VRZHU bullets of pure love

Tuesday potpourric miscellany

Tuesday snuck up on me this week, so here's . . .

a link to a v. nice mention of the City Paper article on Vrzhu, No Tell Books, and Big Game Books from all the way up in Boston at the Pshares Blog.

a quote:

If I have an idea for a poem, nothing will stop me.  If I don’t have an idea for a poem, nothing will start me.

The poem’s purpose is often rhythmical, it is often the ear that determines it.

I’m, I suppose, a kind of secret semi-formalist, in the sense that I love the visual part of poems, I love how they look on the page, so very often I like to see the actual pattern on the page -- three lines per stanza, four lines, or whatever.  The thing that bothers me about the idea of form is that people always talk about it as if it only had to do with counting syllables and rhyming at the end of the line.

-Dennis O’Driscoll, in coversation with Thomas Lynch

A random picture:

Election fonts:  Here. and here:

A virtual puffin tour.

Mjólkursoðinn lundi.

The Norwegian Puffin Hound:

Due to their inaccessible nesting locations, the puffins are difficult to catch in any quantity. The Lundehund, however, was able to scrabble up cliffs and crawl into caves, hauling out the puffins for their owners.

The Lundehund is a polydactyl canine. The Lundehund has six toes rather than four. The extra toes are not vestigial, but fully formed, jointed and muscled. The Lundehund uses the extra toes to gain traction on steep, slippery cliff ledges and for gripping as it hauls itself along in positions where only the sides of its legs are touching the rock, a fairly common occurrence while maneuvering through crevices and narrow caves when puffins roost.

The Lundehund is extraordinarily flexible with unusual joint mobility. Its forelegs can bend outwards far enough for the dog to lay flat on its chest, with the legs in an approximation of the human arm position. The neck and spine are flexible enough for the dog to lay its head back along its own spine.

The last of the Lundehund's adaptions is its ear structure. Normally held upright and pricked, the Lundehund can seal its own ears shut by bending them either forward or backward. The tip of the ear can be pricked separately, allowing the dog to use its ears effectively, while still only exposing a tiny, mostly covered space. This ability saves the dog from getting rock dust and water into its ears as it wedges itself through the caves.

January 30th birthdays:

Richard Brautigan

We tend not to take Brautigan too seriously these days, and perhaps we do him an injustice. Most of his poems were slight, but that's true of a lot of poems, so what? And certainly they and his other writing are infused below the surface with anxiety, death, unavoidable change. And TFiA holds up, as does In Watermelon Sugar. IWS was part of my adolescent discovery of poetic prose and prose poems: Anais Nin, Rimbaud's and Baudelaire's prose poems, Miguel Serrano, Rilke's Lay of the Love and Death of Cornet Christopher Rilke, and etc.  The library of unpublished books in The Abortion certainly finds plenty of purchase with poets, who, if you take everyone writing poetry, must have a very high ratio of unpublished to published works. I find it hard to judge Brautigan, who thought of himself as in a line with the Beats, and did not (like Kerouac) care much for the movement and thought of the 60's. But of course, as the Big Lebowski says, "the bums lost" and Brautigan was left on the battlefield in many ways.  The most people are willing to say is that he was a big influence on them when they were young and they have retained their fondness for him.  Do poets under, say, 35 have any respect, thought, or attachment to him?  I wonder.

The back cover of Trout Fishing In America had only the word "Mayonnaise" in white letters on a solid red background. It used to be a tradition to flirt in coffee shops by showing someone the back cover from far away and then refusing to explain which I think fits in with my feeling that back then we thought and hoped Brautigan would have some cachet as a courtship prop (those covers!), and we would be more attractive for our knowledge and display of RB. Some.

Did you know that . . .

Jack Spicer helped Brautigan with the final editing of Trout Fishing In America?

Robin Blaser helped Brautigan with a page by page final edit of In Watermelon Sugar?

Here's a poem, whose title makes at least the top 20 great poem titles in English:

All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace

I like to think (and
the sooner the better!)
of a cybernetic meadow
where mammals and computers
live together in mutually
programming harmony
like pure water
touching clear sky.

I like to think
(right now, please!)
of a cybernetic forest
filled with pines and electronics
where deer stroll peacefully
past computers
as if they were flowers
with spinning blossoms.

I like to think
(it has to be!)
of a cybernetic ecology
where we are free of our labors
and joined back to nature,
returned to our mammal
brothers and sisters,
and all watched over
by machines of loving grace.

Viddy This Well or Saturday Night Fervor

Our regular visitor to this blog may have noticed a trend of reliance, some might say over-reliance, on the embedding of youtubings as part of or the sole content of some blog entries.

While no doubt entertaining, these vids are a poor substitute for actual Vrzhu material. Worse still, this Vrzhu commentator has made a habit of using these moving pictures as a lazy way of getting out of putting in some actual work, a little elbow grease, the proverbial nose to the proverbial grindstone. 

No more.

In much the same way as I have pledged to update this blog every Tuesday, so I do now forswear the use of the youtubification of my duties here at the Vrzhu Bullets of Love blog.  Needless to say this is my own weakness and addiction I am overcoming here.

Howsoever.

There is still worthwhile content on Youtube that may be of interest to those for whom such content is interesting. So. I am instituting a new feature here at V.B.O.L. Every Saturday I will be showcasing a youtube video you may find to be somewhere on the spectrum from amusing to dazzling.

Here is the first in our new series, a "music video" (I believe you young people call it) of Astor Piazolla's Libertango performed by Greg Anderson and Elizabeth Joy Roe:

VRZHU in the City Paper

VRZHU is happy to note a nice bit of press.  After a great interview with Michael Gushue (or as he's known in our more Ramones-apeing moments, "Michael Vrzhu") The Washington City Paper Arts Editor Amanda Hess featured our efforts in a nice piece titled

"Pertinent Press: How does an upstart poetry publisher pass the bullshit test?"

I can only assume that our inclusion in the piece means we passed the test.  We were delighted to be included with two other great publishing stalwarts whose work we respect and admire, Reb Livington of No Tell Books and Maureen Thorson of Big Game Books. 

And yes, that would be our two mugs on the front page of the City Paper's website.  Nice photo props go to City Paper photographer Darrow Montgomery who managed to make us look earnest and bookish all at once.  I was so getting a crick in my neck from that photo-shoot.  Sadly he didn't take any of my "pouty lips" poses.

Now if you came to the site to see more of VRZHU, check out our fine books!
Kim Roberts' The Kimnama and Hiram Larew's More Than Anything are still available and the best way to begin the new year!  To read a sample from the books and to read the raves from reviewers visit the links above our our books page [here].

And if you're an Edgar Guest disciple here to express your thunderous outrage at Michael Vrzhu's slams on the venerable home-loving poet, leave a comment too.

Robert Frost vs. Hungarian Cuisine

Why is Vrzhu blogging a recipe today?

Well, there is precedent. But that is insufficient.

So, by way of justification. . .

“Jay Parini, a Frost scholar and professor at Middlebury College, also described the difficulty of reading Frost’s “chicken scrawlish” handwriting.” 

–from “Editing of Frost Notebooks in Dispute” By Motoko Rich - New York Times, Jan. 22, 2008 

We here at Vrzhu have been puzzling over the reference in the quote above to the traditional Hungarian dish, Chicken Scrawlish.  Perhaps Mr. Parini was giving a tip of the hat to Hungary as one of the great producers of world-class poets, far in excess of larger countries, with a respect for and tradition of poetry comparable to, say, Ireland? Or is he referring to the rumor that, while in England, Frost was able to employ an immigrant Hungarian as a housekeeper for about a month in the fall of 1913, and afterwards Frost would sometimes make a folksy reference to her “chicken scrawlish?.”

This is indeed a riddle inside an enigma wrapped in a flour tortilla. But Vrzhu is in search of a key.

To start, here is an unpublished article from Gourmand Monthly we have obtained which sheds some light on the culinary trompe langue that is Chicken Scrawlish.

Chicken Scrawlish (Chicken Szcralís) – Originally a peasant dish from the Northern Medium Mountain region of northern Hungary, which is part of the Southern Carpathian Mountains of  southwestern Slovakia.  A dense stew that is formed into loaves for the winter, Chicken Scrawlish is undoubtedly the least popular dish in Hungary.  Georgi Mandi, a noted culinary archivist, has said that “if paprikash is considered the royalty of Hungarian cooking, then the concoction known as Chicken Scrawlish must be rated as Hungary’s failed apprentice pig herder. Famed Hungarian chef Egbert Esterhaszy concurs: “To a Hungarian, paprikash, sausage, poppy seed noodles—these all say “mother.” Chicken Scrawlish, on the other hand, says “idiot third cousin kept hidden from company in the root cellar.”

But generally, most Hungarians either deny the existence of a dish called Chicken Scrawlish, or vociferously insist that it is not Hungarian but Slovakian. At the same time Slovak citizens in the Carpathian mountains across the border from Hungary will swear that only a Hungarian would be able to eat a dish like chicken scrawlish. There are local city ordinances still extant stating that “persons found to have a loaf or block of Szcralis on their body or among their belongings will be fined 1,000 korunas.” 

These laws may have been an attempt to discourage “Scrawlishmen.” Because of the difficulties inherent in preparing Chicken Scrawlish, it became common for unemployed men or men who had fallen off their horses onto their heads to become itinerant Chicken Scrawlish vendors, or Scrawlishmen, going from farm to farm and village to village trying to trick the more slatternly wives into buying a jar of potted Scrawlish.  Often runners from one farm would speed ahead to the next farm to warn of the approaching Scrawlishman, so that an adequate supply of stones of sufficient heft could be gathered to throw at him.

Despite this, dedicated, perhaps foolhardy, foodies, inspired by culinary adventurers (such as Anthony Bordain) who sample puffin jerky, or warthog chitterlings, have been looking for a traditional recipe—or any recipe—for the infamous Chicken Scrawlish.

Recently, American investigatory cooks, Jack and Michelle Gurning, have interviewed several immigrants from the region, and found a recipe for the dish hidden in an old bible written in Hungarian. The recipe was on previously-used vellum and sandwiched between pages of the Book of Revelation.  The Gurnings, in their book, Into Thick Soup –  A Personal Account of Delight and Disaster Amongst the Wild Dishes of the Carpathians, provide their deciphered and translated rendition of the recipe.  Their only introductory description of Chicken Scrawlish is “a dish only H. P. Lovecraft could love. Or adequately describe.”

Chicken Scrawlish

One unplucked chicken, preferably dead.
16 oz rendered badger fat
4 oz dry-cured chicken liver
18 oz unhulled groats
2 teaspoons rock salt
2 teaspoons chopped baitfish, such as minnow
6 to 8 cups goat broth, or squirrel broth
1 cup chopped celery root
1 cup chopped sun-dried beet
1 cup chopped kohlrabi, root and leaves.
1/2 cup onion grass
4 oz juniper berries
1 teaspoon hot paprika
1 teaspoon devil’s parsley
¼ cup hyssop sour wine or hyssop white vinegar.
¼ cup woodruff jam

1. First, the chicken must be “saddled.” After gutting the bird, spatchcock it*, retaining the neck and head. Press it flat, pulling to extend the wings and legs as much as possible.

2. Place the spatchcocked chicken between the saddle and the horse, feathered side down (alternatively the chicken may be pressed between two goats).  After a three day ride** remove the chicken and soak in 5 gallons of water mixed with one cup of lye for at least 24 hours, making sure the neck and head of the chicken are draped over the side of the pot to vent properly.

3. Drain, rinse and dry the chicken.  At this point the feathers should have formed a fused  bed underneath the meat. Carefully peel back the feather bed from the chicken and discard some distance from any habitation.  The chicken should be tender and malleable at this point, translucent with a gelatinous consistency.

4. Soak the groats until tender. Soak the dry cured chicken livers until al dente and then grind finely along with the rock salt and chopped baitfish.

5. Drain the groats, put them into a large mixing bowl and add badger fat, celery root, sun-dried beet, kohlrabi, onion grass, juniper berries, hot paprika and devil’s parsley. Stir in the chicken liver mixture. Beat until the mixture is slightly glutinous. Stir in the goat or squirrel broth.

6. Force the chicken through a sieve into the groat mixture, taking care not to put your face or hands directly over the bowl.

7. Cover the bowl with wire mesh and a damp cloth and allow to ferment outside for about 1 hour.

8. Stir and pour into a large dutch oven.  Cook in a 325 degree oven for about 3 hours. If the Scrawlish dries out DO NOT add water! Discard immediately. Either start over or lead a Christian life.***

9. At this point the Chicken Scrawlish can be served as a stew, the so-called White Scrawlish.  It is customarily served on a bed of boiled nettles as a late supper after the men have returned home drunk.   

But typically, much larger amounts of Chicken Scrawlish were made and some of the scrawlish was “put up” in loaves.

For Chicken Scrawlish Loaf, or Black Scrawlish

10. Let the Scrawlish settle and then pour off as much of the top fluid as possible.

11. Turn the Scrawlish out onto a floured board and knead for about 20 minutes, alternately adding the Hyssop vinegar and Woodruff jam, until it is elastic and not too lumpy.  At this point the Scrawlish dough should be unpleasant to look at and touch. You can’t really get used to it. Form into a roughly loaf-shaped mass and place on a baking sheet you intend to discard afterwards.  Bake at 275 degrees for 12 hours in a very well-ventilated room.

12. Remove and allow the loaf to cool completely.  The loaf will keep indefinitely. Loaves were often passed down from generation to generation.

Serves all or none

Nutritional information: unknown.

To conclude, as the dish migrated down from the Carpathians into the plains and cities of Hungary, it was considerably tamed.  However, it retained its air of mystery as a “special” dish, and throughout most the 19th century the eating of it was considered a venal sin.

*To spatchcock a fowl: Place the bird breast side down on as clean a surface as you can find. Using a very sharp knife cut from the neck to the tail end along both sides of the backbone to remove. This takes some force. Make a small slit in the cartilage at the bottom end of the breast bone, then with both hands placed on the rib cage, crack open the bird by opening it, like a book, towards the cutting surface.  This will reveal the keel bone. Run you fingers up along wither side of the cartilage in between in between the breasts to loosen it from the flesh, then grab the keel bone and pull it up to remove it, along with the attached cartilage.  Flip over and smooth the skin.  The bird is now spatchcocked.

**Although a three day ride is sufficient for an authentic Chicken Scrawlish, Scrawlishes were often distinguished and rated by the length of time continuously “saddled.” In addition to this recipe of Three Day Scrawlish, there was Five Day Scrawlish, Eight Day Scrawlish, and for special occasions, Campaign Scrawlish, where the chicken was “saddled” for an entire military campaign or until the rider returned home.  This Scrawlish was also called “Funeral Scrawlish” or “Missing Limb Scrawlish.”

*** The exact meaning of this sentence in the original is in dispute. The original recipe continues: “Immediately start a novena for protection against the Unclean One. And spit thrice upon leaving or entering the house for the following week.” 

Tuesday Miscellanic Potpourri

First up, a borrowing of recent comics from the Savage Chickens web site of Doug Savage. I  urge  everyone to sign up  for the Savage Chickens e-mail, and to buy cool Savage Chicken stuff.  You'll feel  good about yourself.

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Next, an annoucement from our Research Bureau.

Many of our regular readers write in to ask us: "Dear Vrzhu Research Bureau, can you help me understand the current state of poetry in America today."

Dear reader, the answer is yes, the Vrzhu Research Bureau can help you understand today's current American poetry situation. But. An easy task this not is, we yoda in reply. To understand today, you must remember tomorrow, or as the poets say, The Past is Prolapse.

Luckily [for you], the VRB has already begun on a massive task of compiling a collated history of poetries in the last, i.e. 20th, century.  While this project is still in its formative stages, we'll provide you with a brief section at the macroscopic level:

History

In 1929, an English major organized a group of other English majors and started a gang called the School of Quietude. The Quietudes wanted to emulate a gang of older writers who had been involved in poetic activity since 1864 and provided minor poems for the British Empire. This gang was called the Victorians since they claimed their turf in Britain during the reign of Queen Victoria. Russ "Farmer" Jones, along with "Tookie" Andrews and several other gang members from the School of Quietude were fascinated with the hype of the Modernists and they wanted to develop School of Quietude into a larger force. The School of Quietude began using the name New Critics since members were involved in literary criticism and college teaching. Quietude members would wear blue scarves (now called bandannas) around their necks or heads.

In 1971, the use of the word ‘Poet’ had become so common among the Quietudes that it became an acceptable name for the gang. Meanwhile, a collection of young Quietude members influenced other area writers resulting in the formation of many Quietude sets. Some of these sets included Soft Surrealism Quiets, Imagist Quiets, New Formalist Quiets and Westside Quiets. Quietude gangs constantly expanded their turf, sponsoring prizes and book contests. Because of their aggression, several rival gangs joined forces as a gang collective called the Post-Avants. They initially adopted the motto ‘I Hate Speech’ as their representative theme. A fierce rivalry between these two gangs existed throughout the 1970's and 80's.

The Post Avants started as one of the San Francisco gangs and other urban areas. Their gang symbol is the new motto "Theory is content" spelled out with their hands. The Post Avants are made up of various sub-groups known as "schools" between which few significant differences are known to exist. Since their formation the Post Avant gangs have branched out throughout the United States, and have even influenced groups using similar techniques in Europe.

More to come. . . .

*    *    *    *    *

Finally, here's a sample from the back files:

poem and quote

Winter Retreat: Homage to Martin Luther King, Jr.

There is a hotel in Baltimore where we came together,
we black and white educated and educators,
for a week of conferences, for important counsel
sanctioned by the DOE and the Carter Administration,
to make certain difficult inquiries, to collate notes
on the instruction of the disabled, the deprived,
the poor, who do not score well on entrance tests,
who, failing school, must go with mop and pail
skittering across the slick floors of cafeterias,
or climb dewy girders o balance high above cities,
of, jobless, line up in the bone cold. We felt
substantive burdens lighten if we stated it right.
Very delicately, we spoke in turn. We walked
together beside the still waters of behaviorism.
armed with graphs and charts, with new strategies
to devise objectives and determine accountability,
we empathetic black and white shone in seminar rooms.
We enunciated every word clearly and without accent.
we moved very carefully in the alley of the shadow
of the darkest agreement error. We did not digress.
We ascended the trunk of that loftiest cypress
of Latin grammar the priests could never
successfully graft onto the rough green chestnut
of the English language. We extended ourselves
with that sinuous motion of the tongue that is half
pain and almost eloquence. We black and white
politely reprioritized the parameters of our agenda
to impact equitably on the Seminole and the Eskimo.
We praised diversity and involvement, the sacrifices
of fathers and mothers. We praised the next white
Gwendolyn Brooks and the next black Robert Burns.
We deep made friends. In that hotel we glistened
over the pommes au gratin and the poitrine de veau.
The morsels of lamb flamed near where we talked.
The waiters bowed and disappeared among the ferns.
And there is a bar there, there is a large pool.
Beyond the tables of the drinkers and raconteurs,
beyond the hot tub brimming with Lebanese tourists
and the women in expensive bathing suits doing laps,
if you dive down four feet, swim out far enough,
and emerge on the other side, it is sixteen degrees.
It is sudden and very beautiful and colder
than thought, though the air frightens you at first,
not because it is cold, but because it is visible,
almost palpable, in the fog that rises from difference.
While I stood there in that cheek-numbing snow,
all Baltimore was turning blue. And what I remember
of that week of talks is nothing the record shows,
but the relevation outside, which was the city
many came to out of fields, then the thought
that we had wanted to make the world kinder,
but, in speaking proudly, we had failed a vision.

Rodney Jones

. . . I am cognizant of the interrelatedness of all communities and states. I cannot sit idly by in Atlanta and not be concerned about what happens in Birmingham. Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly. Never again can we afford to live with the narrow, provincial "outside agitator" idea. Anyone who lives inside the United States can never be considered an outsider anywhere within its bounds.

Martin Luther King, Jr.

Fischer alone has looked on beauty bare

What does chess have to do with poetry? Well both benefit from memory, and thrive in an environment where tradition and innovation circle each other incessantly.  Also, both chess and poetry struggle with utilitarian versus sovereign teleologies.  What is poetry good for? Lots of things, or, on the other hand, only itself. Same with chess, though chess has been more successful at being promulgated under the utilitarian banner: it teaches you how to learn, it exercises the mental faculties, we teach it to inner city youth, etc. But of course chess, like poetry, is in some ways only about itself, yes?

Anyway, the marketplace and pedagogical niche for chess is thanks to a number of factors, but two most of all: First, chess has become the Drosophila of both cognitive science and, not coincidently, cybernetics.  Deep Blue, and brain mapping.

And, second, Bobby Fischer.

Not only did Fischer become the chess world champion (more on that in a minute) but he did something even more unlikely. He aroused the American public's interest in an intellectual, sedentary activity.  This is the equivalent of making stamp collecting sexy, popular and cool. And this is in addition to fundamentally changing the game of chess in many ways, both externally and internally.

And I don't think we can underestimate his accomplishment -- that Fischer defeated an entire organizational apparatus designed to keep him from winning the world chess championship. Yes, the Soviet chess magisterium had its inherent weaknesses -- but I don't think that was as such a great factor, and does not take away from what Fischer was able to accomplish. 

Probably because chess isn't the real world, Fischer will not be put on the same level as Einstein or Godel. But I think that he is their equal. Fischer's games are as beautiful, elegant and exciting as Einstein's relativity papers, or Godel's theorem. Here's  a glimpse of Fischer from an old  NYT magazine article:

Bobby Fischer's chess memory, for example, is formidable. In 1971, I interviewed him in New York just after he had returned from winning a chess tournament in Buenos Aires, becoming the challenger for Boris Spassky's title. In his previous candidates' matches, he had beaten the Soviet Union's Mark Taimanov by a score of 6-0, and had followed that by absolutely pulverizing Bent Larsen, the Great Dane, by another 6-0 whitewash. Taimanov I could understand. He was not in Fischer's league. But Larsen! That Danish player was the strongest in the West, aside from Fischer himself. Nobody can take Larsen by a 6-0 score. I asked him how he did it.

''Well,'' Fischer said, ''you have to know that Larsen is a romantic. He likes wild positions. He likes to throw you off with crazy moves. Another thing about Larsen. If he wins the first few games, he is unbeatable. He gets this confidence, you know, and you can't beat him. But if he loses the first few games, he loses confidence and sort of folds up.

''Anyway,'' said Fischer, ''we started our first game and around the 10th move he threw something at me. He figured to catch me by surprise. But when I looked at the position, I remembered it was something that Steinitz had tried against Lasker in the 1894 championship match. If I hadn't known that position, I might have spent a lot of time figuring it out and maybe I couldn't even have done it on my clock. But once I saw the position, I remembered that I had once analyzed it, and I knew Larsen was dead. When I played the right move, Larsen knew that I knew, and he lost the game and also the next five.''

''How about a game?'' I asked. He was amused. I grabbed the white pieces, not even giving him the chance to draw for color - what the hell, he was Bobby Fischer - and played a Queen's Gambit. It was the best game I ever have played. I held out for about 30 moves, and when I resigned, it was with flags flying and bands playing ''The Stars and Stripes Forever.'' I went down with honors. The game took about 15 minutes, of which 14 were mine. He would move instantly, with a bored look on his face.

''Know what was interesting about this game?'' he asked. No, I didn't. ''Up to the 19th move, it was an exact duplicate of a game I played against Mecking in Brazil nine years ago. You and Mecking both played the same 19th move, and it looks natural, but it loses in all variations. Let me show you.'' Fischer swept the board clean, instantly set up the complicated 19th-move position and showed me six variations in a row proving why White must lose.

There is no controversy that Fischer's games are anything other than masterpieces. In the muddier realm of poetry, there is little of the same universal agreement. Pound's Cantos are great. Or they're a big con job. And the same with anyone else's oeuvre you care to put forward. Perhaps this is because poetry is a bigger world than chess.  I'm open to suggestions on this. I would guess that there is unanimity on the rules of chess, but the rules of poetry, or even if there are rules, is less unarguable.

Would that there was a ranking system for poets, and a patzer could be called a patzer objectively.  Of course this prospect is as terrifying is it is seductive, and perhaps also wrong-headed.  Maybe what makes poetry an art is the same thing that prevents such a ranking:

I had  hardly begun to read
I asked how can you ever be sure
that what you  write is really
any good at all and he said you can't

you can't you can never be sure
you die without knowing
whether anything you wrote was any good
if you have to be sure don't write

- from Berryman, by W.S. Merwin

Both poetry and chess can become all-absorbing in the way that any pattern-making that exceeds our comprehension does.  Perhaps a day will come when Deep Feelin' Blue will defeat our most McArthur Awardish versifiers. . . .

Snark: The New Poetry Month Poster

So the American Academy of Poets has announced the release of this year's Poetry Month poster. 

And it's a snoozer. 

As the official press release describes it:

"Red letters set in flight to spell "National Poetry Month" are the centerpiece of this bold poster. The image is anchored by two cupped hands."

"this bold poster"   

Really?

Yeah.  This is pretty bold. 

Bold like the "Got Milk" posters are bold.  Bold like the Dakota Fanning says READ posters.  Actually, the Dakota Fanning poster is more interesting than this job.  Dakota Fanning is at least an interesting person holding up Charlotte's Web and maybe someone out there in the target audience might think, "Wow, if the girl from "Man on Fire" and "War of the Worlds" is into Charlotte's Web, it might be a good read." 

I won't even get into the absolute lack of imagination on font-choice on this thing.  Let's just consider its express purpose:

How the hell does this inspire someone to go pick up a book of poetry?  How the hell does this inspire someone to go hear poetry for that matter.  Seriously.  This is the tamest, least imaginative advert I've seen in a while.  I can only imagine that deference for the lowest common-denominator, least offensive, middling banality was the call since these posters are going to be on the bulletin boards of classrooms across America.  But seriously, is this the best they could come up with?  This was the work of the folks at "SpotCo", who the press release bills as:

[the] New York City agency responsible for the lion’s share of poster designs for Broadway’s most popular shows. These include RENT, Chicago, and Avenue Q.

I can only imagine ticket sales for "NATIONAL POETRY MONTH" if this were the poster.  I'm thinking a very very limited run.

Aesthetically it's such a boring piece of work. 

This doesn't have to be.  The American Academy has done great work before.  Consider last year's poster with a really clever pixilated Whitman.  It was both classy and cutting edge.  Certainly more interesting then the flyaway letters of this year's effort.

What does this year's poster look like to you?

Here are my ideas:

• Help!  My letters are floating away!!
• Please sir.  Can I have some more red letters?
• Dismembered hands profit from the Poetry Foundation's novel program of sprinkling letters from zeppelins flying over the city.

Winter is icumen in . . . NOT

Missing the snow?  It's a bit chillier today but having spent the last week in - - not Christmas in July - - but April Fool's Day in January, it's no wonder you have a hankering for Jack the Frost.

So . . . get yourself some snow here.

Not had enough yet?  There's more here, and, not to put too fine a point on it, HERE.

And here's a reason not to miss it too much (I suspect Ez resented the London winter for ruining his couture as much as for inducing the ague):

Winter is icumen in,
Lhude sing Goddamm,
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
And how the wind doth ramm!
Sing: Goddamm.
Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,
An ague hath my ham.
Damm you; Sing: Goddamm.
Goddamm, Goddamm, 'tis why I am, Goddamm,
So 'gainst the winter's balm.
Sing goddamm, damm, sing goddamm,
Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM.

-Ezra Pound

Music + Poetry = ?

So what about music and poetry?  Two great tastes that go great together? Or the dehydration of sugar by adding sulphuric acid?

New York TImes article here (log in required, dude) about former US Poet Laureate Robert Pinsky and current PLOTUS Charles Simic reading at an event called "Music And Poetry." Only one poem read simultaneously with music being played, though.

All well and good.  You could conclude that while serious poets can have a love of music, like, frinstance, jazz as in R.P. and C.S. above, and they even don't mind alternating music and poems, the two (music and poems) are not to go together. Does one upstage the other?

In the moviewelt, Robert Bresson rarely used music in his movies, based on his opinions about film and his theories -- music was a betrayal or distraction or cheating and diluted the meaning of the image. In the poetry world, Bill Knott diatribes against music itself as a fascist and militaristic art.

And of course most famously Beat poets and before them Kenneth Rexroth read their poems as music was being played.

So, next, here in DC, this upcoming event from the Musica Viva, recreating the Weary Blues Project that put poems by  Langston Hughes with the music of Charles Mingus. I'd say this is a not-to-be-missed event. No qualms here about mixing together the two muses.

Also, Coleman Barks often reads his translations, or versions, of Rumi with music, and argues that this is how they were originally presented.  There's a nice moment in Fooling With Words (there's an ambiguous title for ya -- Fooling who with words?) where Barks reads this poem with the Paul Winter Consort playing:

Jars of Springwater

Jars of springwater are not enough
anymore. Take us down to the river!

The face of peace, the sun itself.
No more the slippery cloudlike moon.

Give us one clear morning after another
and the one whose work remains unfinished,

who is our work as we diminish, idle,
though occupied, empty, and open.

by Jelaluddin Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks

...which Barks reads twice. Quite lovely, but not something I think you could get away with sans music, though I have a vague memory of some poet reading his poems twice because he was sure -- and said -- that the listeners hadn't been paying enough attention the first time and weren't capable of getting it until the second go round. Who was that?

BUT NOT THIS: