To begin ...

As the twentieth century fades out
the nineteenth begins
it is as if nothing happened
though those who lived it thought
that everything was happening
enough to name a world for & a time
to hold it in your hand
unlimited.......the last delusion
like the perfect mask of death

Friday, May 26, 2017

From Technicians of the Sacred (expanded): the 50th anniversary Pre-Face, with a Final Note

[In preparation for the final publication Summer-Autumn 2017]

PRE-FACE (2017)

Something happened to me, now a full half century in the past, that has shaped my ambition for poetry up until the very present.  Not to focus too much on myself, it was a discovery shared with others around me, of the multiple hidden sources & the multiple presences of poetry both far & near.  I don’t remember clearly where – or when – it started, but once it got under my skin – our skin, I mean to say – that which we could hope to know as poetry drew in whole worlds we hadn’t previously imagined.  Nothing was too low – or high – to be considered, but the imagining mind & voice, once the doors of perception were opened or cleansed, were everywhere we looked.
This also tied in to the search to create new forms of writing & thinking & to bring to light experiences & actions heretofore closed to us: a move that began with an earlier avant-garde & that we now repossessed/reclaimed as our own.  A result of that – from the beginning, I thought – was an expansion of what we could now recognize as poetry, for which our inherited definitions had proven to be inadequate.  In that sense that which was traditional in other parts of the world or buried & outcast in our own came across as new & unforeseen when placed within our own still too narrow framework.  For myself, the discoveries, once I opened up to them, proved as rich in possibilities as what we & our predecessors had been creating for our own place & time. That so much of this came from an imagined “outside” or from long outcast & subterranean, often brutally repressed traditions was evident even before we named them as such.
Why did it happen then?  Why in the 1950s & 1960s when I was first coming into poetry? The old explorers, the avant-gardists from the first half of the twentieth century who had gotten some of this rolling, had paused or retreated during the war (the second “world war” in the lifetime of some then among us), which in turn had changed everything around us. The early cold war that followed drove things/thoughts underground for some, while for others it brought the reassertion of a more conventional literary/poetic past.  (That last was good, by the way, as a prod for actual resistance.)  In the underground & at the margins, then, a new resistance was born in which the rigid past was again wiped clean & the new allowed to flourish.  (Not the newness of novelty & fashion, as we saw it, but a newness that could change the mind & in so doing change the world – something shared with other arts & ways of thought & mind.)  And with that came a kind of permission to remake the order of things & the changes began to come in helter-skelter; & as they did they changed the idea of what poetry was or could be in all times & places.  For myself—early along—I turned to “reinterpreting the poetic past from the point of view of the present” – words I used in a manifesto I wrote in those heady times when so many of us were writing manifestos. 
With this as my impulse I began to scour areas that had been closed to us as poetry – hidden, outsided & subterranean – to discover what was clearly poetry but also forms of languaging that had never been within poetry’s domain.  The first area I approached was what had for too long been labeled as “primitive” & “archaic” & that surfaced, when it did, (the “primitive” in particular) in specialized books that took up space in libraries & book stores (but also in academic curricula) outside of poetry or literature as such.  My own discoveries, once they started, came in lightning-quick succession, & as they did, they brought to light works in no sense inferior to what we sought or created as poetry in our own time & finally in no sense inferior to what had been delivered as the poetry & poetics of the normative “canonical” past.  Furthermore they provided rich new contexts for poetry – not as literature per se but as a means, both public & private, for experiencing & comprehending the world, by which the visions of the individual (along with their translation into language) were at the same time what Mallarmé had called “the words of the tribe” (& Ezra Pound “the tale of the tribe”), words whose purification Mallarmé saw as the poet’s principal task.  That the poems in question were largely oral – free of writing in the narrow sense – made them all the more intriguing & played into the draw we felt in our own work toward a new poetics of performance.  (That the “tribe” in this sense was the human in all times & places is another point worth making.)                                                                                                    
For this I found the anthology a nearly unexplored/undeveloped vehicle, one too in which I was given unchecked control during the heady days of the late 1960s, so that I could handle it as I would a large assemblage or a grand collage of words & images.  That was what came to me anyway as I assembled Technicians, the idea of a book that worked through a series of juxtapositions & with a free hand that was given me to include whatever I thought needed including. And I found myself free as well to create a structure for the book & to include an extensive section of commentaries that could both point to the original/aboriginal contexts & to the relevance & resemblance of those poems or near-poems (Dick Higgins’ term) to contemporary works of poetry & art, but particularly to newly emerging experimental or avant-garde writing.  It was that approach to the works at hand that allowed me to find poetry (or what I came to call poesis or poetic word & mind) in acts of language that had rarely been recognized as such.  I was also able to drop the notion of the “primitive” as a kind of simplistic or undeveloped state of mind & word, & to begin the pre-face to the book with a three-word opening I can still adhere to: “Primitive means complex.”


In the original edition of Technicians of the Sacred in 1968, & again in the expanded 1985 edition, the three opening sections end with one titled “Death & Defeat,” which I’ve come to think of as a marker of the tragic if secondary dimension of the original work.  The final poem in that section, however, was a small prophetic song from the Plains Indian Ghost Dance”:

            We shall live again.                                                                                                             
             We shall live again.

In the years since then, along with the continued decimation of many poetries & languages, there has been a welcome resurgence in others of what was thought to have been irrevocably lost.  This has taken place both in indigenous languages (sometimes called “endangered” or “stateless”) & in the languages of conquest – in written & experimental forms as well as in continuing oral traditions, & as often as not showing both a continuity & transformation of the “deep cultures” from which the new poetry emerged.  It is with this in mind that the old Ghost Dance song becomes a harbinger for me of what can now be said & represented.                                                                                                   
My own experience here has been largely with the new indigenous poetries of the Americas, both north & south, but in the course of time I have also begun to explore similar outcroppings across a still greater range of continents & cultures. The new indigenous poets with whom I’ve had direct contact in mutual performance & correspondence write & perform in languages such as Nahuatl, Mazatec, Tzotzil, Zapotec, & Mapuche, among those in the Americas, while I can also draw on others (both poets & translators) in Africa, Asia, & Oceania, to maintain the global balance that characterized the earlier Technicians.  I have also chosen to represent pidgins & creoles, as well as poetry written in languages like English & Spanish but tied in formal & semantic ways to the deep cultures from which they emerge.
            In all of this it seems clear to me that when I speak here of “survivals and revivals” the reference isn’t to a static past but to works that are open both to continuity, however measured, & to necessary transformation.  It is good to remember in that sense that change – of form & vision both – has been at the heart of the older poetries gathered here as well as of our own.  As Charles Olson wrote, now some time ago: “What does not change is the will to change,” and it is in that spirit that revival appears here as renewal: to “make it new,” as Ezra Pound once had it, & the Emperor Taizong T’ang some thirteen centuries before him, & so cited. In the paradise of poets, to which I’ve alluded elsewhere, the old & the new are always changing places.

. . . . . . .

A Final Note.  In the world as we have it today many of the indigenous & tribal/oral cultures foregrounded in Technicians of the Sacred are again under threat of disruption & annihilation.  If the older colonialisms are less apparent than in the past, new forces unforeseen thirty years ago, both ethnic & religious, are threatening to wipe out vestiges of the alternate traditions & to eliminate those who remain their inheritors. In the process the deeper human past has also come under attack, rekindling memories of previous iconoclasms – the smashing of statues & the burning of books brought into a present in which the fear of difference & of change now reasserts itself.  At the same time, & much closer to home, we have witnessed an upsurge of new nationalisms & racisms, directed most often against the diversity of mind & spirit of which the earlier Technicians was so clearly a part. To confront this implicit, sometimes rampant ethnic cleansing, even genocide, there is the need for a kind of omnipoetics that tests the range of our threatened humanities wherever found & looks toward an ever greater assemblage of words & thoughts as a singular buttress against those forces that would divide & diminish us.  That the will to survive arises also among those most directly threatened – as a final & necessary declaration of autonomy and interdependence – is yet another fact worth noting.

Jerome Rothenberg                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            Encinitas, California
May Day 2017

Friday, May 19, 2017

Alejandra Pizarnik: Four Tales, translated with commentary by Cole Heinowitz


I try to recall rain or crying. The obstacle of things that don’t want to go down the path of innocent desperation. Tonight I want to be made of water, want you to be made of water, want things to slip away like smoke, imitating it, showing the final signs—gray, cold. Words in my throat. Stamps that can’t be swallowed. Words aren’t drinks for the wind, it’s a lie what they say, that words are dust—I wish they were—then I wouldn’t now be saying the prayers of an incipient madwoman dreaming of sudden disappearances, migrations, invisibilities. The taste of words, that taste of old semen, of an old womb, of lost bone, of an animal wet with black water (love forces me to make the most hideous faces before the mirror). I don’t suffer, I’m only expressing my disgust for the language of tenderness, those purple threads, that watered-down blood. Things hide nothing, things are things, and if someone comes up to me now and tells me to call a spade a spade I’ll start to howl and beat my head against every deaf, miserable wall in the world. The tangible world, prostituted machines, an exploited world. And the dogs insulting me with their proffered fur, slowly licking and leaving their saliva in the trees that drive me mad.                                                                                                                               [1961]


Falling until you touch the absolute bottom, desolate, made of an ancient silencing and figures that keep saying something referring to me, I can’t understand what, I never understand, no one could.

            These figures—drawn by me on a wall—instead of displaying the motionless beauty that was once their prerogative now sing and dance since they’ve decided to change their nature (if nature exists, if change, if decision...).

            This is why my nights are filled with voices coming from my bones, and also—and this is what makes it hurt—visions of words that are written yet still move, fight, dance, spurt blood, and then I see them hobbling around with crutches, in rags, cut from the miracles of a through z, alphabet of misery, alphabet of cruelty. The one who should have sung arcs through silence while it whispers in her fingers, murmurs in her heart, in her skin a ceaseless moan...

            (You have to know this place of metamorphosis to understand why it hurts in such a complicated way.)


Mama told us of a white forest in Russia: “... and we made little men out of snow and put hats we stole from great-grandfather on their heads ...”
            I eyed her with distrust. What was snow? Why did they make little men? And above all, what’s a great-grandfather?


Behold the idiot who received letters from the outside.
—Paul Éluard

I’m talking about a betrayal. I’m talking about a mystical deception, about passion and unreality and the reality of mortuaries, about bodies in shrouds and wedding portraits.
            Nothing proves they didn’t stick needles in my image. It’s almost strange I didn’t send them my photo along with needles and an instruction manual. How did this story begin? That’s what I want to investigate, but in my own voice and with no poetic design. Not poetry but policy.
            Like a mother that doesn’t want to let go of the child that’s already been born—that’s how its silent takeover is. I throw myself into its silence, drunk with magic premonitions of uniting with silence.
            I remember. A night of screams. I rose up and there was no possibility of going back; I rose higher and higher, not knowing if I’d arrive at a point of fusion or stay with my head nailed to a post for the rest of my life. It was like drinking waves of silence, my lips moved like they were underwater, I was drowning, it was as if I were drinking silence. Inside me were myself and silence. That night I threw myself from the highest tower. And when we were at the top of the wave, I knew that this was mine, and even what I’ve looked for in poems, in paintings, in music, a being that was brought to the top of the wave. I don’t know how I gave myself over, but it was like a great poem: it couldn’t not be written. And why didn’t I stay there and why didn’t I die? It was a dream of the highest death, the dream of dying while making the poem in a ceremonial space where words like love, poetry, and freedom were actions in living flesh.
            This is what her silence intends.
            It creates a silence in which I recognize my resting place when the litmus test of her affection must have been to keep me far from silence, to bar my access to this region of exterminating silence.
            I understand, understanding is useless, no one has ever been helped by understanding, and I know that now I have to go back to the root of that silent fascination, this gulf that opens for me to enter, me the holocaust, me the sacrificial lamb. Her person is less than a ghost, than a name, than emptiness. Someone drinks me from the other side, someone sucks me dry and discards me. I’m dying because someone created a silence for me.
            It was a masterful job, a rhetorical infiltration, a slow invasion (the tribe of pure words, hordes of winged discourse). I’m going to try to extricate myself, but not in silence, for silence is a dangerous place. I must write a lot, capture expressions so that little by little her silence will grow quieter and then her person will fade away, that person I don’t want to love, it has nothing to do with love but rather with unimaginable and therefore unspeakable fascination (getting closer to the harsh, to the soft fog of her distant person, but the knife sinks in, it tears, and a circular space made from the silence of your poem, the poem you’ll write afterwards, in place of the slaughter). It’s nothing more than a silence, but this need for real enemies and mental lovers—how did she know that from my letters? A masterful job.
            Now my nervous she-wolf footsteps around the circle of light where they slip the correspondence. Her letters create a second silence even denser than that of her eyes from the window of her house facing the port. The second silence of her letters gives rise to a third silence made of the absence of letters. There’s also the silence that oscillates between the second and third: encrypted letters in which she speaks in order not to speak. The entire range of silences while from the other side they drink the blood I feel myself lose on this one.
            Nevertheless, if this vampiric correspondence didn’t exist, I’d die from the lack of such a correspondence. Someone loved me in another life, in no life, in all lives. Someone to love from my place of reminiscence, to offer myself up for, to sacrifice myself to as if with that I could provide a fair return or restore the cosmic order.
            Her silence is a womb, it is death. One night I dreamt of a letter covered in blood and feces; it was in a wasteland and the letter moaned like a cat. No. I’m going to break the spell. I’m going to write like a child cries, that is: it doesn’t cry because it’s sad; rather, it cries to inform, peacefully.

[Published in La Gaceta de Tucumán, San Miguel de Tucumán, February 22, 1970.]

[COMMENTARY.  Flora Alejandra Pizarnik (1936-1972) was born to Russian Jewish parents in an immigrant district of Buenos Aires. During her short life, spent mostly between Buenos Aires and Paris, Pizarnik produced an astonishingly powerful body of work, including poetry, tales, paintings, drawings, translations, essays, and drama. From a young age, she discovered a deep affinity with writers and artists who, as she would later comment, sacrificed everything in order to “annul the distance society imposes between poetry and life.” She was particularly drawn to “the suffering of Baudelaire, the suicide of Nerval, the premature silence of Rimbaud, the mysterious and fleeting presence of Lautréamont,” and, perhaps most importantly, the “unparalleled intensity” of Artaud’s “physical and moral suffering” (“The Incarnate Word,” 1965).
            Like Artaud, Pizarnik understood writing as an absolute demand, offering no concessions, forging its own terms, and requiring that life be lived entirely in its service. “Like every profoundly subversive act,” she wrote, “poetry avoids everything but its own freedom and its own truth.” In all of Pizarnik’s writing, this radical sense of “freedom” and “truth” emerges through a total engagement with her central themes: silence, estrangement, childhood, and—most prominently—death. An orphan girl’s love for her little blue doll pumps death gas through the heart of her avatar. The garden of forgotten myth is a dagger that rends the flesh. A grave opens its arms at dawn in the fusion of sea and sky. Every intimate word spoken feeds the void it burns to escape. Pizarnik’s writing exists on the knife’s edge between intolerable, desolate cruelty and an equally intolerable human tenderness. As she remarks of Erzébet Báthory in “The Bloody Countess:” “the absolute freedom of the human is horrible.” And the writer’s task, she added in a late interview with Martha Isabel Moia, is “to “rescue the abomination of human misery by embodying it.”]

N.B. Additional poems by Alejandra Pizarnik appeared here on Poems and Poetics, and her important essay on Antonin Artaud appeared here.