Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

Gelynion: Emily Blewitt & Rebecca Parfitt

Emily Blewitt and Rebecca Parfitt’s collaboration for Gelynion – Enemies Cymru. Published in our Spring 2016 Issue.

Review: The Whitsun Wedding Video

The Whitsun Wedding Video by Jeremy Noel-Tod (Rack Press, 2015) reviewed by Dai George.

 

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What do Pam Ayres, R.S. Thomas and Frances Leviston have in common? Not the set-up to a bad joke overheard at the T.S. Eliot Prize ceremony, but a question I pondered as I read ‘A Mug’s Game’ (subtitle: ‘The Modern Poetry Career’), the third chapter in Jeremy Noel-Tod’s invigorating pamphlet, The Whitsun Wedding Video, a zippy tour d’horizon of the contemporary British scene. All three are poets, of course, but beyond that I’d struggle to imagine three more starkly triangulated figures in the history of modern verse.

The more nuanced answer – and one that it took someone with Noel-Tod’s specialised antennae to detect – is that they all have a varyingly acquiescent relationship with commerce and self-promotion. Ayres sold out to a frozen food company, lending her ‘good-humoured doggerel to the animated story of a flying potato’; less willingly, one suspects, Thomas had his likeness filched by a posh crisp manufacturer after his death. At the far end of the spectrum, Leviston is called upon to provide evidence that a certain ‘dignity of intellectual independence is something that the uncommercial career of poetry still offers the serious-minded’. Turning down various invitations to take part in high-profile industry promotions, Leviston has stood her ground. In a recent article, cited by Noel-Tod, she argues ‘that one need not be appointed to one’s own life: that no sanctioning government, no official position, is required for the business of taking oneself seriously, in whatever sense seems right’.

This omnivorous, scattershot approach is both the joy and the frustration of The Whitsun Wedding Video. To start with frustration, I find the slide from Ayres to Leviston – which happens across two brief pages – clever, and funny, but glib. It elides two connected but separate matters: first, the barefaced shilling that poets might do for advertising companies (a moral crisis many more poets would love to face, I’m sure) and second, the more insidious culture of networking, commissions, prize circuits, promotions and mutual blurbing that undoubtedly compromises almost everyone in the British poetry mainstream these days. Only one of these types of artistic compromise has anything much to do with what Noel-Tod calls elsewhere – with mordant precision – ‘the etiquette of the modern poetry career’. It isn’t the type that may lead to a lifetime’s supply of potato-based convenience food.

Joking apart, I have genuine doubts about whether Noel-Tod’s own jokey style – moreish and enjoyable though it is – can do justice to the bigger arguments it attempts. In the Ayres-Thomas-Leviston example, he ends up crowding out the composure and challenge of Leviston’s words, ushering her too swiftly offstage with that condescending epithet ‘serious-minded’. This is strange because Noel-Tod comes at poetry from an avowedly modernist angle, skewering the bluff, matey parochialism of recent British verse – the popular sort, that is – in favour of ‘stronger, stranger drink’ like J.H. Prynne and Geoffrey Hill. He seems to be on Leviston’s side, in other words, though he clambers into the Trojan horse of witty, accessible table talk to make his point. ‘Rumours persist,’ he quips at one stage, discussing how the T.S. Eliot Prize has betrayed the modernist instincts of its benefactor and namesake, ‘that excellent poetry is being written by poets who are not venerable names rehearsing old themes’. The overall effect can read like Evelyn Waugh writing in defence of Samuel Beckett: an amiably sharp ironist standing up for more austere virtues, the mockery blowing a little in all directions.

If The Whitsun Wedding Video has an overarching argument, then it’s summed up in its opening anecdote. Quoting Philip Larkin’s story of how he almost had a car accident while an emotional reading of Wordsworth played on the radio, Noel-Tod adds:

If Larkin had careered into the hard shoulder trailing clouds of exhaust, British poetry today might look a little different. As it is, thirty years after his death from natural causes, he remains the post-war poetic monument to be – depending on your point of view – saluted on parade days or pulled down when the revolution comes.

This notion of Larkin as a shibboleth, dividing traditionalists from iconoclasts, holds more water than the vivid though fanciful counterfactual of his early death diverting the course of British poetry altogether. Was Larkin such a lonely exception that without him British poetry would have gone the way of wild, postmodern America? He might have liked to think so, but I can’t see it.

More persuasive than the Larkin thesis is Noel-Tod’s view that, generally speaking, the contemporary moment tends to favour poets that will fare less well in the halls of posterity – or, simply put, the popular romantics of today become the winsome fuddy-duddies of tomorrow. One of my favourite moments in the pamphlet arrives with a provocative comparison between Marianne Dashwood’s passion for William Cowper in Sense and Sensibility (a marker of passé or gauche taste even in Austen’s time) and our current mania for Seamus Heaney. ‘Like Cowper,’ Noel-Tod writes,

Heaney is a reflective, rural poet, moving easily between man and landscape, and finding a moral in humble objects evoked with a sumptuous accuracy of phrase…

It’s characteristic of Noel-Tod’s open-minded discrimination that he can do justice to Heaney’s talents even while relegating him to the second division. Doubtless, Larkin may well fall victim to a similar type of reputation fade, in time; maybe he already has done, with the likes of Frank O’Hara and Rosemary Tonks (Noel-Tod’s examples) emerging out of relative obscurity as the key ‘60s influences for switched-on contemporary poets.

But this would just be an instance of the wider phenomenon; Noel-Tod doesn’t quite convince me that Larkin’s example is especially definitive of the contemporary moment. Indeed, by citing Daljit Nagra’s recent ‘Domes of Britain’ and its reference to the speaker’s ‘Larkin train-brain’, he seems at once to undermine and confirm his final prediction that ‘in the century to come, migration and climate change will remake the little island-world that Larkin cast in verse’. Yes, that ‘little island-world’ is being remade, but contrary to what this wording implies, Larkin’s influence isn’t standing in the way of such change. Rather, his writing has so far proved remarkably fertile ground for reinterpretation, as Nagra’s subversive tribute demonstrates.

I quibble with Noel-Tod’s larger arguments because this is the sort of contentious yet generous book that invites one to. Clocking in at a mere 50-odd pages, The Whitsun Wedding Video is impressive for what it does manage to pack in, and it’s the brief, glancing insights that linger, not the rather provisional headline thesis. Apart from neo-Romantic reputation fade, we should be grateful to Noel-Tod for coining the idea of the Shy Tory Poet. As he says, it ‘stands to statistical analysis’ that some contemporary poet or other will have opinions towards the right of the political spectrum, as Larkin famously did, but I’m damned if I can think of one. Modern poetry has become the province of the cultural, ecological and political left – all constituencies in which I’d readily position myself, so this isn’t a complaint as such. You could come up with cogent reasons to explain why poetry lends itself to leftist ideology (that it’s a tool of empathy and therefore solidarity; that it prizes originality and truth in language rather than market-driven efficiency; even that its negligible economic value fosters a bracing knowledge of capitalism’s pitfalls). Nevertheless, I worry about poetry’s fate in this relatively new order. The more that our art becomes a political monoculture, the more embattled and marginal will be its position.

This is the sort of meaty topic I would love to see Noel-Tod tackle in a serious study. For the time being, The Whitsun Wedding Video is more or less the perfect pamphlet: a broadside fired off from the trenches of occasional journalism, peppery, well-intentioned, spiked with social media gossip, and without fail very interesting. It’s surely the only place you can read in codex form about Dave Coates’s essential blog, or John Clegg’s Prynne-dow at the LRB bookshop. Read it now, before a phrase such as ‘Earlier this year, in a review for the Guardian newspaper, Sean O’Brien played Socratic doorman to the debut collection of the poet Jack Underwood’ loses too much in relevance as well as pedantic truth. Most of these pugnacious sallies on the vicissitudes of literary fortunes make as much sense at the start of 2016 as they did in 2015, and will likely do so for a time to come.

Dai George’s first collection was The Claims Office (Seren, 2013). He blogs on British poetry for the Boston Review and edits the web journal Prac Crit. Follow him on Twitter @dai_r_george.

Review: The River by Jane Clarke

The River (Bloodaxe Books, £ 9.95) by Jane Clarke reviewed by Tony Curtis

It is a pleasure to read this debut collection of poems, handsomely produced and finely judged in terms of its orchestration of elegy and celebration; especially as I encountered many of these in workshops in my last years teaching on the Masters at Glamorgan: I watched some of them grow. I must therefore declare an interest in and commitment to this writer.

Jane Clarke’s first collection comes after years of working to capture the west of Ireland rural community in which she was raised and to reflect the challenges of one’s middle life years. There have been many magazine and anthology appearances and several awards. The opening poem ‘Honey’ has the power of both Frost and Heaney in its telling of the shooting of a sheep dog accused of wreaking havoc with a neighbour’s flock:

thirty ewes dead of dying,
mangled in barbed wire, lamb-beds hanging out.

The poet’s father

…drags her by the scruff,
leaves her at their feet. He says nothing
when he comes in, says little for weeks.

As in Robert Frost, reported speech in its choice of words and tone is key to the characterisation of many of these poems. The narrative often seems spare and plain:

Some summer’s day take the ferry to Clare Island,
see a black and white tower overlooking Clew Bay,
where I first heard my mother say the rosary for sailors,
watched her fry herring on the wood-burning stove.

Though the music of place names and the internal rhymes carry the reader confidently into the remembered or, in the case of this poem ‘Lighthouse Keeper’, the imagined past. The juxtaposition of the rosary and the frying are telling: belief and faith are a daily matter as necessary and natural as breathing. ‘…since they unmanned the lantern’ the keeper’s days are ‘landlocked’ and he’s ‘washed up like wreckage'; Jane Clarke is memorialising in her poetry both departed individuals and the disappearance of the lives they led.

Place names and the cadence of a regional saying are what one expects from any poet rooted in rural Ireland. As in Seamus Heaney ( how can one not mention Heaney?) Jane Clarke’s poems employ the lexicon of her bro, her patch: we have references to a ‘haggard’, ‘callows’, ‘flaggers'; there’s loosestrife, bell heather, jewelreed and ling growing.

Another point of reference might be Michael Longley, with short, spare, jewelled pieces such as ‘Let there be’, ‘all I will need’, and ‘Dropping Slow’. Again, the space between lines, the precise movement and economy of words is consummate. These qualities are exemplified in ‘Back of an envelope’ which I shall quote in its entirety:

I don’t know what’s come over your father,
my mother says on the phone. He left
a note on the back of an envelope –
gone herding, won’t be long.

Where did he think I’d think he was gone?
All those years if I asked where he was going,
where he had been, he’d act like I’d tethered him
to a post, and then today he leaves a note.

That monologue catches the voice as it works out the import of language and tone and carries the reader with that process to the realisation that a shift in lives has taken place; the farmer knows it and will lead his wife to that recognition. A point in the aging of one’s life has been reached: they will both have to prepare themselves for darker days. His life and their marriage, like everything else, is finite.

The River is a collection of poems, not prose masquerading as poetry. Jane Clarke’s lines are honed, measured, finely and finally settled on. She has many of the qualities of her mentor and name-sake Gillian: strength and originality of metaphor, an ear for the music of language and an ability to allow the poem space to accommodate the reader. I recommend The River to readers and writers of poetry.

Tony Curtis

Poem: At Flint Castle by Sarah Corbett

The Devolved Voices project based at Aberystwyth University is investigating the state of Welsh poetry in English since Wales’s devolution ‘yes’ vote of 1997. A series of interviews and filmed readings with a whole host of poets associated with Wales is available at: www.aber.ac.uk/devolvedvoices/. The latest in the series is from Sarah Corbett. Sarah also reads a poem ‘At Flint Castle’ which is published in our Winter 2014/2015 issue. You can watch it below.

Poem: Food Tester by Jonathan Edwards

Food Tester

I’d give my life for his. This poisoned fruit
that could cut short his breath or break his heart,
this leg of pork that makes him sick for days
or weeks slips easily across my lips

and down my throat. You get a feel for this,
a nose, and do the work by weight, by touch,
to cut the chance, the risk. The merest hint
of something strong in a pitcher of milk,

or in this tender flesh a tint, a fleck
to make a bite of it – just one – a bite
of death. I work alone and with my friends:
the apparatus of pipettes and scales,

the grim art of this business and the science
of my instinct. Does one drop in water
bubble or change colour, does a bit
dabbed on the wrist, just here, affect the skin,

cause it to itch, to rise and, more than this,
can chef this morning look you in the eye?
What do you know about his wife, his mother,
the sous chef’s background or the politics

of the waiter? I would give my life for his.
I’ve never seen him but I’ve heard he eats
like a pig: a mouthful of mutton, chased
with a fistful of capon, spitting words

and food across the table. Today, I face
this bird, this side of beef, this bread, this meat
and this forkful, right here. The one I’m raising
to my lips now as I feel them burn.

Originally published in the Winter 2014/2015 issue of Poetry Wales.

Jonathan Edwards won the 2014 Costa Poetry Award for his debut poetry collection My Family and Other Superheroes.

On Violence and Empathy: Winter Editorial

From Poetry Wales Winter 2014/2015

I started writing an editorial about violence. I realised that this was going to be a violent issue. I wrote myself questions like this: Is Wales safer than Mexico for women? Why partake in poetry when poetry cannot on the face of it do much about violence? When does a depiction of violence become a re-enactment? What is the violence that uses no force?

I wrote down some statistics: There are 43 student teachers currently missing in Mexico, handed over to drug cartels by corrupt officials. Four women were killed by men within the space of a couple of months in Wales in 2009. Still in the UK in 2014, 2-3 women are murdered by men every week.

I wrote and rewrote this piece. Because the poets in this issue whose work I was thinking about, assembled over the late summer in 2014, can never be solely defined by the violence their writing bears witness to. From some of the poems by three Mexican poets translated by Richard Gwyn – Julián Herbert, Luis Felipe Fabre and Fabio Morábito – to Hannah Silva’s ‘Kathy Doll’, to two War Reporter poems by Dan O’Brien, Mir Mahfuz Ali’s poems reviewed by Joey Connolly and Ilya Kaminsky’s poems of a ‘Deaf Republic’ at war. This work considers violence but is much more than this.

So could the act of grouping these works together like this under what we might call editorially, perhaps suspiciously, ‘a theme’, be a form of re-enactment? It’s possible. But in placing this writing side by side I was struck by the different ways poetry deals with violence. And empathy. I was struck by the way these writers ‘open both eyes in the dark’ and write what they see, as Roberto Bolaño put it more than once. Bolaño himself was such a writer. His enormous novel 2666  is dominated by the ‘part about the killings’ in which he describes in flat stark detail the repeated brutal murders of women in a fictional city, based on Ciudad Juárez in northern Mexico. Instead of becoming desensitised to each of these descriptions – and they really do go on – many readers report of being sensitised like I was. Disturbed.

The shock of the scale and repetition of violence can do this. Should do this. ‘One skull next to another next to another skull’ (as Luis Felipe Fabre puts it) or ‘invisible house by invisible house by invisible house’ (Ilya Kaminsky in ‘We Lived Happily During the War’). Writing that shocks, antagonises, bears witness to or imagines violence can create radical empathy. ‘At least touch what you kill’ writes Julián Herbert in ‘Dark’, his speaker telling of a night spent with his arm in the crack between two beds trying to prevent his young son from falling to the floor.

In this way poetry can, I think, create empathy – however incomplete, however nonintentional on the writers part. But it can also critique the structures in which violence is allowed to be repeated. In ‘The Kathy Doll’ Hannah Silva takes words from Fifty Shades of Grey  and intersplices them with Kathy Acker’s texts. She changes words from FSOG: ‘dominant’ becomes ‘child’ and ‘submissive’ becomes ‘mother’. In a recent interview Silva reports reading FSOG for her related project Schlock! It was ‘uncomfortable and disturbing. I find it shocking that the woman doesn’t want a BDSM relationship and yet Grey doesn’t accept this. When she asks if he could please not hit her again because she doesn’t like it, he replies “you’re not supposed to like it”. Yet teenage girls are reading it unquestioningly as if it’s today’s Pride and Prejudice .’

In Dan O’Brien’s poems the War Reporter Paul Watson is looking at the photograph that won him the Pulitzer Prize: ‘The world has become a frame. You’re looking/ at yourself. And we are violating/ whatever makes us human.’ O’Brien’s poems, made in close collaboration with Watson, seem to be about reconstructing or even failing to reconstruct empathy in the face of dehumanisation – including your own dehumanisation as witness. The poem attempts to come to terms with the moment in which Watson took a photograph instead of helping a soldier being mauled to death in front of him;

And I hear
a voice as clear as yours, clearer even,
saying, If you do this I will own you
forever. Forgive me, just understand
I don’t want to do this. No. We have to
do this. Yes. We have to do this until
we don’t.

We have to do this until we don’t. The snippet hints at both a belief and disbelief in this mission – a compromised empathy, because perhaps all empathy is flawed. And a confusion over who is doing the violence. To be sure, the radical empathy of poetry and all art is needed alongside inhuman and staggering statistics if we are to stop the violence that comes in patterns, one skull after another. So I hope this is an issue about empathy as much as it is about violence.

The new Wales PEN Cymru initiative is one way people can work together to create empathy and solidarity in and through literature. I’d encourage readers in Wales to become members.

*

Whilst writing this editorial the fact of violence came shockingly close to home into the poetry community. On Saturday 1st  of November the poet Anne Cluysenaar was found murdered in her farmhouse in the Usk countryside. Anne was not and never will be a simple statistic or someone to be remembered only for the circumstances of her death. As well as a poet she was a renowned educator, thinker, painter, smallholder and friend to many. ‘Sharing with others a “language of natural signs”, was what Anne as a poet did. It describes her special gift of creative friendship’ writes Jeremy Hooker in a tribute to Anne in these pages – a beginning of an attempt to remember her in the fullest way we can.

NIA DAVIES

Towards a Relational Poetics

Conceptual writing and alt lit


By Steven Hitchins


An exclusive essay from Poetry Wales Autumn 2014 issue

In Uncreative Writing Kenneth Goldsmith considers the impact of the internet on writing, suggesting that writing in the twenty-first century will be about managing the vast amount of text online, simply cutting and pasting text from one source to another, curating links – a conceptual writing where the idea is more important than the actual text.

Conceptual writing is characterised, in the work of Goldsmith, Simon Morris, Vanessa Place and Tan Lin, amongst others, by the techniques of copying, transcription and cataloguing.

Another literary movement that has emerged in the first decades of the twenty-first century might offer an alternative to conceptual writing in considering how the internet affects writing: the writers grouped under the term ‘alt lit’ show how a social grassroots beat- or punk-esque movement can take shape through social media. Some writers often described as alt lit include Noah Cicero, Tao Lin (not to be confused with Tan Lin), Megan Boyle, Brandon Scott Gorrell and Steve Roggenbuck. Alt lit has a less academic feel to conceptual writing, emerging through communities of writers promoting and publishing their work on social media networks. In its obsessive documenting of online life, alt lit is similar to conceptual writing, but while conceptual writing favours appropriation of found texts, alt lit is mostly devoted to autobiographical narratives.

Goldsmith’s proposal of conceptual writing seems to go along with what Brion Gysin once said about writing being fifty years behind art: ‘In 1959, Brion Gysin said that writing was 50 years behind painting. And it still is. So if conceptual art happened 50 years ago, we’re just beginning to get around to it now. These are ideas that have never been explored in poetry.’

I would disagree with this, however, because poetry was engaging with and questioning conceptual art in the 1970s, as can be seen in the work of poets like Allen Fisher, Bernadette Mayer and David Antin to mention just a few. Goldsmith’s Uncreative Writing opens up interesting links between poetry and conceptual art, but I feel they can be developed further by looking at what has been going on in the world of art more recently.

In the late-nineties, Nicolas Bourriaud coined the term ‘relational aesthetics’ to describe the ways in which he felt artists were reacting to the internet’s commodification of social and relational channels with works that were interactive and participatory.

Interactivity might entail actual activity on the part of the audience, such as in Rirkrit Tiravanija’s Untitled (Free) where the artist cooked curry and rice in the exhibition space and served it to visitors free of charge; or the activity may be more ambiguous, inviting thought from the audience, as in the corporate stage-sets that suggest platforms for discussion in Liam Gillick’s Discussion Island/Big Conference Center.

While Bourriaud’s Relational Aesthetics is flawed, such as in the way it lumped together artists with very different concerns, it is an attempt to understand the contemporary situation while ‘ceasing to take shelter behind sixties art theory’ (Bourriaud, p. 7). I find it useful as a model with which to consider conceptual writing because Bourriaud identified differences between the relational art of the 1990s and the conceptual art of the 1960s: how relational art took up many of the issues of conceptual art but ‘relieved of the matter of the definition of art, so pivotal in the 1960s and 1970s’ (Bourriaud, p. 30). Rather than critiquing relations inside the art world (the question of what is art and what is not art), relational art drew attention to external relations, relationships between people and the world.

Bourriaud saw this relational aesthetic as continuing the utopian aims of modernity to ‘emancipate individuals and people’ (Bourriaud, p. 11), ‘to free humankind and usher in a better society’ (p. 12), but without the aim for totality: ‘Social utopias and revolutionary hopes have given way to everyday micro-utopias’(p. 31). The micro-utopias of relational art were utopian in their aim of ‘learning to inhabit the world in a better way’, though the aim of the art work was ‘no longer to form imaginary and utopian realities, but to actually be ways of living and models of action within the existing real’ (p. 13). Whereas postmodern art had become disillusioned with modernist utopias, Bourriaud saw in relational art a return to ethical social aims but without the belief in totalising change.

I want to suggest that relational aesthetics could be used to consider how conceptual writing and alt lit, two web-derived genres at the start of the twenty-first century, are trying to find ways to move beyond the irony and relativism of the postmodernist endgame. It could offer ideas for how conceptual writing and alt lit might meet in a kind of social conceptual writing.

 

Copying

In Getting Inside Kerouac’s Head, Simon Morris retypes Kerouac’s On The Road, one page a day. In Day, Kenneth Goldsmith copies out the entire New York Times for a single day. In Statement of Facts, Vanessa Place lifts court transcripts from child abuse cases.

Appropriation has been a common device throughout twentieth-century poetry – from cubism to language poetry, writers have been stealing from other texts – but the dominant tendency has been for transformation of the appropriated text through fragmentation and collage.

In conceptual writing there is not so much transformation, or if there is, it is usually just one layer of transformation, often a simple act of lifting something out of context, keeping it otherwise intact. For conceptual writers ‘the act of writing is literally moving language from one place to another’ (Goldsmith, Uncreative Writing, p. 3). It involves lightness of touch from the writer.

For readers of twentieth-century avant-garde poetry this lack of fragmentation might make the texts seem boring, but for conceptual writing that is part of the point. Conceptual writing steals boring texts. It favours the neutral tone of news reports, legal documents, bibliographical entries. Copying something that’s exciting might not work because we would end up reading the text for its content. The content is meant to repell the reader, to make us think about the concept.

In contrast to alt lit’s predominantly autobiographical, confessional mode, Goldsmith suggests that in foregoing a personal narrative and simply transposing a found text conceptual writers let the words speak for themselves.

Like conceptual writing, alt lit is characterised by a neutral tone, perhaps derived from the flattened affect experienced when communicating through instant messenger services like Gmail chat. Noah Cicero uses short single-sentence paragraphs to make it easier to read on screen, aspiring to the clarity of instruction manuals.

This is similar to the coherence in conceptual writing: ‘Start making sense. Disjunction is dead. The fragment, which ruled poetry for the past one hundred years, has left the building.’

For conceptual writing, wholeness is to make the content uninteresting; for alt lit writers like Cicero and Tao Lin, it’s to make it readable. Both are shocking due to the lack of that fragmentation that has become so dominant in avant-garde poetry over the course of the twentieth-century.

For Tao Lin, this involves meticulously detailed accounts of his experiences that try to avoid generalisations, assumptions and clichés. He writes ‘from an existential point of view, meaning it tries not to block out any information… In order to have morals one must block out information and make assumptions…’

He says he views everyone’s experience as unique, so tries not to simplify the complexity of experience: ‘I try not to think of anyone (in books, or in concrete reality) in terms of single words or terms. If I do use language that categorizes and simplifies I try to use it in a way that shows I’m aware – and I’d like the reader or listener to be aware – that, for whatever reason, I’m compromising the complexity and actualness of a thing.’

While conceptual writing seems to remain within the cool, ironic stance of postmodernism, alt lit seems to signal a move towards the micro-utopian positions of relational aesthetics. Whereas Goldsmith advocates unoriginality, falseness, inauthenticity, alt lit puts emphasis on sincerity, though not without some sense of irony. Alt lit poet Steve Roggenbuck says, ‘I use the outward trappings of irony … and try to express something sincere through it.’

 

Like relational art, alt lit does not propose to return to any totalising utopian project, but to develop out of postmodernism’s critique of the possibility of any singular, generalised universal truth towards a way of being truthful.

For Tao Lin this involves constant vigilance, as he strives to avoid generalisations while documenting his every thought and action in the hope of perhaps learning about himself and changing his behaviour. For Steve Roggenbuck, it’s a matter of donning an ironic cloak of mock-naivety in order to make startlingly direct statements with the aim of promoting more consciously aware ways of living.

Such moment-to-moment models for living are reminiscent of the micro-utopian approach in relational art; for example, when Rirkrit Tiravanija, in Untitled 1999 (Tomorrow Can Shut Up and Go Away), turns the gallery exhibition space into a replica of his apartment, which visitors are allowed to use. In doing so, he is not necessarily simply bringing non-art elements into the art space to make a Duchampian comment on art. He is asking how we can use the expanded art space opened up by conceptual art. Alt lit might be in a position to do something similar with the space opened up by conceptual writing, to turn it into a social space that can be used.

 

Transcribing

In Fidget, Kenneth Goldsmith transcribes self-made audio recordings detailing his every movement over the course of a day. In Soliloquy, he transcribes self-made audio recordings of everything he says over the course of a week. In the ‘American Trilogy’ of Weather, Traffic and Sports, he turns from self-made recordings to transcribing found recordings of weather reports over the course of a year, traffic reports over twenty-four hours and the commentary of an entire baseball game.

In Uncreative Writing, Goldsmith describes how his transcriptions draw on the methods of Andy Warhol, who used a tape-recorder to record friends talking, then got someone else to type it up for his novel a, and made films such as Sleep, a five-hour film of a man sleeping, and Empire, an eight-hour static shot of Empire State Building. ‘The prevalent trend was the quick edit and jump cut,’ he says, ‘but Warhol did the opposite: he plunked the camera on a tripod and let it run… and run… and run…’ (Goldsmith, Uncreative Writing, p. 145). Goldsmith’s transcriptions of audio recordings are like long static camera shots: though repetitive, static, going nowhere, they emphasise the passage of time. In contrast to the paratactic collage prevalent in twentieth-century avant-garde, Goldsmith just sets up the recorder and lets it run.

Like Goldsmith, Tao Lin uses a period of time as a narrative structure. His novels too are about the passage of time: ‘with all the focus on surface details, with no sentences devoted to thoughts or feelings, and I think that results in a kind of themelessness, that, in its lack of focus on anything else, the theme becomes, to me, the passage of time’.

Alt lit shows how social media impacts on our experience of time: mundane activities become more intensely experienced due to the hyperreal memory of archiving your life online as tweets and posts. In alt lit, this close attention to living in the present is accompanied by a melancholic sense that the present will soon become nostalgically poignant as it recedes into the past.

Social media also provides alt lit with a sense of detachment from experience – like a running commentary on your own thoughts and actions (similar to watching the world through a laptop camera as Tao Lin and Megan Boyle do in their MDMA films). As in Goldsmith’s transcriptions, we experience things at a remove. We read Traffic not as traffic reports but a transcription of traffic reports. This doubling is even more apparent when listening to the recording of Goldsmith reading the text, as he performs the reporter’s hesitations.

If conceptual writing says, ‘The world is full of texts; I do not wish to add any more’, then alt lit says, ‘The world is full of texts; I want to add more’. While conceptual writers tend to work with found texts, modelling themselves on readers negotiating the vast amount of text online, alt lit writers emulate the bloggers, tweeters, facebookers relentlessly adding to the online fabric by documenting their own every thought and action. Goldsmith: ‘social networking updates… fast and ephemeral… their value is in rapid succession… like so many shards they accumulate into a grand narrative of life’ (Uncreative Writing, p. 176). Alt lit is literature of accumulation. Text is churned out at speed.

Recording people speaking, whether on tape recorder or on internet chat, highlights the performativity of everyday conversation. Poetry is all around and as we move through a space we activate it, or catch its imprints, like Robert Rauschenberg’s Automobile Tire Print captures the paint-smeared tyre-print of John Cage’s car as it’s driven over twenty sheets of paper.

One of the main characteristics of relational art is that the art moment is difficult to locate. Liam Gillick says it is about ‘trying to find those aspects in a culture that are hard to grasp … the feeling you get of the light in a nightclub the morning after [or] standing outside a bar’.

The objects, texts, installations feel strangely incomplete, requiring the audience to activate them – perhaps simply by moving through the space. Gillick describes his work as ‘like the light in the fridge … it only works when there are people there to open the fridge door. Without people, it’s not art—it’s something else—stuff in a room.’

 

 

Cataloguing

In Via, Caroline Bergvall catalogues all the English translations of the first stanza of Dante. In Bibliographic Sound Track and The PhD Sound, Tan Lin compiles bibliographic lists of his reading materials.

Conceptual artists love things in series, alphabetical or chronological orders. John Baldessari photographed the backs of all the trucks he passed while driving. Ed Ruscha photographed many examples of the same thing: twenty-six gasoline stations, nine swimming pools. This archiving of the same plays on the variation found in repetition. Serial cataloguing shows a concern with time perhaps derived from the increased ability brought about by advances in photography and film to quickly document passing activity. It could also be seen to have developed from the geometric permutations of minimal art, such as the early modular structures of Sol Lewitt.

Tan Lin’s ambient bibliographies are plain and cold like some conceptual art. They are meant to be used like wallpaper, he says: a poetry of boredom; slow-motion PowerPoint poems that play in the background. They play on how we read and manage information; we don’t read bibliographic matter closely – just skim it. It could also give the reader something to do as you might decide to go off and read the works cited in his bibliographies.

Alt lit has a similarly obsessive, processual and repetitive character to conceptual writing, though with a focus on autobiographical material. Megan Boyle’s ‘Everyone I’ve Had Sex With’ and Brandon Scott Gorrell’s ‘All The Drugs I’ve Taken’ each describe lots of examples of the same theme catalogued in chronological order. The repeated phrases and patterns throughout the texts are reminiscent of the recurring forms in Ruscha’s photographs (‘we didn’t use a condom’, ‘I first took [drug] around the age of [age] or [age]’). This is akin to the archiving of the same in Tan Lin and Caroline Bergvall, but while conceptual writing generally draws on found text, alt lit uses personal online diary material (email, chat, posts). Tan Lin says his bibliographies are autobiographical but he records his life through his reading material rather than by writing about it. His alt lit almost-namesake, Tao Lin, isn’t as selective, stating that he doesn’t want to leave anything out, so records everything.

The cataloguing methods of conceptual writing and alt lit show that a book can be documentation of an event. In conceptual writing, the event documented is a writing event and the books are products or traces of those events. The event for alt lit writers is living their lives and this can be documented in tweets or posts. Tao Lin and Megan Boyle’s Muumuu House website publishes transcripts of Gmail chats and selections of Twitter feeds; Steve Roggenbuck publishes poems via Tumblr, Facebook and Twitter then collates them in his books.

Relational artists have also used cataloguing techniques; for example,  the texts, photographs and videos that Rirkrit Tiravanija uses to document a shared car journey to the exhibition in On the road with Jiew, Jeaw, Jieb, Sri and Moo. Like relational art, alt lit is not just about the art object (e.g. the book), but everything that goes on around it. The catalogued documention is part of wider social and community events.

Conceptual artists come up with recipes/scores/machines for someone else to carry out (e.g. someone draws Sol Lewitt’s lines on wall), but relational art shows that designing and carrying out instructions can be a social act. For example, in Streamside Day, Pierre Huyghe provided instructions and all materials needed for a festival to celebrate the opening of a new suburban town, which the community could then carry out each year.


Huyghe3 by Video_Blog_REWF

Like relational art, alt lit is about friendship and ethics . Like relational artists, Tao Lin and Steve Roggenbuck are ‘learning to inhabit the world in a better way’ (Bourriaud, p. 13). For example, Tao Lin says, ‘Art is like friendship. If you like someone you want to be their friend, and you want to introduce them to your other friends… If I like someone’s art I want to show it to people and I want to be their friend.’

While Steve Roggenbuck adds, ‘“success” to me is making people’s lives better.’

Conceptual writing’s obsessive cataloguing shows that the book can be a space to curate, while alt lit shows how that can be a social space. Relational art might suggest ways in which these can be brought together to provide a participatory, interactive poetry that explores and critiques the social spaces of the twenty-first century.

 

Submissions go electronic

From February 2014 we will be taking submissions of poetry electronically via Submittable. So wherever you are in the world you can now submit your poems to us online.

Please read a copy of the magazine before submitting to get an idea of the kind of poetry we publish. Take a look at the back issues here.

If you think your work is suitable for us and would like to be considered for publication then visit our How to Submit Page.

New Editor is Appointed

Poetry Wales is delighted to announce that Nia Davies has been appointed as Editor following Zoë Skoulding’s retirement from the magazine. Nia will pick up the reins at issue 50 in 2014 and we are looking forward to an exciting new chapter for Poetry in Wales and beyond.

Congratulations, Nia!

Nia work portrait crop by Maria Angelica Madero

Nia Davies was born in Sheffield and studied English at the University of Sussex. Her writing has been published in journals in the UK and the US. Then Spree - her first pamphlet of poems – came out from Salt in 2012.  As well as her work with Literature Across Frontiers and Wales Literature Exchange, her current projects include collaborations with other poets and artists and co-editing the online journal Poems in Which and Solidarity Park Poetry – poems for #ResisTurkey. Her interests include translation and international poetry, cultural activism and poetry’s relation to sound, listening and other art forms such as music, puppetry and film. Her poems have been translated into Turkish and Spanish. She writes poetry, reviews, articles and fiction.

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