Their Bark Had No Tree:
If the group reading of 22 poets staged at the Four Seasons Hotel last
night is endemic of American poetry today, then American poetry is dead.
Barrett Watten read a long poem On Friendship clearly designed to be
flagged by the Oxford Book of Poems on Friendship and torpid enough to
make it in. My apologies to the Metaphysicals. Watten's meditation was
obviously a product of too many idle moments in his lit department
office.
Bob Perelman did him one snoozier with an interminable, 5 minute piece
punctuated by reports of his frequent flyer miles. With a lot of these
folks, rebellion seems to have gone the way of their hair, if one can
believe they ever had any fire in them to begin with.
Johanna Drucker read her "hygenic hardware" poem in a spectaular
monotone that resembled HAL the computer in 2001. The poem beats to
death a single metaphor and then compounds the felony by having a book
designed around it.
Juliana Spahr read two poems that rather mechanically and
unimaginatively morphed one word into another in bland and fatuous
association. Then she grafted an appendix to each poem that by fiat
insisted upon the above exercises grave consequences. Very sterile.
It was clear that Jerome Rothenberg's contribution to poetry does not
come from his own work. And one learns that Loss Glazier and Susan Howe
are nervous, frail creatures that one should not stand up and hoot at at
poetry readings, no matter how bereft there presentation is of substance
or talent. Somewhat the same can be said of the Waldrop's who seem to at
least to muster a little intensity for their work even if its not
actually in the work.
There's no Sturm und Drang in young Faust, Graham Foust that is.
Likewise for the others who if they knew anything at all were powerless
to communicate it in their poetry.
With all the enthusiasm that Pope John now musters for the Confiteor,
moderator Rod Smith of Bridge Street and Ariel Magazine kept waking up
the audience with his own monotone recital of "what a great reading this
is." But a "great" reading it was not. And from audience reaction, it
seems certain that if you caught any of them in an honest, Guinness
soaked moment they would have communicated their shock at the amateurish
nature of the proceedings especially in light of the "all-star" cast.
But in the back of the audience's minds rests two concerns; do I write
any better? And do I want to offend any of these guys when I might need
a job reference? This was the tone that informed the evenings poetry.
This is what people mean when they refer to "academic" poetry.
The readers went in reverse alphabetical order, so that the grand poobah
and frightfully insipid poet, Charles Bernstein could read last. When
Charles made his way to the podium, most of the FlashPoint staff made
its way to the exits. This was in no way intended as a protest of
Bernstein's cruel censorship of the eloquent Henry Gould, the sheepish
Gabe Gudding and, now, the endearing and totally innocent, Kent Johnson.
We just couldn't stand even 5 more minutes of the poetic drivel. Carlo
Parcelli
Bob's Big Boy, Bob's Burger Barn, Bob's Brazen Bestiality, Bob's Broad
Buttocks, Bob's Billiards and Barbecue, Bob's Bluffalo Bamboozle,
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