Some Recent Verses

Last night, after too long of an absence, I returned to an Inspired Word open mic. My contribution to a great evening of talent was a pair of poems, the second of which was "Anticipation." This piece, making its performance debut that evening, is one of my most recent compositions. 

Enjoy.

Anticipation

A glass filling gradually

Is how I demonstrate discretion

Before gulping,

Giddy for some tickling sensation.

But, no need to worry,

I’m alright,

Let’s have another. Slower. More preamble.

Swing that shaker one more time.

Again.

I’m patient,

I have nowhere else to be tonight,

Just here, with you, so pour another.

And another.

Steady hand, careful now,

I glimpse stray drops,

Overflowing, trickling down your bare arm–

Tempt not, waste not,

My fingers gently brush your skin,

A tease for

That perfect moment (perfect excuses).

Another round,

My lips denied their true desire:

Are we on to the good stuff yet? 

Photo by Creighton Blinn

 

Forms of Fiction

Good fiction does not date, which is good for those of us woefully behind on our New Yorker reading. Last week, I was rummaging through that unruly stack of back issues living under my coffee table when I came across one of their "deluxe" issues (i.e. twice as many ads combined with roughly the same amount of content). These editions are often organized around a theme, which in this case was "Science Fiction." Those of you playing along at home can locate your own copy wherever you stashed your issues from July, 2012. Yep, nearly a year a ago. So, as I said, good thing that quality fiction does not date, right? During the course of the week, I made my way through the majority of the issue's contents, and can say that it was overall a strong collection of pieces. (I still have one fiction piece to finish, but, unless Mr. Diaz bungles his ending, I think that it's safe to include his work among the highlights). On another day, I might ramble on a little on China Mieville's defense of genre, but instead I would like to say a few words about Jennifer Egan's contribution.

Summer is usually a very hectic time of year for me, but, still, I am not sure how I would have missed the news that Egan was releasing a new short story via Twitter. I would think that such an announcement would have been (arts section) headline generating. Perhaps it was and it simply happened the week I was on vacation, not paying much attention to the news. Regardless, it flew under my radar. Thus, I unknowingly consigned the print verision of this spectulative tale to the limbo of my "to-read" pile.

This is not the first time that Egan has attempted to create a new form for fiction. One of the final chapters of her fabulous novel A Visit from the Goon Squad is written from the perspective of a young person in the near future. Here the story is told more through graphs and charts, literally drawing connections between characters, than through the conventional building blocks of sentences and paragraphs. It is an intriguing experiment, as well as commentary on how social media and smartphones are changing language, but one that does feel as though it could be self-containing. As one part of a larger tapestry it works; however, I have doubts that it could be sustained for an entire novel.

Egan's Twitter tale "Black Box," on the other hand, feels much more successful. Each tweet is the equivalent of a paragraph, with these tweets being grouped together in numbered sections which resemble chapters, or more aptly, stanzas. The narrative focuses on a woman (again in the not too distant future) using her beauty to investigate violent men of dubious incomes. Exactly what criminal activities these men are engaged in is never directly stated, though my inference is terrorism. Business transactions are referred to, as well as the goal of following the money trail, but every cell, no matter how remote, does require fundraising. What is clear is that the unnamed protagonist is a government employee, a "citizen agent," who is often reminded of her patriotic duty.

We also know that she is American. One of the more striking passages of the piece explains a new theory of the self, which is not centered around individual accomplishment, but, instead, the common good. "In the new heroism, the goal is to dig beneath your shiny persona." Many are surprised by what they find through this process, comparing the expansion of awareness to "a dream in which a home acquires new wings and rooms." In the past, individuals sought personal glory, only to make themselves weak in the process, defenseless to those who would do them harm. However, these new citizen agents have learned to use these expectations to their advantage and turn the tables on their adversaries. "Now our notorious narcissism is our camouflage."

This passage is also a good example of how Egan succeeds in her project. Each unit of thought might be compact (it is hard to imagine a writer like Saramago on Twitter), yet still able to convey not only practical information (the tools of an agent), but evocative imagery and social commentary as well. It does what all of the best writing, regardless of form, does: it bewitches you with words, a steady rhythm, leaving you feeling something after you have put down the piece.

Is this a vision of the future, the shape of stories yet to come? Maybe. It is definitely another tool that authors can add to their kit, another form that they can poke around at. Will there be imitators? I'm sure there already have been (remember I am behind the curve on this one). Would I read a whole novel written in this manner? Yes, I would. Reading the story I thought of the older, now mostly abandoned form of the verse novel. As I hinted above, I feel that this is the best comparison to how Egan manipulates the restrictions of Twitter in her piece. Tweets become the equivalent of lines in a poem, her numbered sections the same as a stanza. In both poetry and Twitter there are conventions, rules to which the writer must conform. Both require an economy of words, a stress on the perfectly turned phrase. Something both pithy and evocative is expected by the reader. Would I wish every author to follow this example? No more than I would desire that every novel be written like Eugene Onegin, or every drama to be constrained by the same metric structures of Shakespeare or Moliere. Like I said, what Egan offers the reader is an intriguing glimpse at how future writers might manipulate language in new and thoughtful ways.

Or, for the time being, we could simply enjoy the story according to the more old-fashioned and timeless standard of a captivating tale well told.

Cheers. 

Verses after a Storm

I woke on Tuesday with a poem in my head. It was the morning after Hurricane Sandy made landfall, and I was relieved to discover that I had been spared the worst of the storm. The power was on, water was flowing, and both my partner and I were safe in our home. I know that many others were much less fortunate, and that, as I write this, too many are still lacking basic necessities. For them, returning to normal shall take longer. I am thankful for my good luck, and offer these verses from my perspective:

The Sensation of Subtle Sounds

I awake to a variety of subtle sounds:

A hammer tapping,

Tires gliding over damp streets,

While footfalls trod upon the sidewalk,

And from some nearby, though uncertain location,

Soft organ music surfaces.

Eventually, the more obtrusive voice of a leaf blower joins the mix

Along the front walk,

Another sign of moving on,

A partial return, at least, to a routine of daily life.

But most reassuring

(As it has been throughout the storm)

Is the sensation of your warm body

Wrapped tightly in my loving embrace . . . 

*      *     *

Best wishes to all . .  .

photo by creighton blinn, all rights reserved

 

Violent Entertainments & Hungry Games

Yesterday I finished reading Suzanne Collins' The Hunger Games, which I thought was quite good. Collins has crafted strong, intriguing characters, and placed them in a believable fictional world. As I have two more volumes of the series to go, I shall keep my speculation on further developments to myself for the moment, though I shall say that I am eager to see what happens next. Also, I hope to keep this post free from spoilers.

So, instead of plot mechanics, I would like to touch upon theme this afternoon. For those unfamiliar with the narrative, it revolves around a future society in what was once termed "North America." In the aftermath of a crushed social revolution, the elite have instituted an annual competition (the titular Games) in which 24 youngsters between the ages of twelve and eighteen are tossed into the wilderness and manipulated into killing each other. The last remaining survivor wins. This contest is broadcast live throughout the nation for the great pleasure of well-off city folk and to the poorer classes as a reminder of their utter subservience. For the benefit of both audiences, the more bloody and harrowing the competition, the better.

One of the reasons this book works is that Collins gets the tone right. It is, after all, a fine line to write a critique of violence as entertainment without your story becoming entertaining violence itself. Collins' keeps her story dark, never portraying her main characters reveling in any of their kills. When death happens it is quick and usually gruesome. This is not violence that has been sanitized for your protection. What is extra chilling is imagining all the citizens of the nation's posh Capital sitting around their living rooms, munching on snacks (popcorn anyone?), laughing and simply having a jolly good time watching all the maiming. Roman gladiators are clearly one reference, as are more contemporary sports and pastimes -- even someone who has viewed as little reality television as myself can pick up on the tropes riffed on by the packaged presentation of the Games to the populace. It would seem once again that from the Coliseum to today to the future there is precious little alteration in human nature.

Which leads me to the fact that somehow this story has been turned into a "major motion picture." I do not believe that there exists an "unfilmable" book, though some offer more challenges than others. What Collins merely described in her novel must now be rendered into moving images. In the process, the filmmakers have to find a way not only to maintain the balanced edge of Collins' narrative in their screenplay, but also transfer that tone to the screen. In other words, for this movie to work, in my mind, it should disgust the viewer. The violence should make your stomach turn, sicken you. Like the novel, there should be no catharsis in the kill, even if it saves a beloved character's life. This is not the type of story to elicit an audience reaction of "oh man, did you see how the spear just pierced her throat like that? Awesome!" If it is, well then, what's the difference between you and the citizens of the Capital placing bets on these young kids and hoping that this year's bloodbath will be even more thrilling than the previous?

This is not to say that violence cannot be entertaining (I read superhero comics, OK?), but that I feel it is the wrong tone for this particular story and the message its author wishes to convey. It is also true that intentions and reception are two different things (i.e. those viewers who somehow thought that A Clockwork Orange was a fun film worth imitating).

While reading the book, my mind was brought back to Peter Watkins' film Punishment Park. Made in the early 1970s, the British director imagines an America where political dissidents (read leftists & hippies) are arrested for sedition. They are given the option of prolonged prison sentences or a short stay in "Punishment Park." The park, as it turns out, is a dessert that they must cross (without supplies) in order to win their freedom. Only, it slowly dawns on the viewer that the whole thing is a set up, as National Guard troopers start killing them off one by one. It is a highly brutal and disturbing movie, yet also the closest example I could think of what I believe a Hunger Games film should resemble.

Not that Hollywood would let anyone like Peter Watkins near a property with as much profit potential as this one. Nope, instead we get Gary Ross. Gary Ross? The guy who made Pleasantville, a film that copped-out at any & every opportunity at nuance? A film that refused to truly challenge the audience or ask of it any question for which the filmmakers did not have a ready-made pat answer? A movie that avoided addressing any real issue of how actions have their consequences, both good and bad? This is the director to whom they've entrusted the book? Sorry, I'll pass. (At least they didn't find some way to cast Tobey Maguire in this one. Come on, you know that he auditioned for Thresh . . . :)).

As I said at the beginning, I have only just finished book one of the trilogy, and apologize if anything I have written is contradicted by the following two volumes. (Though, if they are, please be kind and do not respond to this post in such a way that spoils them for me. Thanks). I feel as though I have a sense where Collins is headed and that "the center shall not hold." Oh wait, I said that I would avoid second-guessing the author at this stage . . .

Cheers

Postscript, 3-22-12: So, I was on the subway yesterday, reading Catching Fire as part on my morning commute, when it suddenly occurred to me who should have been handed the job of adapting The Hunger Games: Alfonso Cuaron. The man has experience adapting children's/young adult literature (A Little Princess, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban). The latter film also demonstrated that he can deliver profits on a big-budget fanchise Event -- gotta keep the accountants happy, you know?  At the same time, he has shown an ability to see into the more complicated aspects of young psyches (Y Tu Mama Tambien). Most importantly, there is Children of Men. One of the reasons I have always admired this film is the starkness of Cuaron's presentation of violence; it is sudden, often short, and always harrowing. In other words, just how I would imagine that The Hunger Games should be faithfully handled on screen, especially now that I have a glimpse of where the second book is going (only a little over a hundred pages into it so far). True, Cuaron has had his misses (though, if the only good thing that came out of his Great Expectations is Pulp's song "Like a Friend", well, then that whole movie might have worth it anyhow). Still, maybe, if I cross my fingers long enough The Powers that Be will give Senor Cuaron a chance at Catching Fire. One can hope at any rate . . .

I have yet to read any of the advanced reviews of the Hunger Games film, so it is always possible that my pessimism shall be proven wrong. We'll find out soon enough . . .

Cheers.

Video of Some Summer Verses



photo by creighton blinn
all rights reserved



A few weeks back, I read my poem "Day after May Day" at DDAY Productions' Summer Solstice celebration at the Yippie Cafe in Manhattan. We had a few difficulties that evening, though, as they say, the show did go on, thanks in large part to our hosts Puma Pearl and Big Mike (you can hear him for a moment when I exit the stage). As it turned out, however, this was DDAY's last event at the Yippie; the series is moving to the Bowery Poetry Club starting in August, and I know I am looking forward to the new home . . .

In addition, not only did my nestmate, TC, deliver a superb featured performance, but, she also served as model for the photo at left. Thanks, TC.

Thanks also to videographer, Joe Coppa for sticking it out with us throughout the reading. 

So, enjoy the video, and, as always, feel free to let me know what you think.    

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fhL2XTi9DQ0

Cheers.

Saturday's Poem (Set at Twilight)

Sorry that I've been away, but the time has gotten away from me of late. I have been productive, however, both reading & writing poetry, as well as inching forward on a play. On Monday I debuted a recent poem at the Yippie Cafe, and am posting it here for my readers on this gray-skied Saturday in Brooklyn. Enjoy.

Twilight’s Dance

For a moment,

You may own the setting sun,

As you hold your beloved in your arms,

Experiencing waves

Of high & low

Streaming through you as the light

Gleams past the window pane,

The CD shifting from staccato morbidity

Into a lush romanticism,

You lay in bed

Drying tears

And savoring how now,

After all those stumbling attempts of the past,

Everything finally feels right,

Converging on this moment

That you know is pure luck

That can never be repeated exactly as it is:

Enfolding both past and present

As well as the promises of the future,

The good that shall come out of us,

Flowing from this twilight’s dance.

In Honor of the First of May



Photo by creighton blinn,
all rights reserved



 . . . and as there is not enough room in this apartment for constructing a Maypole, I thought that I would observe the holiday with some verses. I did write something new this morning, however, it's still in revisions. So, for now, we'll need to make do with a piece I wrote last year. Regardless, I feel that it fits well with the occasion:

Momentum

Hearts beating quicker

And arms gripping tighter,

Our moist lips clasping,

Drawing us closer,

Pulling me further,

Filling all available space

As boundaries melt

Along warm wetness

Welcoming, guiding,

Voices gasping,

Trembling,

In the heat of passion,

Bursting . . .

Cheers all. 

Poem/Painting Pairing

I have some more verses for you this evening. Tonight's piece has been previously published in the Irish journal Census. The poem runs as follows:

My Aunt Asleep

My Aunt is a rather proper woman:

Her hair always so neatly coiffed

That every strand stays in its prescribed place,

Matching the distinct modesty of her dress,

Plain garments of perhaps a generation ago,

Which declare her a lady

Uninterested in all that “nonsense,”

A verdict proclaimed in that voice of calm reason

With which she so typically speaks.

Yet if you observed her in her slumbers,

You might glimpse a hint of something else:

Visions haunting her senses,

Filling her mind with wild thoughts

Of caution tossed to the wind,

Reveling in the charm and humor of that old family friend,

Dear Mr. Reynolds,

Who no longer acts the pure gentleman,

My Aunt no longer holding her tongue,

Or acting in decorum,

Her body shifting restlessly in her sleep,

A smile spreading across her face,

Signs which will immediately vanish

Upon the light of dawn . . .

*   *   *

I often find my inspiration within a diverse set of disciplines, including the graphic arts; indeed, one of the projects I am working on at the moment draws from seventeenth century painting and sculpture. The specific spark in this case was a figure from a more recent century: James Ensor. I shall confess that I first met Mr. Ensor through a They Might be Giants song (more interdisciplinary overlay). However, the more I have seen of his art over the years (especially superb shows at the Drawing Center & MoMA this past decade), the more my fondness for the artist has grown. This poem came out of my first of two visits to MoMA's exhibition in 2009. There is also a second piece from, you guessed it, my return trip to the galleries, though, while I have been working at it again, the poem still has not been revised into an entirely satisfactorily form. As for "My Aunt Asleep," I do not claim that it is either "about" or an explanation of Ensor's drawing, as much as an articulation of the images that his picture conjured in my mind . . .

James Ensor, My Aunt Asleep Dreaming of Monsters, c1890

 . . . still, I do believe that the theme of repression/duality is common enough in his output to link together the two pieces. 

Cheers.