Thursday, 21 November 2019
Photo by Sophie Robinson
I can't believe I'm writing this in the past tense.
Sean was one of those people to whom almost anyone you could name had a personal and close and shared and unique relationship, a totally rare gift for acting as if hierarchies didn’t exist, an absolute generosity, a brilliant fucking mind and heart. Sitting up all night in the flat that he and Frances Kruk shared just down the road from the William Morris museum, chain-smoking, chain-drinking, Dylan Coltrane and Ayler, Nina Simone and Exuma blaring out the stereo (almost as if they were all blaring out at once), books spread all over the kitchen tabletop; reading each other poems, talking, talking, talking, totally and passionately and sceptically believing in poetry and its absolute vital importance and how it can and does change lives; at readings, stumbling the streets, clocking the fakers; on marches, at Millbank, in Parliament Square, screaming out the government; Sean chanting "Tories Tories you can't stop us, we will raise the dead" through a megaphone; Sean’s blog, poems appearing like fresh marvels every other day; Sean, one of those presences that should always be there and it always seems like they will.
And then he isn’t. Sean is our friend -- Sean was our friend, how can it be possible that we have to say it like that, that we have to correct ourselves, to change the tense as if he'd slipped into a fucking history book. He was, now he isn't. But that's silly, of course he is. For years, I don’t think a day has gone by when a line or more of Sean’s poetry doesn’t come into my head and match whatever’s going on in the fucked-up, 'so-called world' we’re all living in: match it, not as despair, acceptance or passivity, but like a slice of truth, a vial of acid thrown in the face of the enemy, a brick through a window, a fist in the air, a diagnostic razor blade. Oh sure you can say that this work became bleak at times, particularly in the poems collected in Ghosts and Our Death; for how fucking bleak our times; but Sean was a dialectical thinker and he was always aware of those pitfalls of total negativity and he faced them head on, with head held high, that trademark scowl he used to call out the bullshit, looking it in his eyes and calling it what it was.
Sean loved life, he loved looking at things and noticing things and discovering things, you would walk with him and he would point at them in wonder and appreciation or in horror and disgust, no sense was shut off in compassion and reaction and absolute commitment. This is something that should be stressed above all in Sean’s work and in his life – the fierce collective joy of its resistant energies of refusal, defiance and class warfare: ‘anger is an energy’, ‘my hatred of the rich is non-judgmental’.
Poets are stronger than the world, they tell us how to go out in it and to survive. Poets are weaker than the world, they're better than it and they don't always survive it. But their poems still survive the world, survive in the world, help us left behind to survive it. 'We are not completely defenceless. We have not yet been consumed in fire.'
Sean’s work for me and for many others was always the barometer, the seismograph, that which anticipated and predicted and commented on, better than any live-stream, any glitzy feed, the political realities we were facing in the UK and, internationalist to the absolute core, elsewhere, always manifesting an immense solidarity across not only space but time, the ensemble of the dead, the discarded, the ruined, the apparently obliterated. You would read the new poems, you would go to a reading, and you would say, did he really just say that, 'when you meet a Tory in the street, cut his throat / It will bring out the best in you', Sean wrote our slogans but he also knew that poetry takes us to another dimension than that of the slogan of the moment, he knew about the dialectical relation between history and memory and individual and collective and loss and survival and life and death.
In his poem from the summer of 2016, ‘From Deep Darkness’, Sean writes, ‘The ghost dimension I leave to my dearest friends’, and thinking of his penultimate book, Ghosts, and of the times when he would point out a ghost he’d seen but no one else had, but you could believe it was there, and the ghost ensemble of friends and comrades known and unknown, named and unnamed, that saturated the collective I of his work, thinking how Sean helped to build an entry-point into that rich and wonderful dimension that is one of the places that poetry lives, one of the homes that it builds in conditions of homelessness and abysmal unmooring, thinking of all that, and knowing that now that Sean is a ghost we can still visit him, still be visited by him, in the “Moment in each Day that Satan cannot find”, we also know that Sean was right when he wrote, ‘Our word for Death is not their word for Death.’
Read his fucking poems. Read them inside, read them out loud.
Sean Bonney lives.
Tuesday, 5 November 2019
Xenia Pestova Bennett (piano)
City University, Tuesday 29th October 2019
City University, Tuesday 29th October 2019
Part of City University’s excellent series of free concerts – for news of which, along with other avant-classical performances, I’m indebted to a particular mailing list which keeps an eagle-eye out for such events – this concert was for sure headlined by Luc Ferrari’s “collection de petites pièces”, a kind of epic-in-miniature / miniature epic entitled 36 enfilades pour Piano et Magnétophone, the longest and most (formally / conceptually) intricate piece on the table, and one which does some hard (but humorous) thinking on the ritual of the solo piano recital while at the same time revelling in the recital's capacity for virtuosity and display. This said, the Ferrari was paired with two Annea Lockwood pieces – RCSC, from 2001, and Red Mesa, from 1993 – which, wile they offered less in the way of conceptual questioning / thought-experiment tricksterism, perhaps offered more in terms of pianism, of an approach to the instrument-as-machine, machine-as-instrument, moving inside to strum and pluck the harp inside the piano’s box: an exploration of extended technique that might be familiar, perhaps even expected, in certain forms of improvised music, but which in contexts like these comes to seem a radical extension of vocabulary, timbre and the rest, and which has its own negotiation of place and placement within musical and geological histories.
Pestova Bennett began with a brief work by John Cage: as she told us after the piece, she’d planned on including some of the prepared piano pieces, as a programming fit with Lockwood’s inside-piano work and Ferrari’s extra-piano use of amplification and synthesized sounds, but the preparations would have been confiscated on her flight (a more banal take on the figuration of art as weapon). So instead we got the early piece of accompanying Merce Cunningham's now (presumably) lost choreography, ‘Dream’, a miniature that’s the accessible side of Cage, nothing to scare anyone off, though the modern-ness of its sound in the late 1940s has perhaps become rather unfairly lost in the wake of the ambient musics it can be said to have anticipated. The programme notes describe the piece as “unfold[ing] in a haze of piano resonances” – the score specifying that there be no silence, with tones freely sustained beyond notated duration. Despite that ‘haze’, Pestova Bennett’s combination of touch—the respective pressures applied to the pressing of fingers on and lifting of fingers off keys—and of pedalling seemed to emphasize the joins and cuts within that single-line melodic ‘haze’. As much as a matter of interpretation, this might simply have been due to the fact that, as she announced after playing the piece, she had just got off a plane and had a blocked ear; thus, was taking the audio temperature, testing the room’s resonances and her own hearing in comparison to everyone else’s volume levels. Either way, it brought a refreshing crispness to a piece that can otherwise become too easily soporific (rather than dream-like) in its resonant prettiness.
Annea Lockwood’s RCSC, part of a commissioned tribute to the much-neglected Ruth Crawford Seeger, draws pitch content from tone rows in Crawford Seeger's String Quartet as well as from palindromes based on Seeger's name. This shouldn’t suggest, though, that we have here a Schoenbergian / Darmstadtian concern with form as a kind of grid, as pitch arrangement outside certain tonal characteristics but within established formal structures. Instead, like Cage, Lockwood’s here interested in that relation of keyboard and pedal, of temporal extension blurring the struck qualities of the piano through an extended exploration of continuance and decay. A short piece, this extension of piano as instrument from keyboard to pedal, pedal to inner string developed as a study in resonance: note re-struck, pedal-clustered in transpositions, of touch and the movement of finger to key, foot to pedal. If audio archive projects like Lockwood’s Hudson river project have to do with certain ideas of collective explorations of voice and place, with sound as repository for memory and its traversal of space and time, the tone rows and palindromes of RCSC suggest a different way of viewing lineage, inheritance, gender and the like that might be smaller in scale. Likewise, a work like Red Mesa aims to be more what she calls “a personal exploration of terrain”. The programme note locates the work in a “solo journey I made in the Four Corners country (where Utah, Arizona, New Mexico and Colarado meet) in 1988”, and Lockwood has said that she returned to writing for acoustic instruments in order to explore the resonances that drew her to those instruments in the first place. That’s the personal, or the solo: to write a piece based on the significance of a particular place for one’s self, at a particular time, an unpretentious claim that at the same time locates its narrative of wandering, travelling, etc, squarely within a Romantic conception that might just as easily animate certain powerhouses of piano or symphonic repertoire from which the work at least initially seems removed. And Red Mesa does announce itself as, in essence, a piece of programme music; so that whereas the first piece can use the occasion of its composition and the tribute to Seeger as a way to explore its areas of interest as ‘purely’ technical problems (an interesting consideration given the trajectory of Seeger’s own career from avant-composer, not much concerned with political or ‘external’ content, to matriarch of the Seeger clan and major figure in the mid-century American folk revival), here – in the programme note, at least – we’re told of the desert, the Mesa, the whole histories of imperial sublime, of Monument Valley and silhouetted Native Americans, hinted at if not explored at length.
Audibly, at least, this isn’t much of a presence: what does seem important is Lockwood’s concern with the conversion of small sounds to larger ones, through electroacoustic technology elsewhere, the internal acoustics of the piano itself here; not for purposes of ironic extension / critique (as we’ll see with the Ferrari), but for an exploration of those sounds as modes of attention and possibility. One critic calls the piece “thoughtfully severe”, emphasizing the piece’s difference from the general trajectory of contemporary piano repertoire; I’m not sure how helpful that is, the piece seems to me rather luxuriant in its resonant explorations, though perhaps, in the wake of prepared and burning pianos, of which Lockwood’s 1968 piece Piano Burning is probably the most famous experiment, some sense of threat or decay hovers in the wings. As the titles to Lockwood’s Piano Transplants series suggest—Piano Burning, Piano Drowning, Piano Garden—the piano might here itself be imagined as a kind of ecosystem, to which the performer is in ambiguously protective, curative or destructive relation, so that performance environment (piano as ‘culture’, as the indoors, yet as conduit for a sublime or prettified codification of nature as tone poem, paysage, etc—think Liszt, think Ravel as random samples) blurs with the kinds of ‘open field’ conceptions of audition and performance that 4’33” ushered in – the site-specific, the incorporation of field recordings or outdoor performance environments, etc. (That said, it’s a strange sidenote that some of the more popular recent instances of the latter trend—say, the large scale piano concerti-type works by Michael Pisaro which have resonated particular strongly, July Mountain or the Fields Have Ears series for starters—tend to combine their extension into sonic landscapes of ‘country’ or ‘city’ with fairly conventionally played, tonally and melodically ‘pretty’ piano sounds.) And this, of course, is where certain technical problems of explorations explicitly become part of a social exploration, whether the ‘social’ is simply the consideration of performance space and what is brought into it (where it is brought out into), or whether it’s seen to resonate more widely. In other words, the Red Mesa programme note’s gesture towards landscape, history and the like – more specific than Cage’s ‘dream’, which simply takes the score into amorphous and generalised territory that can be read any way you want – are deliberate gestures, and introduce a tension—between machinic and ‘natural’, between the empty and the populated, at least hinting at the literal or artistic removal of human presence in the interests of a fetishized sublime (of which Ford’s Monument Valley would be the principal mark), a secondary erasure used to justify a primary act of genocidal erasure. So that, in the programme note, a phrase like “magnificence and geometric purity”, used to describe the Painted Desert, comes up against “often-filmed Monument Valley” and the fact that “cliff dwellings dat[e] back to the middle ages and are still home to the Hopi and Navaho nations”. How this sounds in the work itself is certainly harder to map programmatically, which is where the piece’s apparent nature as programme music, tone poem, etc, falls (thankfully) short. Not having thought much on any of this when listening, at the time I noted the contrast in focus to the first piece that Pestova Bennett played. RCSC in general might be said to consist of more gestural alternations of registral area – lower strings’ thicker, extended groan in contrast to a near-skittish, guitar-like mid-register or abrupt upper shrill – alongside a repeating (and varied) figure going from low to high – a sketch. Red Mesa, over a longer temporal span, becomes progressively more clangorous, declarative and flourish-laden – in terms, at least, of loudness and resonance (pedalled fortissimo, sustained rub and scrape of inside string—rather than virtuosity as runs / number of keyboard notes played). All this building to some chunky left-hand thunders and assertive chords, ending with the pleasure of a kind of ‘main theme’ restatement, dying away. If my writing here builds up a whole interpretative schema, or suggestion of adjacent ecological / political concerns, that the piece itself doesn’t seem to integrate formally, that’s not necessarily to the detriment of the piece itself, fascinating for sure.
So to the Ferrari enfilades. Written in the 1980s, the programme note tells us that this ‘collection’ was revised to remove the elements of music theatre originally present, but still haunted by the ghost of the performative, if in aural rather than explicitly physical form. Not that the ritual of concert performance is anything but – of course! – performative, and these kinds of considerations, dancing between levels of aurality, the electronic-machine and the piano-machine, the acousmatic and the live voice, teasing if not outrightly mocking traditions of musical legitimation to which concertgoers are generally inured, are an essential part of what makes the work interesting, playful, provocative, etc. The titular enfilades are an architectural term summoning the intricately connected rooms of museums, palaces, galleries, a kind of elaborate formal structure designed to enable ease of passage, at once foregrounding and hiding its own intricacy behind an array of baroque constructions, and the description might well suggest how the piece functions, though the analogy is far from exact. What that title does open up are certain parallels, recurring themes, variations, mirrorings, duplications, interruptions, conversational strategies that sound more monologic than dialogic, the replacement of a tape recorder with a laptop, the (non-speaking, occasionally whistling) pianist a more competent Krapp, “wondering about music”. If Lockwood and Cage turn to desert and dream as sound/landscapes, Ferrari more explicitly asks what the formal/conceptual framing of his piece means in terms of music history, music and history (as well as dream’s metaphorical transports): “So, is this is a suite? Maybe it’s theatre. Is it that old dream to never finish, or to always start over again?” So far so familiar, perhaps, and easy to fit into a certain modish discourse of the post-modern which would swallow a piece like this up, spit it back out in a neat package. But there’s more going on, even if the emotional texture tends towards polish, smoothness, ironized façade. In 36 pieces (“small pieces form a whole one”), what can you note but fragments, main elements: the piano ghosting, commenting on and obstructing the intentionally cheesy electric organ / synthesizer line which plays from the electric sound source alongside fragments of recorded speech, mainly single words, countings-in or down, instructions or questions. The obvious parallel here is to the music lesson: to error and repetition by ear as parody of practice, teleology and perfectibility, of unison and technical skill, of solo performer as always more than one. But this process is neither in defiance of technical training, nor ecstatic heterophony, as the synth lines become more and more cheesy, less believable as simulacra of acoustic instruments, and the voice, which at times seem to function like a music teacher-drill sergeant, switches genders and authoritative positions, asking ‘pourquoi’ or commanding ‘ecoute-moi’. To pick a point at random, the 13th piece, a waltz whose title announces it as such with a mixture of bombast and bathos – ‘C’est la Valse’ – is not Ravel’s gradual swelling to lush apocalyptic im/explosion, but cheesy burling synth and the music teacher / composer voice barking out a countdown (‘un, deux, trois’), offering curt compliments (‘bon’), calling for an encore as praise or simply demanding the exercise be repeated as punishment, asking ‘comment’ and eventually gurgling out something that sounds like ‘a i i i’ – perhaps the end point of all the discourses of beauty as achievement, as virtuosity and mastery of form, of tradition – for what. Straight after the waltz we have ‘Zarathoustra’, Richard Strauss thus speaking via a 1980s Hollywood, post-Star Wars cash-in sci-fi version of Kubrick, as once again the piece’s virtuoso task of intersecting with and doubling the electronic line is made to sound not so much as concert hall mastery, but as increasingly troubled idiom, western concert tradition, piano recital, Fascist sublime incised from inside. Does this undercut the music as a whole (or even music as a whole per se) as repository of feeling? Not quite: the piece that follows a few pieces later is marked ‘tendrement’, and that’s how it sounds; and the recurring ‘danse’ seems written to beguile, emerging from a kind of Ravel—Poulenc—Roussel residuum of French neoclassicism, ironized and seductive, feeling always held in check but always present. I’m thinking here of pieces in the piano tradition that might be named ‘souvenirs’, ‘impromptus, ‘cartes postales’, etc, and with the compressed derangement these pieces might at times almost contain—principally, as melancholy; or on the other hand, with the gestures towards Strauss, Schumann, and so on, the potential for explosion all the more vivid for being held within a form that names itself joy, celebration, etc. So we soon move from not one but two Hommage[s] à Schumann: who is made to hammer it out?, that inner derangement flourished as repetition, obsession compulsion: the presence of narrative, hearing a figure through repetition; the Romantic valourisation of impromptu-improvisation-passion as core at core already troubled, vexations (via Satie)...Who knows?
Polyphonie-Rhythme sounds to me like Tron touring the piano: I’m not sure if that’s even a particularly fanciful analogy, given that TRON came out in 1982, Ferrari’s piece in 1985, and that Wendy Carlos soundtracked the movie. I’m not sure if the piano here is the Tron car or simply the soundtrack to the Tron car. But either way, you tap your foot, for all of a minute – or, in the next piece, for all of 10”, of one phrase. Hardly a leitmotif, idee fix, repetition as romantic concern gets gestured at through the reference to the suite, to theme and variation, but as the tape recording says “je ne sais plus. Je ne sais plus rien”. Sometime you snap the same shot – development less a factor than stasis, déjà vu, or a something else the pieces can never quite reach. Hence Ferrari’s programme note ambiguity: “…No sooner have they started and are already over. Sometimes, they don’t even start, they have no beginning.” Ça glisse ça glisse. With finger-bleeding gliss runs (it shouldn’t be understated that is an extremely difficult piece to play) again rendered tinny, ghostly, unimpressive through the electronic doubling, yet another stale / stalled future like the revolutionary Romantic canon which gets filtered in and out of the mix like the switch on a radio (or these days, an ad-interrupted shuffle). Ferrari’s programme note mentions the absence of beginnings or endings – a fantasy of permanence that’s more like the death drive, that also refers to or once again elides the tradition where one is always being condemned to ‘start over again’, in the interests of perfectability, teleology, progress. Practice exercises, conditioning—is it Brahms or life, as the 34th piece (‘Les Brahms ou la vie’) asks, and why are those even choices? Who’s at the other end of Téléphone? The score folds out without tuner or tuner, ipad and tablet substituting page and score, Mac laptop substituting for radio and tape, digital and analog dance, the sound is echoed movie theatre / tape hiss / aloud breath as the telephone voice declares its unmooring. And then the finale is furieux et triste: furious and sad the piano shakes under the onslaught of its two-handed accomplice, its elbow-clustered, finger-planted simulation. Do you get to be both furious and sad at once (isn’t that what most fury or most sadness is)? In this context, can you be either? Ambiguity inheres at every turn, kept at arm’s length, at finger’s tip and touch, resolving to what a certain trend of western classical music tradition figures as struggle, as winning through to beauty / resolution, etc. But electronic ringtone drowns out the biggest and grandest of two-hand chords, fortissimo pianoforte made to sound electronically distant, ghosted, as what we hear, audio gesture, misaligns with what we see, the physical gesture right in front of our eyes: acousmatic. Is that a gunshot, a drumbeat, metronomic, machinic tic intended, under compulsion, play the phrase again, dread return and end.
Friday, 6 September 2019
I've not been posting much actual writing here for a while, but some things that I've been working on for a while have appeared elsewhere. Firstly, a piece on Cecil Taylor's poetry (which draws a little from the blogposts I did here after Taylor's passing last here) has now been published as part of Chicago Review's enormous and invaluable new feature on the Chicago Black Arts Movement. I haven't got my copy of the print version yet, but a good portion of the pieces are up online, including my short essay and a playlist of Taylor's poetry. (You'll have to scroll way down the page to get there, but do stop off at the other pieces, by Harmony Holiday, Haki Madhubuti, Thulani Davis, et al.) I'll also be presenting on Taylor's poetry, again, at the Taylor conference happening at CUNY in October. Hugely excited about this latter, especially having missed the Open Plan exhibition at the Whitney a few years ago, and to see what this "opening field of question" will yield.
Secondly, a project that's been something like four years in the making, A Short History of Tom Weatherly. This is a feature on the late and very neglected Tom Weatherly, blues poet par excellence, which collects most of his published (and some previously unpublished) writings and sets it alongside essays and reminiscences by others, up on Jacket 2. Here's J2’s write-up:
David Grundy has curated this feature on the poetry of African American poet Thomas Elias Weatherly and the intersections of his Alabama heritage, Christian and later Jewish religion, Black identity, and personal politics. This collection seeks to celebrate Weatherly as a skilled blues poet who wrote outside of “secure ideological or formal categories,” instead drawing from the complexity of his identity to build a unique poetics. “A short history of Tom Weatherly” compiles Weatherly’s poetry and other writings (both published and unpublished); reviews and essays by Grundy, Burt Kimmelman, Ken Bluford, and others; as well as photographs, obituaries, manuscripts, and recordings.
With grateful thanks to Julia Block and Kenna O’Rourke for their help with proofreading, editing and design; Regina Nicholson for granting permission to print Tom Weatherly’s work; and to the contributors: Samuel Amico, John Ashbery (RIP), Marilyn Kaggen, Ken Bluford, Victor Bockris, Akua Lezli Hope, Burt Kimmelman, Chris Martin, Aldon Nielsen, Eugene Richie, Evelyn Hoard Roberts (RIP), Janet Rosen, Jerome Rothenberg, Aram Saroyan, MG Stephens, and Rosanne Wasserman (with Lauri Scheyer’s contribution on its way!).
Both these pieces in memory of the poets they celebrate: Cecil Taylor (2018) and Tom Weatherly (2014).
(On other fronts, a review of the new Stephen Jonas reader, Arcana, should be out in the next Tripwire and I'm also working on reviews of Dread Poetry and Freeedom, David Austin's much-needed monograph on Linton Kwesi Johnson, and Beautiful Aliens, the forthcoming Steve Abbott reader expertly edited by Jamie Townsend.)
Wednesday, 21 August 2019
Pleased to announce that the sixth issue of SPLINTER magazine is out now...70 pages of poems from the following:
Ulli Freer, Callie Gardner, Dominic Hale, Randall Horton, Nathaniel Mackey, Erín Moure (translations of Andrés Ajens and Chus Pato), Cedar Sigo, Cassandra Troyan, Jamie Townsend and César Vallejo (translated and with glosses by William Rowe and Helen Dimos).
Plus the usual news section.
You can get it over at https://splintermag.blogspot.com
Tuesday, 30 April 2019
ANNE BOYER – MONEY CITY SICK AS FUCK
Available for Pre-Order
Very pleased to announce that Anne Boyer’s Money City Sick as Fuck is available for pre-order. Selected from a sequence of 100 poems written on a long day in the summer of 2013, Money City imagines writing a poem "in a confederacy of exception [...] called 'wages for tenderness and nothing else'". Situated between Pompeii and Olympus, at "Texaco in ruins" or the amusement park, in a bar called Lethe, at &the saddest prom in history, taking "every odd route", these poems passionately survey and survive the streets and jails of the modern-day polis,"sunbathing in Atlantis", oracles IRL.
The peak consequence —this portof pleasure —we willor will notrealize —
Reserve your copy at http://material-s.blogspot.com/
Also: MATERIALS Reading Series. Charlotte Thiessen, Marty Hiatt and Joel Scott will read at SET, 27A Dalston Lane, London E8 3DF, on Monday 27th May. Further details at: https://www.facebook.com/events/2271144293103838/
And: Double book launch for two new books from Bloomsbury's Critical Poetic series, A Black Arts Poetry Machine and Lyric Pedagogy and Marxist-Feminism at May Day Rooms, Fleet Street, London, on Saturday 11th May, 7pm. David Grundy and Sam Solomon will provide a brief overview of the books and will share discoveries for their research. The presentations will be followed by an open discussion. See: https://maydayrooms.org/whats-on/
Monday, 22 April 2019
Picked up from Brandon Brown himself in the Bay Area last summer, a month or so before his UK tour and wondrous readings in London and at the Sussex Poetry Festival, The Four Seasons is a book I've been living with for some time now. First things first, it's a lovely-looking edition (perfect bound, large-pocket sized) published by small (but perfectly formed) press Wonder – or, as the web address proclaims, Shit Wonder. And the particular brand of humour in that phrase, a kind of wide-open irony which manages to avoid either fatalistic bathos or recuperated sublime slipping in through the back-door, characterises the tone of the book as a whole. Written back in 2015-2016, its title provides easy clue to its main thematic preoccupation: the organisation of daily lives into the broader temporal frame of seasons, which are "arbitrary in practice if not in legislation" (12). Not subscribing to the annual division from January to December, the book instead moves, in a manner arbitrary/not-arbitrary, from May Day to May Day: what Brown calls "my idiotic poetry calendar" (38). At one point, he calls seasons myths to live by (133); their balance between recurrence and passing, happiness and mourning giving the book its bittersweet airs.
The Four Seasons is a daybook, journal, diary, or sectional long-form piece of prose that doesn’t at first glance appear to be a ‘poem’ per se. It has the virtues of the more digressive and personal nature of the non-academic essay (and in that sense could be placed in a tradition of say, Romanticism – the period that perhaps most influences Brown, poetically, in terms of his reading). It can also be charmingly silly, rolling along on endearing stoner vibes (sample: "One day I got so stoned I thought I invented the word 'wow' "). But, on top of this, it's shot through with an understatedly meticulous attention to the roll and flow of language off the tongue -- which is ‘poetic’ insofar as it is vernacular and musical, conversational and artificial, citational and specific to the moment, sliding between the speaking and the written voice, a chatty and dialogic monologue, the result of a practice that nonetheless retains a keen sense of overall structure, and above all, timing.
When Brown reads the text out loud -- as he did at the Sussex Poetry Festival and for the Splinter Reading series in Lewisham during the heatwave last summer -- he leaves stand-up comedy pauses, extended beyond expected limits, looks around, starts again as if the lines he'd just read were improvised, that he'd just thought of them. (And after all, that balance between spontaneity and rehearsed routine is the drama of stand-up per se.) That movement mimics but is not equivalent to how it feels to track the work's pacing as you read. There’s this thing Brown does, particular in the first section, of alternating paragraphs, where one theme is held in suspension while another is introduced and then the other one is returned to, overlapping, interweaving, like balls moving through the air in the hands of skilled juggler. Is that too easy a metaphor? What I'm trying to talk about are the spaces / pauses between anecdotes / paragraphs, as observation succeeds observation, the original observation coming back in a few pages later, the thread picked up again. It’s very musical. Not pop song. Sonata form? Or canon? Or fugue? Recapitulation, modulation, development, repeating phrases cycling through a musical improvisation, or the variations on a theme: and weirdly, in terms of structure if not spirit, closer to jazz or sonata form than to the pop songs that drench Brown’s work (most notably the previous book-length Top 40, which cycles through the top 40 songs in the pop charts at one time as social index, record of the work routine and its opposites, what live alongside it).
The overall framing of seasonal order reversed, starts with summer through to spring: in Brown’s calendar, the connection to labour that the seasons encapsulate is central, with worker’s holidays present as respite but also with mendacious overlay, public festivities as at once repositories of social exclusion and nationalistic violence and of the carnivaleseque, the jubilee, the warmth of community.
The seasons for Brown are also ways of reckoning with mortality. The discourse here is not spiritual per se, though Brown uses the traditional framework of the voyage to the land of the dead in the book’s most extended and moving narrative passage, taking up much of the Winter section. Nonetheless, it is to do with those things that are the frequent terrain of spiritual / religious practices: memorialisation, mourning, and the reckoning with death and change: the relation to artistic peers, celebrity idols, and deceased friends, marked in rituals or temporal observances that are at once highly personal and collectively ritualistic. The journey to the land of the dead, which starts off destabilising-jokey, a kind of sideways stoner-slip into alternative mental realms on the way to the supermarket, and ends surprisingly moving, as Brown encounters deceased friends, poets, from Peter Culley to David Bowie. And throughout the book, a meditation on what it means for seasonal division to be the way we parcel up our lives – quoting David Brazil on the etymology of seasons, thinking about time and motion and space, what happens to the body placed in seasons, in the world.
Another recurring tic: "[insert author name] has a line like". There's a recurring joke, or trope, about a line of poetry that Brown might only have half-remembered, but won't go to the book and check-- "[insert author name] has a line like..." This is, of course, not laziness but a deliberate flipping round of our usual approach to citation / allusion, drawing attention to the way lines reverberate in memory and the way we, sometimes, make them something else, is important to the way the book works. This reaches its crescendo in the section where Brown tries to transcribe the entirety of Keat's 'Ode to Autumn' off the top of his head, leaving in the transcription with incorrectly- and partially-remembered lines, the morphed lines and the gaps of less memorable sections creating some strange new hybrid. Textual authority is (temporarily) subordinated to the practice of reading and remembering as intimate, personal, yet with a gesture towards common/communality that is central to the book's ethics.
This is what the seasons are for Brown, what they allow him to do: to index the personal relation to sweat and smell, the sweet leaking of flowers or the harsh bite of winter to index how those individual observations are shaped by and relate to literary figurations, and how these are all interwoven into the social fabric of the every day. In that sense, Autumn is Keats. And now, the seasons are Brandon Brown, forest fires or unexpected snow or early spring, wherever you are, whatever the climate.
Thursday, 28 February 2019
Just a brief announcement that issue No. 5 of SPLINTER magazine is out for the last day of February -- 68 pages of poems from the following poets: Quenton Baker, Elana Chavez, Iris Colomb, D.I., Ian Heames, Lisa Jeschke, Mendoza / MacPherson / Hardy, Montenegro Fisher, Reitha Pattison, Jèssica Pujol Duran, Verity Spott, Catherine Wagner, Emilia Weber. Plus news, reviews and pictures...(The mag includes my review of Quenton Baker's excellent This Glittering Republic.)
Available for £3 (UK), £4 (Europe) or £6 (Rest of World), from: http://splintermag.blogspot.com/