Showing posts with label tony hoagland. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tony hoagland. Show all posts
Saturday, March 06, 2010
Tony Hoagland, Unincorporated Persons in the Late Honda Dynasty
My review of Tony Hoagland's new book, Unincorporated Persons in the Late Honda Dynasty, is up at New Pages. Check it out!
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Our Father,
I was recently asked to do a variation on my "Ternstedt" poem (see January 27th post), based on Tony Hoagland's excellent essay, "Fear of Narrative and the Skittery Poem of Our Moment," in his highly recommended book of essays, Real Sofistikashun. The idea struck me as rather daunting, since I've certainly abandoned poems that weren't working before, and used them as spare parts for newer, hopefully better-functioning engines; written imitations and homages. These approaches were more familiar to me. Yet, despite my initial reticence to disassemble the impulse that gave way to the former poem, I think I'm happy with its latter-day unsaintly counterpart, and learned a bit more about the aesthetics of this nebulous form by doing by design.
Avoiding narrative wasn't the issue. I began with the basis of my previous poem, my father as a central character, but I decided to widen the perspective a bit, depersonalizing it to a certain extent by saying “our father” instead. (For the record: I haven't any siblings.) From that change, I thought of the biblical reference to the “Lord's Prayer.” This gave me a skeleton over which to stretch the skittery skin and sinew of this new gryphon. And though I did make narrative sit in the backseat this time, I don't believe I totally ignored it, as here I wanted narrative—or the conscious impotency of it—to be staggered through the repetitious use of em dashes, frustrating the reader's attempt to get into any regular rhythm. The poem, instead, loops on itself in a series of asides that are, hopefully, hermetically rhythmic and sportive. I also chose to keep the factory worker motif from the last poem, at least partially, by referring to the father's “first shift posse,” which also gave me additional wiggle room to toy with the names and associations of his “peeps.”
I like playful language. I can do something that's barer, but even in those works it's hard for me to ignore the impulse to let the words sing. Here, perhaps the words harmonize but in a language that is archaic or eccentric or unto itself: art for art's sake. As I understand it, the skittery poem is self-consciously playful, or can be on a number of levels. I didn't want to be opaque; I wanted to be oblique. A more dissociative poem, of course, can be skittery, but for myself I prefer to consider the style as a smart method for constructing a “shaggy dog” poem. Not that every one has to do that, or not, have 'meaning' or not, but if I did throw everything and the kitchen sink into it you'd have a poem with many ingredients but no defining flavor. Hopefully this one has taste, while not necessarily being tasteful.
Our Father,
who art in heaven, or
arts in heaven—because he so enjoyed
painting on the weekends (seascapes,
portraits, still lives)—still
lives—in the memories of those who then
knew him best: Moose Mulhern,
Petey Peters, Ed ((just Ed) who was any-
thing but well-adjusted, if you re-
member that one Xmas party where he
came dressed as an X-rated Saint
Nick: Saint Dick (the Gingham
sisters practically fainted
when he came down the chimney))—
guys from the factory,
his first shift posse,
the punch-me-out-pleasers,
retire-in-twenty-teasers,
a-pack-a-day-wheezers,
his what kids nowadays might say
peeps—“in heaven!” in how
he licked his Nirvanaic lips
after Thanksgiving undid his belt
and unzipped his fly—“why,
we're all family here”—
and he collapsed snoring
on the Lay-Z-Boy, reclining,
declining dessert until Aunt Francis
delivered it on tiptoe and tray
with a knowing wink and a wave
of her kindled Virginia Slim
while cousins football cheered
for the same rival teams
year after rollicking year
—in Florida.
Avoiding narrative wasn't the issue. I began with the basis of my previous poem, my father as a central character, but I decided to widen the perspective a bit, depersonalizing it to a certain extent by saying “our father” instead. (For the record: I haven't any siblings.) From that change, I thought of the biblical reference to the “Lord's Prayer.” This gave me a skeleton over which to stretch the skittery skin and sinew of this new gryphon. And though I did make narrative sit in the backseat this time, I don't believe I totally ignored it, as here I wanted narrative—or the conscious impotency of it—to be staggered through the repetitious use of em dashes, frustrating the reader's attempt to get into any regular rhythm. The poem, instead, loops on itself in a series of asides that are, hopefully, hermetically rhythmic and sportive. I also chose to keep the factory worker motif from the last poem, at least partially, by referring to the father's “first shift posse,” which also gave me additional wiggle room to toy with the names and associations of his “peeps.”
I like playful language. I can do something that's barer, but even in those works it's hard for me to ignore the impulse to let the words sing. Here, perhaps the words harmonize but in a language that is archaic or eccentric or unto itself: art for art's sake. As I understand it, the skittery poem is self-consciously playful, or can be on a number of levels. I didn't want to be opaque; I wanted to be oblique. A more dissociative poem, of course, can be skittery, but for myself I prefer to consider the style as a smart method for constructing a “shaggy dog” poem. Not that every one has to do that, or not, have 'meaning' or not, but if I did throw everything and the kitchen sink into it you'd have a poem with many ingredients but no defining flavor. Hopefully this one has taste, while not necessarily being tasteful.
Our Father,
who art in heaven, or
arts in heaven—because he so enjoyed
painting on the weekends (seascapes,
portraits, still lives)—still
lives—in the memories of those who then
knew him best: Moose Mulhern,
Petey Peters, Ed ((just Ed) who was any-
thing but well-adjusted, if you re-
member that one Xmas party where he
came dressed as an X-rated Saint
Nick: Saint Dick (the Gingham
sisters practically fainted
when he came down the chimney))—
guys from the factory,
his first shift posse,
the punch-me-out-pleasers,
retire-in-twenty-teasers,
a-pack-a-day-wheezers,
his what kids nowadays might say
peeps—“in heaven!” in how
he licked his Nirvanaic lips
after Thanksgiving undid his belt
and unzipped his fly—“why,
we're all family here”—
and he collapsed snoring
on the Lay-Z-Boy, reclining,
declining dessert until Aunt Francis
delivered it on tiptoe and tray
with a knowing wink and a wave
of her kindled Virginia Slim
while cousins football cheered
for the same rival teams
year after rollicking year
—in Florida.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Real Sofistikashun
I'm about two-thirds of the way through Real Sofistikashun, Tony Hoagland's swell collection of essays on poetry and craft. Some chapters are giving me a sense of déjà vu, and while I can't confirm it – being, by necessity, less of a pack rat since our move to smaller digs two years ago, I'm unable to keep as many piles of periodicals around for casual perusal as I'd prefer – I'm confident I may have eyeballed them previously in APR or The Writer's Chronicle.
Reading Hoagland's essays in big gulps is doable, but not recommended. I drove my special lady to an appointment with her “aesthetician” recently. It was a snowy night, streets slick with ice and slush, and she eschews being behind the wheel of her trusty Toyota on such occasions if she can avoid it. Since it was not a teaching day for me, but a 'work' day, I offered to chauffeur her. Recently purchased, I brought Real Sofistikashun along for the ride as well. While my gal was off being coiffed, I parked my ass on the salon's semi-comfortable sofa and dug into the opening essay, "Altitudes: a Homemade Taxonomy." It establishes the tone Hoagland is to maintain for the duration, which he describes in his foreword as “neither academic nor exactly for the reader off the street.” True enough: you need to come to these essays prepared, but whether that preparation involves cases of canned meats, flashlights, first aid kit, batteries and water, or just a few candy bars, is up to individual discretion. If opting for the latter, however, you are likely to waste time traipsing to the corner store, stocking up on little things that could easily be tucked away in advance for emergencies. Hoagland's style is breezy yet rigorous – he gives you examples and cites to follow his train of thought or theoretical point, but after five or six chapters, the sheer ambition of each argument begins to weigh heavily upon the reader's brain. So it was as I slumped there, flanked by spritzers, shampoos, the tremor of trimmers, hiss of curling irons and incessant clipping of shears. Giving my noggin a much needed break, I closed the book, and switched to lighter reading – this month's Italian Vogue.
Be that as it may, I especially enjoyed Hoagland's thoughts on “the slipperiness of metaphor.” As he says, “Effective metaphors are always more complicated than we suppose,” and his essay on the subject is less an argument for any approach or school of thought than it is an examination of metaphor's metaness. While I don't agree with every point he makes – for example, Laura Kasischke's “A Long Commute” effectively illustrating “the fantastic elasticity” of metaphor – I don't have to: these essays sink or float by virtue of the overall thrust of Hoagland's thinking, and not sundry examples.
Here's hoping Hoagland's thoughts on “fear of narrative” and the power of meanness measure up to my expectations – entertaining as writing, useful and practical while writing.
Reading Hoagland's essays in big gulps is doable, but not recommended. I drove my special lady to an appointment with her “aesthetician” recently. It was a snowy night, streets slick with ice and slush, and she eschews being behind the wheel of her trusty Toyota on such occasions if she can avoid it. Since it was not a teaching day for me, but a 'work' day, I offered to chauffeur her. Recently purchased, I brought Real Sofistikashun along for the ride as well. While my gal was off being coiffed, I parked my ass on the salon's semi-comfortable sofa and dug into the opening essay, "Altitudes: a Homemade Taxonomy." It establishes the tone Hoagland is to maintain for the duration, which he describes in his foreword as “neither academic nor exactly for the reader off the street.” True enough: you need to come to these essays prepared, but whether that preparation involves cases of canned meats, flashlights, first aid kit, batteries and water, or just a few candy bars, is up to individual discretion. If opting for the latter, however, you are likely to waste time traipsing to the corner store, stocking up on little things that could easily be tucked away in advance for emergencies. Hoagland's style is breezy yet rigorous – he gives you examples and cites to follow his train of thought or theoretical point, but after five or six chapters, the sheer ambition of each argument begins to weigh heavily upon the reader's brain. So it was as I slumped there, flanked by spritzers, shampoos, the tremor of trimmers, hiss of curling irons and incessant clipping of shears. Giving my noggin a much needed break, I closed the book, and switched to lighter reading – this month's Italian Vogue.
Be that as it may, I especially enjoyed Hoagland's thoughts on “the slipperiness of metaphor.” As he says, “Effective metaphors are always more complicated than we suppose,” and his essay on the subject is less an argument for any approach or school of thought than it is an examination of metaphor's metaness. While I don't agree with every point he makes – for example, Laura Kasischke's “A Long Commute” effectively illustrating “the fantastic elasticity” of metaphor – I don't have to: these essays sink or float by virtue of the overall thrust of Hoagland's thinking, and not sundry examples.
Here's hoping Hoagland's thoughts on “fear of narrative” and the power of meanness measure up to my expectations – entertaining as writing, useful and practical while writing.
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