Forthcoming September 2005 from O Books, the anticipated second book of verse from Paolo Javier. Check it out here. With a cover image by Mel Vera Cruz and designed by Amy Evans McClure (looks beautiful!).
Not only am I intrigued by the sample poem included over on O Books website, I’m greatly encouraged by the seeming titular play on the Magnetic Field’s 69 Love Songs.
Regardless, Paolo’s got the stuff, and if you don’t believe me — I have the evidence! Check him out at Boog City’s “d.a. levy lives: celebrating the renegade press” reading in January this past year. You can find the video over here. I love that video — and while you’re diggin’ around, be sure to check out the other fine poets that repped Ahadada that evening here.
Here’s the obligatory (but no less interesting) blurbs:
?Paolo Javier?s 60 lv Bo(e)mbs is one of the most radically detourned poetics that I?ve encountered in a long time. Rocking hard the perimeter of a national American literary metabolic center, Javier deftly develops what critical theorists have only been able to talk about: the birth of a non-idealist anticipatory-resilient para-national subject. His poetry engenders a polysemic motility that gives inner-life to this new state of independence. What does that mean? It means your kolonial momma?s got your poppa?s digits ? by the products.??Rodrigo Toscano
“I am happy to think of Clark Coolidge when I read these brain-racing improvs, even though they are spun out on tropical and topical and political and polyvocal chords. These poems carry the youth of the world a whole step forward in all possible ways.”?Fanny Howe.
Can’t wait to check this out! Be sure to check out Paolo Javier’s title from Ahadada Books, the time at the end of this writing. One of the most endearing things about Paolo’s first book is the habit it has of falling open to the words “Fuck Me!” emblazoned in 36 point Garamond. What’s in store for us with his next collection?
hello Jesse-!
it just so haps–
i have happened
to be working with haptic
poetry
in various ways–
since i use found materials and clay impressions and make rubBeings all these aspects of my works are haptic–they all involve direct touch-and touch often guides the works–
they think themselves
through touch
i have made a lot of pieces in which i mixed in with the paints all sorts of found materials having a myriad different textures to them–in this way, pieces make use of felt touched textures to bring new dimensions in into the reading/hearing/seeing of pieces–
i think of the way one’s hands play on bark–as though an instrument, stringed–the emergiing sounds and images that come via touch–
with the rubBEings, many things i make it is touch that has brought them into being following the ways they take–the touch guides–literally “poimts the way”–
i follow along sometimes with eyes shut moving lumber crayon along the paper which is pressed to the surfaces–of wood, metal, plastics, glass, etc etc–one feels the grains or blemishes knots rust corrosions–the touch of these is what is making its touch onto the paper–
the varying touchs of materials make for differing ways in which the rubBEings form and the thickness or lightnesses of them on paper–
also with the clay impressions–i carry clay about with me and make impressions of letterings, obects, forms–then spray paint these and press onto paper–thickness of paint, its responses to the materials in their topologies as they touch the paper and map themselves touching through the paint in ways different from the touch of them to the hands–
these create textures all their own–thicknesses–spashes—mixes–washes
using other materials than paint makes for differing touch, textures–stage blood, water color, acyrlic, nail polish, ink, model car paints, house paints–just about anything one has found–
have also experimented with using tars–fresh atrs found various places–creosote have trede–shellacs-anything that will make for a textured surface, so that it is anything but flat–and via touch–with eyes closed or open–the hand dreams–goes into reveries–lord knows it might even hallucinate!–
through time and literaly with each piece–one learns more and more a poetry of touch–to feel the pieces one uses–is an other experience than seeing–one learns as it were to see via the hands, shape, touch-how these become images, letterings–as what one sees at first–via the touch–becomes something other–it is not a direct copy so to speak–it is like copy art–yet the visual aspects of the first are not those entirely which emerge via the touch–so that what may have begun as a form of copying becomes other–transpositions–other tongues–
all this can be shifted changed continualy even within one stroke–by differing pressures of the hands on the differing pressures back of the objects letterings forms on the other side of the page-
and ways , angles, in which on eholds the lumber crayon–and as well the speeds with which one moves–the hands holding the crayon
these can explore the resistences and erasings–gaps–blotted spots– of the letterings, forms–going more swiftly, things appear via this touch that are not the same as via a slower rubEing–
even the surfaces of rubBEings differ from one to the other and within themselves–and the same with the paintings–to run the fingers over them, one feels the differing thicknesses, the smoothnesses and rougher areas–
these convey not only images–but emotions–powerfully
often i begin with a feeling–and work fromthere–
and eventually the emotions of the materials begin to come through–and my own are–disapated and vanishes into the waters of the feelings of touch–emotions of touch–the singings of forms, surafces, textures–these come through–and become what it being felt and expressed–
the intial emotions of myself are no longer there–i move into a different space within–as more andmore moving outwo/ards–via the touch–beyond the seeing into new realms–
i think also that each person’s hands being different, they will feel differing poems this way–one hand may be softer another rougher or one may have nerve damages that dull the touch–another is sensitive due to injury sunburn a myriad things–soft skin unused to rough surfaces or people who have no real awareness of touch –”out of touch”!–begin to learn–
touch is very important to me as too often with language letterings visual poetry–things move away from the physical become more abstract–theoretical–ironically names like “concrete” and “material language” etc–become abtsractions, far removed from the touch of concrete, of materials-
the things i make have become so invovled with touch–that i realize i am but at the very begining of learning, of a lifetime of learinng–the poetries of touch–
the last two weeks i have been working primarily on rubBEings of telephone poles–to run ones hands along the letterings that are burnt into them–feel these–and then find the ways they come through on paper–the thicknesses, and what iti s the eye may see that does not come through via touch and vice versa-
also continually using hands like this one begins to feel sounds–
soundings–within these surfaces, their forms, arcs, lines, breakages, knots, swirls, the depths of the in-between areas–among the ridged–the wearings of the weather—
some poles i have come to know quite intimately one might say!–and also rocks–stones–various dumpsters–trees, old cars–walls–broken down doors–window ledges–pipes, police call boxes, machineeries, plaques–
but the wood of late has been one that most draws me–and then draws itself so to speak
i continually feel deeply grateful to be embarked on these travels, for al around one to be found–is haptic poetry–for years now–learning so many areas of city by touch–and understanding how things begin to express themslves via the haptic methods–
it is continaully new–
the materials are everywhere–
even when in a 90 day facility with next to nothing to work with (to the eye–), began to find on the contrary a myriad things to work with–as i would close eyes and explore with fingers–what might be there–to make rubBEings of–and so forms continually emerged–
just now in lobby area where some work going on–no one there at the moment–i close the eyes and begin to move my fingers and hands along surfaces–finding texttures, letterings indentations, markings made by things colliding with walls, scratches-etec etc–finding a myriead things not always apprendable by the eye–and then other things which they ey picks up immediately–yet the touch finds are quite different–
the world continually opens the more senses one makes use of, learns from, and it is going on every moment everywhere–
i often feel extraordinarily happy to have found these freedoms–opening al around one–
to be able to walk about in the world as a place of happenings which may express themselves –to recognize–these–the notations which one moves among–feel them come through the paper–surging with their thought, their dreams–humors unknown before–things never before seen–
via touch began to be freed of the boundaries of the pre-conceived–
the hand also dreams–touch also sings–the things think themselves–
yes, i am thankful–for all of this!–the continaul unexpected, the uncanny recognitions–
haptic poetries–
david-baptiste chirot
Call for a poetry of pure touch with text-like elements. This poetry could be sculptural–free standing or relief work–or be flat “page” poetry, but the tactile elements should take precedence over the visual–i.e., this is poetry that does not need to be seen to be experienced. I can imagine that the temperature of the work could become an important element, as well as the dryness or wetness of the surfaces.
I can also imagine “pure” tactile poetry practicioners that do not allow the poem to be seen at all and “soft” practicioners of the art who allow their creations to be seen as well as touched.
Of course, this is not visual poetry, but the elements of visual poetry (in all its liminal glory) translated to another sense.
Perhaps there are already haptic poetry groups in operation? If so, please let me know. If anyone out there has or will experiment with creating haptic poetry, please contact me via this website.
This is Geoff’s response to my posting on the visual poetry Spiders over at Spidertangle and the odd webs they’ve been weaving recently. Since the comment function for this website has been as ambiguous in its operations as the Spiders’ definitions of visual poetry I’ll include it in Notes and Queries.
Jesse,
Come on, now. I have a pretty clear definition of visual poetry–actually four. And each is based on clear usage over time. The most common term is pretty broad, but pretty easily defendable from my POV. Visual poetry combines an important visual element with an important textual element in pieces that suggest some heightened sense of language as we expect in poetry. That’s about as good as any poor definition can do, since words are slippery beasts.
And Bob Grumman has a much clearer and narrower definition of visual poetry.. Maybe you are conflating his weird definition of “haiku” with his definition of “visual poetry.” [But aren’t Bob’s various kus also meant to be visual poetry? J.G.]
David-Baptiste Chirot is not really a theorist, and he was talking off the cuff. I think that Spidertangle conversation you are referring to (and to which I did not contribute) was pretty unhelpful at definition, leading us nowhere in particular.
Among some of my old papers from the early 1980`s was this draft of a letter I never sent.
Dear Sir,
I’ve just finished reading your Vanishing Hitchiker, and found much to enjoy and contemplate in its pages. When I found your address in the back of the book I could not resist the temptation to write to you, and perhaps add a new category to your bank of urban legends. This one, as it was told to me is called “The Haunted Missile Silo,” and I’ll give it to you as it was related to me by a cousin of mine–M.S.– who is an ex-air force missile mechanic currently living in Kansas. He told me this story about a year and a half ago:
“Some missile maintenance men were working third shift down in the silo when tanks of liquid nitrogen ruptured in the missile they were servicing and killed the whole team by freezing and suffocation–a quick but particularly painful way to go.
Now, as the silo is constantly monitored by cameras and microphones, and each silo is guarded around the clock by security police who man an intricate series of check points, absolutely no one can get into the work space undetected and nothing can move or be moved within those narrow confines without being detected by the monitoring devices.
Soon after the deaths of the members of the work crew, security police were baffled by inexplicable noises originating within the silo. Maintenance men were afraid to descend into the work space, because they too heard voices and the sound of something or someone hammering the silo walls. The delicate instruments registered movement when no one was at work on the missile, and tape recorders caught the sound of footsteps and calls for help.”
This is all top secret, and is currently under investigation by the top brass, according to my cousin, who heard about it from a sub-sub lieutenant.
I hope you find this story useful in your investigations.
Somebody wanted us know that we were being watched, just to see what we would do. Yet we were never questioned about our activities in the slightest, tho we reminded each other that should the FBI ever come to the door, we should step outside and close the door behind us, so that they couldn’t come in and claim they were invited. Every activist in the 1960s & ‘70s knew that.
I found this brief article in the Clarkesville, Tennessee Jeffersonian for November 2nd, 1853, and present it to you as a picture worthy of Whitman’s Leaves of Grass.
“Seven or eight negroes marched down Franklin Street last Monday, joined together by heavy log chains. Two of them, apparently perfectly contented with their situation, discoursed sweet music from two old dirty looking violins, as they marched along. The spectacle would have delighted Mrs. Uncle Tom Stowe, and drawn tears from the eyes of the tender hearted abolitionist.”
Two CD’s that have appeared in my mail box in the last week and deserve a thumbs up: “Les Chants de Maldoror,” read by Redjep Mitrovisa (Editions Theleme, 10, rue de Pontoise 75005 Paris) and “Live Capture Remix–June 10, 2005″ by Skip Fox, with electronic audio features by D. Perry and A. Verret (write to Skip at 1161 Highway 754, Sunset, LA. 70584).
Redjep’s reading of Chants I and II, interspersed with brief musical interludes, is accurate and intense. Redjep’s voice is that of an articulate youth’s–the voice has an unlined forehead, as it were–which drives home the fact that Les Chants de Maldoror is a young man’s book, written by someone who barely saw life before his atoms fell back to dust and silence.
Skip Fox’s voice, on the other hand, has the bite of a an older man who has gargled with acid after brushing his teeth with poison. The electronic augmentation fits perfectly–a swampy pool of sonorities through which the words fight their way to the ear and the heart. Skip writes that the group plans to issue a CD commercially. We hope it happens. Meanwhile, for those who might be interested, we supply the above address.
What exactly is visual poetry? Geoff Huth, Bob Gru-ku-mann, David Baptist Chirot, and other members of the Spidertangle List seem to know it when they see it, but can’t arrive at exactly what it is they mean when they try to define it. Does visual poetry need to have some linguistic element to make it poetry, or can it be created without words, or symbols, or even the beginnings of what could possibly be seen as linguistic elements? And if so, what separates visual poetry from just plain graphic art?
Or is it a matter of intention? David Baptist Chirot sees petroglyphs as visual poetry and assures us that some “Outsider Arists” are visual poets and some are not. Does wishing make it so?
Poor Spidertanglers weaving and weaving away in an apparent attempt to contain the whole world in their nets!
A definition stretched too thin is no definition at all.
As My final word regarding the University of Alabama Press’ showcase of experimental writing from the American South–which, on closer inspection appears not quite as ground-breaking as we’d like–I offer this foot-note:
From the Story of Decatur [Georgia] by Caroline Mckinney Clarke (Higgins-McArthur/Lingo & Porter, Inc., Atlanta, Georgia, 1973) page 43:
“Some years later when part of the Chivers property was sold, the purchaser requested that his grave be moved to the Decatur Cemetery, where it now rests under a bow tomb [?] over which is a great urn (in the southwest corner of the old Decatur Cemetery). The inscription reads:
HERE LIE THE REMAINS OF THOMAS H. CHIVERS, M.D.
OF HIS EXCELLENCE AS A LYRIC POET
HIS WORKS WILL REMAIN A MONUMENT FOR AGES
AFTER THIS TEMPORARY TRIBUTE OF LOVE
IS IN DUST FORGOTTEN.
THIS SOUL WINGED ITS FLIGHT HEAVENWARD
DECEMBER 19TH, 1858
AGED 52 YEARS.”
Thomas Holley Chivers, in terms of imagination, range of poetic techniques, and use of language is at least the equal of every one of the writers in Another South. They should all leave flowers–or at least a bottle of patent medicine–at his tomb.
My thanks to Susan Ralph, librarian of Decatur Public Library for this information, and to Skip Fox for sending a copy of Another South.
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