Hughes and Rukeyser: visions of America April 16, 2013

Re-reading Langston Hughes poem, Let America Be America Again, I realized there is much overlap with Rukeyser.  Not necessarily in tone or presentation, but in the vision they each have.

In Hughes poem, the narrator states, “Let it be the dream it used to be.” And later, “O, let my land be a land where Liberty / Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath, / But opportunity is real, and life is free, Equality is in the air we breathe.”  In Rukeyser’s poem, The Soul and Body of John Brown, she writes “O my scene! My mother! / America who offers many births.”  They are both speaking of a vision of freedom that has yet to be realized, but exists in the foundations of the United States (and for Rukeyser, as a potential for the world).

Hughes narrator also states, parenthetically, “America never was America to me.”  Here, the narrator is talking about being excluded from the very possibilities of equality and freedom America is meant to offer.  Certainly in Rukeyser’s poem of John Brown, just by selecting him as a figure, she is aware of this same duplicity.

They also each address oppression in the modern day.  Hughes writes, “I am the worker sold to the machine.” Rukeyser echoes this sentiment when she writes, “Slaves under factories” and “a slave’s mechanical cat’s-claw reaping sky.”

Finally, they both end on notes of optimism, in spite of all that precedes it.  Hughes writes, “And yet I swear this oath –  / America will be!” This declarative statement is soon followed by “Its dream / Lies deep in the heart of me.”  Meanwhile Rukeyser ends her piece by referencing “more life” and giving the reader a directive, “challenging this hatred … risk it upon yourselves. … clear the image of freedom for the body of the world.”

While I did not initially consider Rukeyser’s poem a work of “witness” – it is certainly on the periphery. Both poems address an issue of inequality prevalent in their lifetime and demand the reader not only absorb the text, but react to it.

“Tragic Prelude” by John Steuart Currie April 15, 2013

located in the Kansas State Capitol Bldg. in Topeka, KS

Reznikoff’s The Holocaust

In class we read an excerpt of Holocaust by Charles Reznikoff.  The discussion took the turn towards the question of narrator and subjectivity. Details such as names and locations are lacking, the specificity lies in the minutiae of the events [“She kissed her father: / he was ice-cold / although it was only an hour after he had been taken.” or “he had said he was cutting the leather in his shop for shoes / and was registered as a shoemaker.”] Can the reader identify the subjective position?

There are moments where there is overt narrative intervention [“The other women looked at her – some no doubt with envy – ” or in poem 5 “They gathered some twenty Hasidic Jews from their homes,”]. Who is “they”? I mainly perceive the narrator saying “not me,” but I can’t infer much else about who is speaking. How does this influence my reading of the piece? Probably to my detriment, but I make assumptions all the time when reading and this is no different. So when it is clear that much is unclear, I’m left to ask, “What’s really going on?” and what is Reznikoff telling me?

As Trevor pointed out in his presentation, these are aspects of Reznikoff’s Objectivist approach. However, I wonder if, among other things, by removing information that usually falls in news reports (names, dates, places) and keeping the intimate details of violence and fear, then as reader I’m more easily immersed into the human experience of the events.  I don’t mean to say that I empathize in the sense of absorbing their trauma (again, referring back to our discussion w/ Trevor’s presentation), but I acknowledge at a level beyond the cerebral that something terrible – something that I can never really understand – has occurred.

Forché and Lanzmann April 11, 2013

I initially intended to blog on Forché’s work, The Angel of History, separately. But time slipped away and as we’ve since watched excerpts of Lanzmann’s film, Shoah, plus continued discussions of the Holocaust, I feel there’s so much overlap it is hard for me to discuss one without the other.

One very short piece of the film we watched conveyed citizens of a small town interviewed outside of a church. Simon Srebnik, a survivor, is there; eventually pushed into the background as others speak about what happened – what allowed the events to happen. One man speaks of the punishment of Jewish people as others nod their heads in agreement. This interview occurred sometime between 1974 – 1980. (I read on Wikipedia that it took another 5 years for editing; hence the film release in 1985.) This means that the interviews were at least 30 years old. Forché writes in the poem Elegy, “And it was like living through something again one could not live through again.” Is this how Simon felt? Did anyone else there feel similarly?

She opens that verse with the lines,

And even less explicit phrases survived:
“To make charcoal.
For laundry irons.”
And so we revolt against silence with a bit of speaking.

All are speaking in Shoah – survivors, perpetuators, bystanders. We spoke of the polyphonic approach of Forché’s work. The poem referenced above is in a section of the book entitled Elegy. The other two poems in that section remain in World War II, but focus instead on Japan. Multiple voices from radically different locations; Lanzmann provides multiple voices from radically different perspectives. And I think of Prof. Daumer’s comment of those who say, “I didn’t see it,” implying they are not a witness; that one can only witness by concretely seeing it. But of course they are witnesses too – perhaps unwillingly complicit or unwittingly, but implicated evenso.

Hayden’s Middle Passage March 25, 2013

As seems to be common in the class, I have once again read a poem I don’t know by a poet I am extremely unfamiliar with. I mention this only because, generally, once read my immediate reaction is, “how could I have not heard of this before?” Certainly that’s my sentiment in regards to Robert Hayden’s Middle Passage. A text that was written in the mid-1940’s and which he revised multiple times in his career.
Looking at this poem through the lens of witness, one of the most compelling aspects are the voices not heard. The speakers in the poem include a deponent at a hearing, a former slave trader, a rebellion survivor, and an unknown narrator. Whose voices are not overtly presented, are those of the slaves themselves. Their lack of voice both (a) places their presence in the forefront and (b) conveys to the reader a component of their new life ahead [at least as perceived by others who surround them]. i.e., human beings are now speechless cargo. There’s more that I discussed in my presentation, but I’d like to use the rest of this space to briefly comment on something else.
I looked up the word deponent in the Oxford English Dictionary. The OED lists the first definition as an adjective in grammar.
Of verbs: Passive or middle in form but active in meaning: originally a term of Latin Grammar. Both form and meaning were originally reflexive (e.g. utor I serve myself, fruor I delight myself, proficiscor I put myself forward, etc.), as in the Middle Voice in Greek; as, however, in ordinary verbs the reflexive form had become a passive in Latin, these verbs were erroneously regarded as having laid aside or dropped a passive meaning, whence the name. In reality, what was laid aside, or lost sight of, was the reflexive sense.
I am intrigued by this definition in relation to this poem. I can’t help but suspect that Hayden, unlike me, knew of this primary definition and that was part of why he selected to use the term for one of the voices who speaks in part I. The complete lack of self-reflexivity of the speakers actions; one who passively watches and describes gang rape and human anguish at multiple levels creates an ironic distance and pushes the reader away from the speaker. This lack of insight was essential to the success – for lack of a better term – of the middle passage. Consequently, as mentioned in class, those who do speak are not necessarily witnesses, because they do not see.

Uncoagulated thoughts on the recent Rukeyser symposium

I only attended ~ 1/3 of the event, which was so rich and dense I’m not sure I am prepared to say anything truly substantive. On Thursday night was a reading of The Book of the Dead where the polyvocality of the work came forth in full force. In addition to the five participants reading excerpts, they often overlapped with each other and/or read the same excerpts – thus giving even more multiple tones to the work.
After the presentation, three guest poets presented their work – Catherine Taylor, Tyrone Williams, and Judith Goldman respectively. Their work was quite different from each other and from the Rukeyser piece presented. Yet the thread between all was a presentation of events not conveyed – hidden from media or obscured by nuanced text on plaques. Video and audio, slides of city statues, straight-up poetry reading (reading text that is anything but straightforwardly presented).
The next day I was fortunate enough to attend to discussion sessions. Topics included Rukeyser’s way of engaging others when in a foreign environment and how those experiences fed into the construction of her work.

A few thoughts on Death Fugue February 21, 2013

We read Paul Celan’s Death Fugue, translated by John Felstiner in class.
This was the first time I’d read the poem; I’m not familiar with Celan’s work. Consequently most of my reactions below are essentially gut reactions to the poem.

Each time I read the piece, I am in awe of the involution of the poem. The first words, repeated throughout the piece are black milk – the contrast of black and white, the instant revulsion conveyed. And one often thinks of milk as nutritional or healing (e.g., mother’s milk) so the contrast is extra stark. The first stanza also contains the phrase “he writes when it grows dark to Deutschland your golden hair Marguerite” – the contrast of darkness and light once again. There are overlapping contrasts of events – whistling, a joyous sound and activity – paired w/ shoveling graves; dancing and playing music paired w/ Death and smoke (a variation of death). And the multiple repetitions of drinking – the saturation of death – in each stanza to never let the reader forget that it overlays the individual scenes conveyed. Eventually, all of these contrasts build upon and fold in on each other creating a scene for the reader that does not make sense [although we know what’s going on].

In addition, words that convey a particular ominousness are used. For example, there’s the man who plays with his vipers. [Again the contrast with verb and noun.] But also, in contrast to snake, an everyday word, viper (for me) connotes ancientness, deadliness, and fear. All qualities which are meant to be attributed to Deutschland as well.

Often when I see something that “can’t be true” there’s a disconnect between what my eyes take in and what my brain processes as an actual, feasible option of reality. This poem, by connecting everything, conveys that disconnection. As a reader, I hold onto (or at least want to) a certain amount of disbelief because what I’m reading “can’t be real or true”. But of course, it is.

Framing Rukeyser’s Book of the Dead as poetry of witness February 17, 2013

I went back to Forché’s introduction to see what criteria she used when defining poetry of witness and how Rukeyser’s Book of the Dead fit in.

Forché advocates usage of a 3rd term – “the social” – as a place of resistance and struggle. She goes on to write that a poem is to be judged by its consequences, not our ability to verify its truth. (p. 31)

Christine Tracy recently visited the class, and in an excerpt of hers regarding journalism provided to the class she writes, “While a story can be fair and accurate, real truth evolves over time.”

Last term, in Prof. Halpern’s class, we read an excerpt by The Atlas Group foundation that argued truth was a process.* Although much of the discussion in the article focused on a particular war, much of what was said can apply to Rukeyser’s Book of the Dead as well. The Atlas Group states “The truth of the documents we archive/collect does not depend for us on their factual accuracy. … Facts have to be treated as processes. One of the questions we find ourselves asking is: How do we approach facts not in their crude facticity but through the complicated mediations by which facts acquire their immediacy?”

I think all of these perspectives overlap. Rukeyser presents, through poetry, some of those complicated mediations. The truth conveyed by doctors or by Union Carbide & Co. may not match Philippa Allen’s truth of the event. As reader, we must decide for ourselves. And as Rukeyser utilizes documents she provides both a fact and a complicated truth that we must negotiate for ourselves. For example, by placing stock quotes out of context (e.g., outside of the financial pages of a newspaper) she has extended the document. She has allowed the reader to see through her lens the manual and material costs that fed into the company’s increase in value. The stock value is not just a static piece of information, but a component of a much more complicated story involving migrant workers, racism, the manipulation of nature, the nature of business, illness, government, technology, family, and love.

Later in Forché’s introduction, she writes about using the news media as a model for writing. “Foreigners want to hear nothing but the facts because they do not wish to be disturbed by their complicity in the sufferings of the city.” (p. 36) Again, although the quote is referring to a particular event, it feeds into the idea that one perceives a fact as a static statement – something separate from oneself. Whereas the work of the poet fights against this – there is complicity, including among readers, and when presented in a different frame, the fact is complicated and fluid.

Forché also writes, “The poetry of witness reclaims the social from the political and in so doing defends the individual against illegitimate forms of coercion. It often seeks to register through indirection and intervention the ways in which the linguistic and moral universes have been disrupted by events.” (p. 45) Rukeyser is foremost a poet – she uses poetic devises of rhyme, rhythm, couplets, etc.; she tells of an event in a non-linear fashion. Rukeyser uses her work as poet as intervention, and to prompt the reader to view both poetry and documentation in ways other than the traditional. This juxtaposition amplifies both the poetry and the documents, and forces the reader to pay attention. Philippa Allen defends the individual in Senate hearings; Rukeyser in poetry.

Other criteria listed by Forché that I consider relevant to Rukeyser’s Book of the Dead: “…the normative promises of the state have failed. They have not been afforded the legal or the physical protections that the modern state is supposed to lend its citizens, how have they been able to enjoy the solidarity that the concept of the nation is supposed to provide.” (p.45) Although Forché is writing about the poets themselves included in her anthology, that same criteria can be applied to the individuals Rukeyser is writing about (and therefore are just as vulnerable as the poets presented).

There were subcommittee hearings and trials; certainly the courts failed the workers of those involved. For example, the exorbitant lawyer fees (of those who were marginally paid), and the collusion of doctors with Union Carbide were betrayals to the workers. Assumptions of a safe work environment or of later restitution were not fulfilled.

These are just a few thoughts on the book. Our discussions also focused on shadows [workers who live on the periphery – in the shadows, working in the shadow of silica dust and tunnels, living on the periphery of towns; essentially ephemeral as shadows are.] forms used, implication of using the Egyptian Book of the Dead, and descriptions of nature. More on those topics another time.

*The Archive: Documents of Contemporary Art (Whitechapel Ventures Ltd., 2006)

Ambivalence February 3, 2013

I’ve just finished reading the final piece in H.D.’s Trilogy [The Flowering of the Rod]. Last week I mentioned to Prof. Daumer that, up to that time, I was ambivalent about this book. I didn’t hate it – I didn’t have any strong feelings towards it really. Well, now that I’ve finished my opinion has only changed slightly. What I can honestly say is (a) I liked each piece more than the work prior (i.e., The Flowering of the Rod was the most pleasing to me; see below for brief reasons why), and (b) part of what frustrates my engagement with the text as a whole is that I am increasingly convinced this is not a poetry of witness. At least, it is not a witness – a reflection of or engagement with – WWII (as a whole), London in that timeframe, or even war generally.

While H.D. occasionally references her immediate surroundings and events, they are not in the forefront in the work. They are not even frames for the rest – to be referred back to at intervals or at the end. It’s as if she anchors a piece in the present (e.g., in [1] of the final book are the lines the anger, frustration, / bitter fire of destruction; / leave the smouldering cities below / (we have done all we could) ) but quickly leaves this for a different narrative and does not return to it.

Instead, she seems concerned with utilizing Greek mythology + Bible stories to create another possible world – a world that involves resurrection and acknowledgement of the feminine. Or she’ll mesh science with what is considered non-scientific. For example, in [27] of the final piece she provides a hybridity of astronomy [respected science] and astrology [mocked science] (as the stars had told (Venus in the ascendant / or Venus in conjunction with Jupiter, / or whatever he called these wandering fires). These hybrid illustrations may be interesting, but, as stated above, they do not feedback into a larger reflection as witness.

My ambivalence also comes from a lack of appreciation for her repeated language in the text. A simple example would be the words “echo” and “shell” which appear throughout. Although H.D. provides multiple mutations of lines with these words, the repetitiveness does nothing for me – it does not amplify the meaning, the aural appreciation of the text, or imbue greater value in anyway.

I think this is coming across as harsher than I intended, but I just interpret this as a murky text. Perhaps it is a dense work and I am simply unable to crack the nut open, as it were. And, there are components that I did enjoy; I just perceive them as independent of meaning connected to witness. I’m sure part of why I preferred The Flowering of the Rod was because of the narrative style and the interactions of a moment being connected to larger attitudes (such as judgment, gratitude, and value of gender).

Plus, there was language that really struck me (e.g., in [28] and what he saw made his heart so glad / that it was as if he suffered, / his heart laboured so / with his ecstasy.) To me, this is where I could be persuaded her work is great – when she talks about what a connection can do in this beautiful fashion.

Craft interview w/ M. Rukeyser January 24, 2013

I’ve just finished reading the 1972 Craft interview w/ M. Rukeyser, so these thoughts are still fairly nebulous and I’ll probably write a follow up post as the interview goes in assorted directions. [The process of translating, personal life history, advice and obstacles in regards to writing, and prose are a few topics addressed.]

We’ve been discussing MR’s piece Mediterranean, and that is touched on briefly in the interview.
The poem addresses what happens to her + others as they depart and spend 5 days on a boat for France at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War. In the interview she discusses what is not – what didn’t happen and, by implication, what could have been. Although she is initially referring to the anti-Fascist games [which is why she was there in the first place] she quickly goes onto a larger vision; a larger framework in which they were to take place. At the end of her response she states “It was a curious vision of a twentieth-century world which would not take place.”

I’m intrigued by this b/c this is an interview, where she talks about her ideas and is largely just herself. In her poetry, she also takes the concrete materials and experiences and threads them to much larger structures and visions. I have the impression that always thinking about that connection – that threading – is not just the work of composing a poem for her, but an essential part of who she is.

In the interview, immediately after this topic, is a discussion of the poem Waterlily Fire. The interviewer indicates that the piece is comprised of “unrelated elements.” She immediately reacts to that phrase and dissects how each element is related. They are thread together not randomly, but because she sees a connection that she wants readers to see as well. She ends that response, “I don’t work with unrelated elements.”