Saturday, November 08, 2008

In the know-how

"I like Gertrude Stein. I really do. I mean, I know that she's awfully complicated and disruptive and repetitive, and sometimes just borderline silly - still, I can't help it, I like her. She kept on writing "nonsense"; these seemingly pointless phrases, commonplace, simplistic and out-of-context, to such an extent, they could probably have been jotted down by a 5-year-old in a moment of chocolate OD (nothing to do with vegetables), some might claim, and some have claimed; and yet it all seems (to me) to be of the most natural, beautiful, beautifying kind. Utmostly experimental. Amazingly straightforward. To the point, and then around it. Yes, (I) like that. I like bold writers who challenge the rules, even though it might'nt make them particularly cherished or adaptable. Stein called herself a source of inspiration for multiple geniuses out there, inluding Picasso and Hemingway, she even defined herself as ingenius of sorts; she was an exceptionally controversial and correctness-defying figure who lead the way for poets, writers and artists, in general, during the early periods of modernism, through her own little café/waterhole where these people gathered and discussed and found their style. As a writer, she is pretty hard to get, I guess, that's true, for she is as evasive as they come; equipped with a personality and manner of writing that exceed any degree of difficulty. Nonetheless, I find myself inspired. And I try my best at deciphering her stanzas and delving into the sphere of surrealist symbolism that she embraced; slipping through, as one must, rather than observing from the outside. You're either in our out, with Gertrude Stein; there's no objective middle-stage. Consequently, it's matter of guts; whether you tag along or just dismiss, or simply cannot fathom. I dare you - as did she!"

not that I could ever parallel her brilliance

I have tried honestly
to process
just what I honour
will sure digress
especially oppose and yet no less
to please beyond what we consider pleasure
I shall be (considerably) pleasurable
and lo, I never change, I like the squeezed-in in-betweens
the things I wish to say I say them quickly get them said
and make them sad
just what I wish and what I make and what I want
for everyone
(it doesn't make me moody maybe)
to be non-descriptive in their understanding of these scripted facts that are in no way commensurable and how we like them all that's like we tried to make them, likeable, and now we should be pointing onwards

warding off

a nose is a nose is a nose is
a nosy little puppy sniffing old books
to ferret infiltration filter inspiration
find me, in meaning
or find whatever mean

oh heaven heck I'm blue
"she exclaimed exasperately" (ending)
all that came before me, all that is
bollocks - bloody - unbalanced,
never found my feet, never fell
felt, stood still, and staggered
how do you collect your peace
prince, how do you succeed when
all I gather from this, your succession,
is failure
and fraternity of fraud (defending)
my betrothed, so suave, we suffer
suffering we are without silence
in an uneasy vault
blue sky, bare blue, above me
in the solemn name of crisis
we find - ourselves
we always find to be found
we have nowhere, nowhat, to follow
and now you get it

and you do
and you do
and you do
and you do not get anything

...and I wish to be gone
but I never knew where
for I know that a where is a how
which means nowhere to go
when we breathe in this air of mysterious places
beyond cartography beyond all orientation
and you call it oriental, I call it undetectable,
you find no answering machines, just fatal machinery
(& a duck, perhaps - that would become a swan
yet ended up as nothing but an ugly truth -
behold my youth! - ) and I wish to be reborn,
return, be born, if only to conjure
where it was that I once (and for once) had so
how I did now I don't I just do what I do what do you -
and we ought
not be so terribly awfully gullibly true
we're at loss
in positioning ourselves from action
we signal deed as cross(bow)points & references
our point of designation
designate, design, our measure of thereof
here, hear - this journey's not
identical, not ever, it's identity
we seek relentlessly, beseech, but all too much
in vain, in our vanity, that never makes us fair

["in the know-how: mediating stanzas,
as foretold by gertrude stein"

by Scaramouche, the Po(t)et, being slightly copycat, but contributing thereto her own stuff - as far as possible, as much as possibly, simply seizing the possibility. Thanks for all loans and allowances, to everyone involved, and in order that no-one shall feel tempted to sue me, I add the following:

Lists of references:
Introduction - in the fashion of Adrian Tomine, graphic novel writer, as well as the artistic genius behind "Sleepwalk and other stories", which I finished this morning and feel obliged to call a masterpiece. It's a brilliant collection of condensed, illustrated "episodes", that are mostly reminiscent of short films, in a scarce, naïve, direct and somewhat unyielding manner. Unsentimental, yet emotionally engaging and extremely powerful. I have no more superlatives, just a recommendation: go read now.
Poems - and I credit: Paul Bowles, Gertrude Stein, Bertolt Brecht, Laure's Fragments, Heather Nova, et al.]

1 comment:

RAndi said...

Poeten finner ihvertfall ord som beskriver vår streben etter å leve livet meningsfullt ut fra vårt eget hode - men fremmedgjøringen ligger og lurer og vi blir fanget i vår egen tilintetgjørelse av oss selv - vår gode evne til å usynliggjøre oss selv og alt vi skaper.....det er godt poeten lar seg inspirere - det blir god poesi av slikt.