Currently Reading:: Srikanth Reddy, Facts for Visitors
A busy week for poetry, and for me. Spring has begun to sweep through the limbs of the trees here, with the barest of buds so palely green and new. What better time to head south, to Philadelphia, to spend a solid week with the poems of The Midnight, and with the poet, Susan Howe.
On Monday, Howe read from her work at the Kelly Writers House at the University of Pennsylvania. I admit it freely: I was overwhelmed by the nostalgia of my own homecoming. I silently rejoiced at the wetness in the air, the sounds of the city and of my own footfall on Locust Walk.
The interior of the Writers House, for those of you who haven't been there, is old Philadelphia—warm and close, with all the energy of a place that is well-lived in and loved. As soon as I walked in, I made my way to the front room, where rows of wooden chairs stood in anticipation of the poet. I put down my bag and set aside my gloves and scarf. The windows to the west were cracked open, and a sweet, wet breeze eased its way in. As I stood there—I just stood and looked—I saw a familiar and well-loved face. After five years, Greg Djanikian looks exactly the same: the same kind, interested eyes, the same wild, fly-away eyebrows. How I used to muse over them during my first poetry workshops as an undergraduate!
Before long, people began filing in, and the rooms were filled to capacity. After introductions by Writers House Faculty Director Al Filreis and student Cecilia Corrigan (with particularly wonderful reflections on The Midnight), Susan Howe opened with readings from "Secret History of the Dividing Line" and 'Melville's Marginalia." But at the heart of the reading were two prose segments from The Midnight: "Forest Lawn" and "Pandora." The first segment details the elder years of Howe's uncle, John Manning, her inheritance of his copy of The Master of Ballantrae, and some slant reflections on the interleaf contained in that book between the titlepage and frontispiece. "Pandora" is a long and remarkable passage connecting the manuscript practices of R.W. Emerson with those of her own family. It's one of the most important passages in the book, or so I think, and one of my favorites. I was so moved to hear it read. The reading ended with an excerpt from The Souls of the Labadie Tract, Howe's latest book, though her newest is slated to appear this spring. Like nearly all Writers House events, an online video Howe's reading is available for viewing on the Writers House website.
The next morning found me back in the city and at the Writers House again for a public question-and-answer session with the poet. Al Filreis served as a wonderful master of ceremonies, introducing Howe and posing a series of thoughtful questions before opening the interview to questions from the room (and, thanks to some spiffy technology, the world at large). A complete video of the interview is available at the Writers House website.
Howe's reading at Temple on Thursday night, as part of the Poets & Writers Series, had a different feel for me. The reading began with a selection of poems from a student reader, Laura Neuman, whose writing showed a keen wit and humor—slightly at odds with the poems to follow, but a pleasure to hear. I always like when people laugh at a poetry reading—we seem to forget that laughter is indeed a reaction available to us, even in such a solemn and official Affair of Cultural and Artistic Value. Even so, the audience was large, but a little more subdued, and the room felt unmarked and corporate. Rachel Blau DuPlessis offered a lovely introduction, and then Howe began, this time with the title poem from her to-be published collection, That This, forthcoming from New Directions:
That this book is a history of
a shadow that is a shadow of
me mystically one in another
Another another to subserve
__
Day is a type when visible
objects change then put
on form but the anti-type
That thing not shadowed
__
Is light anything like this
stray pencil commonplace
copy as to one aberrant
onward-gliding mystery
Brilliant title. What I find here is the beginning of an urgent questioning of writing, its textual condition, against the actuality, the apparent reality of life, the world, and being. The question is—pardon the pun—can the mere shadow of "pencil" hold a candle to the world, "that thing not shadowed"?
Following this poem, Howe returned to a passage from The Europe of Trusts, and then on, again, to The Midnight (this time to a prose segment from "Scare Quotes II" called "Concrete Central"). "Concrete Central" tells the story of one night in Buffalo, when Howe and a number of colleagues took a visiting French poet to descend into the obscurity of the now abandoned industrial district of the city. I could see Charles Bernstein with a wide smile on his face in the front row. Buffalo has become mythic in its own right.
The final poem of the night was drawn from the last section of The Midnight, "Kidnapped," which features descriptions of a Noh play, juxtaposed with descriptions of Howe's mother and the poet's own (and very short-lived) "theatrical" career. The poet's voice was so faint as she read and remembered, and so moving.
There's really too much to say for a week like this last. I have been awed and overcome. And now, it turns out, there is still more to come: Thursday will bring Amiri Baraka and Sonia Sanchez to the Africana Studies & Research Center here at Cornell, and on Friday, I look forward to a reading by Brenda Shaughnessy. As though this weren't enough, Edouard Glissant will be on campus next Thursday for a screening and discussion of the film One World in Relation.
On my own small, personal front, I have been every so slowly recrafting the current chapter of my dissertation, especially now in light of Howe's visit to Philadelphia. When I arrived home in Ithaca—home from my home in Philadelphia—I found a house out of order and a stack of mail. The routine number of rejections from a rough job market, but also some glimmers of hope: a letter informing me that my book was selected as a finalist for the Colorado Prize for Poetry, and David waiting for me out by the Inlet. It is all too much, and I am so grateful.
A busy week for poetry, and for me. Spring has begun to sweep through the limbs of the trees here, with the barest of buds so palely green and new. What better time to head south, to Philadelphia, to spend a solid week with the poems of The Midnight, and with the poet, Susan Howe.
On Monday, Howe read from her work at the Kelly Writers House at the University of Pennsylvania. I admit it freely: I was overwhelmed by the nostalgia of my own homecoming. I silently rejoiced at the wetness in the air, the sounds of the city and of my own footfall on Locust Walk.
The interior of the Writers House, for those of you who haven't been there, is old Philadelphia—warm and close, with all the energy of a place that is well-lived in and loved. As soon as I walked in, I made my way to the front room, where rows of wooden chairs stood in anticipation of the poet. I put down my bag and set aside my gloves and scarf. The windows to the west were cracked open, and a sweet, wet breeze eased its way in. As I stood there—I just stood and looked—I saw a familiar and well-loved face. After five years, Greg Djanikian looks exactly the same: the same kind, interested eyes, the same wild, fly-away eyebrows. How I used to muse over them during my first poetry workshops as an undergraduate!
Before long, people began filing in, and the rooms were filled to capacity. After introductions by Writers House Faculty Director Al Filreis and student Cecilia Corrigan (with particularly wonderful reflections on The Midnight), Susan Howe opened with readings from "Secret History of the Dividing Line" and 'Melville's Marginalia." But at the heart of the reading were two prose segments from The Midnight: "Forest Lawn" and "Pandora." The first segment details the elder years of Howe's uncle, John Manning, her inheritance of his copy of The Master of Ballantrae, and some slant reflections on the interleaf contained in that book between the titlepage and frontispiece. "Pandora" is a long and remarkable passage connecting the manuscript practices of R.W. Emerson with those of her own family. It's one of the most important passages in the book, or so I think, and one of my favorites. I was so moved to hear it read. The reading ended with an excerpt from The Souls of the Labadie Tract, Howe's latest book, though her newest is slated to appear this spring. Like nearly all Writers House events, an online video Howe's reading is available for viewing on the Writers House website.
The next morning found me back in the city and at the Writers House again for a public question-and-answer session with the poet. Al Filreis served as a wonderful master of ceremonies, introducing Howe and posing a series of thoughtful questions before opening the interview to questions from the room (and, thanks to some spiffy technology, the world at large). A complete video of the interview is available at the Writers House website.
Howe's reading at Temple on Thursday night, as part of the Poets & Writers Series, had a different feel for me. The reading began with a selection of poems from a student reader, Laura Neuman, whose writing showed a keen wit and humor—slightly at odds with the poems to follow, but a pleasure to hear. I always like when people laugh at a poetry reading—we seem to forget that laughter is indeed a reaction available to us, even in such a solemn and official Affair of Cultural and Artistic Value. Even so, the audience was large, but a little more subdued, and the room felt unmarked and corporate. Rachel Blau DuPlessis offered a lovely introduction, and then Howe began, this time with the title poem from her to-be published collection, That This, forthcoming from New Directions:
That this book is a history of
a shadow that is a shadow of
me mystically one in another
Another another to subserve
__
Day is a type when visible
objects change then put
on form but the anti-type
That thing not shadowed
__
Is light anything like this
stray pencil commonplace
copy as to one aberrant
onward-gliding mystery
Brilliant title. What I find here is the beginning of an urgent questioning of writing, its textual condition, against the actuality, the apparent reality of life, the world, and being. The question is—pardon the pun—can the mere shadow of "pencil" hold a candle to the world, "that thing not shadowed"?
Following this poem, Howe returned to a passage from The Europe of Trusts, and then on, again, to The Midnight (this time to a prose segment from "Scare Quotes II" called "Concrete Central"). "Concrete Central" tells the story of one night in Buffalo, when Howe and a number of colleagues took a visiting French poet to descend into the obscurity of the now abandoned industrial district of the city. I could see Charles Bernstein with a wide smile on his face in the front row. Buffalo has become mythic in its own right.
The final poem of the night was drawn from the last section of The Midnight, "Kidnapped," which features descriptions of a Noh play, juxtaposed with descriptions of Howe's mother and the poet's own (and very short-lived) "theatrical" career. The poet's voice was so faint as she read and remembered, and so moving.
*****
There's really too much to say for a week like this last. I have been awed and overcome. And now, it turns out, there is still more to come: Thursday will bring Amiri Baraka and Sonia Sanchez to the Africana Studies & Research Center here at Cornell, and on Friday, I look forward to a reading by Brenda Shaughnessy. As though this weren't enough, Edouard Glissant will be on campus next Thursday for a screening and discussion of the film One World in Relation.
On my own small, personal front, I have been every so slowly recrafting the current chapter of my dissertation, especially now in light of Howe's visit to Philadelphia. When I arrived home in Ithaca—home from my home in Philadelphia—I found a house out of order and a stack of mail. The routine number of rejections from a rough job market, but also some glimmers of hope: a letter informing me that my book was selected as a finalist for the Colorado Prize for Poetry, and David waiting for me out by the Inlet. It is all too much, and I am so grateful.
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