their own published goods. Academics can't publish under any other more normal conditions--let's face it, who's going to read an academic's dull droning prose if they don't have to?-- It's for this reason I detest Kootenay-style writing regimes since academics posing as litterateurs create a need for the services only they can provide (It's sort of like the iPhone user's addiction to Apps: without them the addiction to instant texting and networking can't be fed).

I also maintain that the academics are directly responsible for the terrible state of poetry in Canada. This conclusion follows directly from the above-mentioned two observations re: academic presses. If the public isn't the final arbiter of taste, and the academic has free rein to do whatever they wish in their classes,the type of poetry that 'sells' and will be published in mainstream mags will always tend to be wildly experimental, elitist and anti-communal.



Posted by Conrad DiDiodato to Riffs & Ripples from ZenRiver Gardens at 8 July 2012 16:57

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July 11, 2012


Dear Chris and Chase,


Thank you for sending the Umbrella. Nice piece on AcornFest.


Have you seen the Jeff Seffinga definition of People’s Poetry? If not, here it is:


"Milton Acorn's poetry defines the People's Poetry Tradition. Subtle in his emotions, his power and directness come from the images drawn from everyday island life. Dedicated to the class struggle, Acorn peopled his poems with working men and women of the visage of Canada, and paid unceasing tribute to their suffering, their humble crafts and their utter reliability. With an authentic working-class voice, Acorn's poetry reflects the uncanny ability to replicate the nuance and cadence of everyday speech so that the delicacy of his imagery is also fraught with the wrath of hardship."


Fraternally,

. . . James

Sughi's "Stabat Mater"

"How can I see right

        if the world sees right"

                   (Frank Samperi)

Alone with the ol' cupful of ossa, the ol' saintly
 lacrima of the numb inconsolable, weary you--

who used to pray with beak uplifted, our own
leggy mary but always lamenting the effects of

prayer that lagged, the tight bright dimple, gone!
Of course, what did you expect who clumped

at the cross and the pasty hip (with no arms now
to divide  you from the pain of that rigid child,

if they could) and saw that the lips were a plant's
hollow spur, to ward off the bees? Yes, the next

time you go rushing up to see, drippy and dodgy
with sin (like all of us), recall the cup half-bone,

half-tear. Why sad at another of life's passing kinks!
He'll soon be brought down for purpling like you

Dagny (the 2nd most adorable literary character)

Dagney Taggart and the Comet

If not the dearest it's the one thing she'd brayed the most for,
    to be worker and queen, and more than that,
    cute in a chartreuse skirt:

Dagny, you and an ore mine and a truncheon's length of will--
    a sweet girl, a hard girl--with hair (as I'd imagined)
    slanting wryly from right to left

    aching to be kissed

I know happy or in chains she'd flowered from the stings, and the
    face, wrist & legs a while longer would gladly turn
    swelling to any faithless Hank,

    and all for that damn line

As near to a crown and a frown as it gets, but she's a lot more
    Blue-green bracelet on, Miss Dagny's got lot smarter
    from sex (every rail loosens & dies

    without it) who leans over her desk,

brow oped wide, to watch every fire 'long the Oregon coast

Happy Canada Day!

My favourite Canadian once said, "Our hopes are high. Our faith in the people is great. Our courage is strong. And our dreams for the beautiful country will never die." (Pierre Elliott Trudeau)

Happy Canada Day!


Canada--
bass in the deep end