Dear all,

Rather belatedly, I thought I'd add my take on the Cork conference to
Randolph's & cris's notes: it got half-written, then shelved, then dragged
out again, but is I think still news. My account, though pretty long, is
not a full-length portrait: I don't deal with the papers (except to note
that Keith Tuma's was the most considered and substantial, a piece viewing
contemporary Irish poetry through the prism of the philosophy Giorgio
Agamben), simply because I didn't take notes at the time. -- I'm actually
quite conscious in writing things up here that my responses have inevitably
been inflected by my familiarity with many of the readers and texts before
they were read (I even saw an early draft of Keith's paper)--this isn't to
disavow my responses positive & negative, though. -- I'll also give a few
samples of work not included in Randolph's previous post.
     General comment: this was my first time in Ireland, and I greatly
enjoyed it despite not having time for touristy things. A good social
atmosphere surrounded the event proper: let me express my particular thanks
for Trevor Joyce's nightly hospitality at his house. The Café Paradiso,
gourmet vegetarian restaurant, was a culinary highlight (a big dinner to
which most of the attendees came on the first night). (For the record, the
lowest point was Abrakebabra, an appalling fastfood joint selected simply
because everyone was sick of being rained on during our restaurant-hunt.)
-- All readings were held in the Granary Theatre, in a high-vaulting square
cement room with windows along one side (much appreciated by myself, since
I tend to get a bit stir-crazy in windowless rooms being read at for hours
on end).


First evening: Maurice Scully bookended his reading with tributes to Roy
Fisher: a prefatory reading from RF's _It Follows That_ and a closing
tribute of Maurice's own devising; in between were a number of pieces from
his recently completed _Livelihood_ project, including "Five Freedoms of
Movement" and "Zulu Dynamite" (the latter due out from Form Books). A
quiet but musical reading (MS often lightly tapped time on the desk to the
words), at times endangered by the loud patter of rain on the Granary
Theatre skylight. An excellent opener.
     John Goodby's work I'm not familiar with, beyond the odd _Angel
Exhaust_ contribution; he read entirely from his one published book, _A
Birmingham Yank_ (Arc). Worthy, but not to me very compelling; there's a
strong interest in patterns of historical injustice that didn't get past
the tellingly anecdotal (each poem was lengthily self-glossed before or
even during its reading, explaining phrases like the aforementioned
"Birmingham Yank"). Reminded me a little of Robert Sheppard's later
_20th-Century Blues_ work but much more formally conservative (as JG
cheerfully admitted). I don't have a sample of JG's work: perhaps someone
else could post some? -- Like Scully, Goodby framed his reading with
another poet's work: an excerpt from "Memoirs of a Turkoman Diplomat", by
the Irish modernist poet Denis Devlin.
     A sidenote: The pairing of these readers reflected their coediting of
_Angel Exhaust_ 17, a fine collection of recent Irish poetry & essays on
the Irish experimental tradition, from the '30s modernists (Coffey,
MacGreevy, Devlin) through some little-known byways (Eugene Watters, Sheila
Wingfield, Mary Devenport O'Neill) to the present. A very worthwhile
collection (though the odd typo betrays its rushed production under duress
of having it ready for the conference!).

Second day: Billy Mills read from a long sequence alternating between brief
lyrics (I'd say "objectivist" but he later objected to this tag, so I'll
let list-denizens decide from the sample below) and prose polemics. I've
gone on record before (in issue #1 of my magazine _The Gig_) as to my
dissatisfaction with Mills' _Tiny Pieces_, the first part of the sequence;
but on this occasion it was mostly the prose I had problems with. The
polemics were directed against mainstream Irish poetry, against Language
Poetry (treated as a monolithic collective noun), against literary theory
(with a particularly baffling aside about Wittgenstein's ignorance of how
language works), and so on. This was blunt stuff, & not too apposite for
the first really international Cork Conference (with the distinguished
Language-affiliated writers, Fanny Howe & Karen Mac Cormack, in
attendance). -- The one sour note of the event. -- However, I'll include a
bit of _Tiny Pieces_ to permit people to make up their own minds:

scattered
this glass
reconstitutes

folds
determine

*

follow
the lines

come
again

*

sun
after rain

luminous
leaves

boxroom
window


     Will just register Jools Gilson-Ellis's "Graze", a performance piece
not much to my taste: close-miked performer repeating the word "graze" &
breathing pronouncedly, leading eventually to the recital of the dictionary
definition of "secret".
     Karen Mac Cormack's reading drew on her entire oeuvre, from _Quill
Driver_ to a new work-in-progress, a set of prose pieces. I've heard her
read several times before, but this was the first time I heard her perform
a retrospective. Fascinating stuff, especially the newest work, which I
wish I had to hand, but instead I'll include a bit of _Marine Snow_ (ECW)
[you'll need to have a fixed-width font to register the spacing
properly--this is meant to be centred on the page]:

                              MULTI-MENTIONAL


                      That line's running-board basics

                           sidereal on all fours

                                   preen

                       exploitation of perfect timing

                                   renew

                            maximum syncopation

                      temperature tantrums clever yes

                                but mongrel

                          statistics are with us.



                              Head up in arms

                    pieces of time at regular intervals

                     if the ring fits answer the phone

                         non-committal background

                    indications assume no one's perfect

                                 telepathy

                     soft patience or landslide afloat

                       the birds not flying pinpoint

                          a simile swerving away.


     Fanny Howe's work I'm not that familiar with; have seen her now twice,
at CCCP (many years ago now) and Cork, & both times greatly enjoyed her
reading. Perhaps some kind soul can post a sample of her work. -- The next
reading was Judy Kravis; Randolph has already accurately described her
"beach poems"; I didn't think them at all satisfactory, and would instead
recommend those interested in her work to consult her selection in _Angel
Exhaust_ 17. -- Geoffrey Squires read from a single long sequence of his.
I have mixed feelings about his work; I can admire the strongly individual
path he's followed in his recent works--extended series of accumulated
phenomenological details without any striking change of direction or
stress--without being able to agree with a correspondent of mine who calls
result "hypnotic". The interested can find a sample of his work (and
others') at <http://www.nd.edu/~ndr/issues/ndr7/ndr7.html>. (The poem
there shows some of what worries me about this work, the way details become
too explicitly tutelary in their presence: "the small gate that leads where
it leads     indirection     the trees overspread like hands like
gestures of a kind".)

Later that day: Drew Milne gave a fine reading drawing on _Sheet Mettle_,
_Bench Marks_ (both Alfred David Editions) and _How Peace Came_ (Equipage).
 The sonic qualities of a poem like "Positive Indiscriminations" (_Sheet
Mettle_) were striking, beyond even its hilariously awful puns (Milne
shrewdly used it as a warmup, immediately engaging the audience). I might
term the metric "sprung syllabics", perhaps (if that's a metrically
meaningful phrase!). From this point Milne moved to "High Time" from
_Bench Marks_ and concluded with _How Peace Came_ (modelled on the
satirical and visual style of Wyndham Lewis's _Blast_); even the latter, a
deliberately noisy & offputting text, communicated and, er, sang. I'll
quote, below, the last three stanzas of "High Time":

It is a crying frame, a
mortified hinge, lava
preys upon itself, the
blood bows, scent of
salt to rub along with
and behold each atom,
perfume of reason, its
skein in akeing plume.


Go, then, to the rent
look where all show
of bitter ends, crust
and rosette, simmer
and knife, throws its
face to the wall, each
skipping drift of dark
in its resting clutches.


And in the red corner,
done dusted, there to
sink, as some pillow
of rested cases, each
upon its broken foam,
the plaster gives, not
in circles of the wire
but out of our hearing.


     Danny McCarthy's performance was effectively macabre (hooded figure,
to the accompaniment of creepy music & the sound of warplanes, douses
candles with the heads of dolls) without striking many further sparks.
Reminded me a bit of the chilling & wonderful track on Zorn's _The Big
Gundown_ album, "The Battle of Algiers".
     Introduced by the sound of the bells of Shandon (recorded earlier in
the week on a trip to the church), cris cheek performed a collage of
various texts--some of _fogs_, a bit of _songs from navigation_, a couple
"flames" (on the page, they looked just like that, words arranged in
flame-shapes), etc. A blackboard was pressed into service at one point, as
were a megaphone and the reading lamp (a dangling lightbulb at one point
flashed on and off in sync with CC's speech). Hard to say much about the
whole thing except expressing my pleasure--or maybe _pleasures_ is the
right word for such variousness. "Performance" here drew on a number of
modes of public speech, instead of voicing private inscape. I thought of
song; acting; speech; lecturing (cris's resonant and projective voice suits
all these activities); political harangue; public address-systems (the
megaphone). The conclusion of the performance was a duo performance with
Keith Tuma of their cowritten text _Oval Orifice_: the shadow of the US's
bombing campaign hung over much of the conversation at the conference, and
the _Orifice_ gave it a voice (the text receiving a few topical updates
just for this performance). I'll include a bit of it, below:


>From OVAL ORIFICE

Tricky-Dicky, Tricky-Dick, come out, open Bill's Gates
Pray tell, how your contrary garden do grow?
Compere our vegetate seeds, mix our Fates
Dick, blow on that schtick, tit-willow tit-willow.

If you're tired of a two-way, call out Tricky-Dick
When in search of a new way, a less schticky schtick
He'll huff you and puff you, you just take your pick
All hail!, the adaptor, your friend, Tricky-Dick.

Lewd Pinky put the boxes in the Capitol and the world rolled away.
Hanky-Panky sweeps these broken words for love. Tricky-Dick oil your eye
from that buttercup shell. Lewd Pinky does the cigar dance, Asia falls to
its knees. Hanky-Panky corroborates sex-change truth with advocates of
sun-dried life. Tricky-Dick, calling the hail from the hallways of the
malls of America.

Tricky-Dicky, Tricky-Dick, come out, open Bill's Gates
Pray tell, how your contrary garden do glow?
Compete our vegetate deeds, trix our Fates
Dick, blow on that schtick, tit-willow tit-willow.

Lewd Pinky busts through the door and Russia goes south. Humpty-Panky
clutching at the King's bannisters of sentimental popetry in a last ditch
attempt to pre-empt the great fall: "Klingons off the star-bored banner
sir!" Lewd Pinky looking up deflation in American Heritage Dictionary, all
the news fit to squint. Hanky-Panky runs a spellcheck on his memoirs, finds
continual confusion as to whether Pinky or Panky was an avowed intent.

If you're hired by a two-way, call out Tricky-Dick
When in search of Wick Willy, that less snickered schtick
He'll huff you and puff you, or pickle his prick
All wail, the olefactory, piss-prettied Dick.

….


Last morning: the final poetry readings of the conference were by three
Irish poets. This was a demanding and impressive trio of performances.
Trevor Joyce read from his work of the 1990s, briskly, clearly & intensely;
it was a very convincing if demanding presentation of a remarkable body of
work. First was a set of three poems that borrowed lines from the work of
(respectively) Michael Smith, Randolph Healy and Tom Raworth; next,
_Without Asylum_ (published by Wild Honey); _Hopeful Monsters_ (three prose
poems that perhaps bring to mind Baudelaire, the Surrealists, and Beckett;
forthcoming from Wild Honey); and _Syzygy_ (Wild Honey). I'll quote the
Raworth poem, which extends each line of Tom's "Dark Senses" (in _Clean &
Well Lit_): the effect is unsettlingly both seamless and unlike either a
typical Raworth or Joyce poem.

>From DARK SENSES PARALLEL STREETS

bones show through images more opaque than tissue
of friends though they strut pressured between joints
still move in dialogue with tongue baldes fluttering
in darkness what relief to accumulate some utterance

forgive me, it's a dream don't mention it
standing alone, waving it's easy to be fooled
in search of its lost era rich spoils
not just geography forgotten in the foreclosed mine

walking parallel streets try to conceive the waste
of tropical flames blossoming from the settled earth
with a political broom to suppress the outburst
ominous as a smoke signal you needn't understand

over a farewell meal make smalltalk avoid disturbance
of dust in the dust breath lays down
before an open window another field of vision
weather permitting in clarity precedent to the rain

step sharply within no time to lose here
the labyrinth of raw meat though deepening fatigue
jingling those keys won't achieve much you know
dimmed by sweat regrettably the outlines just blur

unthinking insects click, rustle case on case scavenging
for bare subsistence replicate the given circulating minutes
in the skeletons of organizations to the extremities
inexorably crushed by vice the central pump stutters

.....

After this, another forceful performance: Catherine Walsh, reading from
_City West_. An elegant stylistic premise: disjunct fragments, typically
in chains of present participles, so that one got peppered with "-ing"
sounds. Mundane activities somehow sounded more tentative this way, being
both recurrent structures of life (the perpetual present) but also at a
remove from any particular life. -- I don't have any of this work to hand,
but Randolph posted a sample earlier.
     I was wondering how the last reader, Randolph Healy himself, might
feel having to follow these two very fine & high-energy readings. His
quieter demeanour suited the comic but sobering poem "Colonies of Belief",
an abstract logician's account of human territorial aggression:
nationalism, racism & greed. (The poem may be found at
<http://indigo.ie/~tjac/Poets/Randolph_Healy/colonies.htm>.) He also read
a wonderfully splenetic series of anagrams, "(The) Republic of Ireland",
from which I'll post an extract:

her lie-lined tub of crap
her pallid beef in court

her pro-life bit unlaced
her fluid celibate porn

fur dope brilliance
fine hell or bad picture

faith in blue crepe lord
put bile on charred life

ice fire bother and pull
plain cruel if bored

April could be finer
idle half-porcine brute

price trouble in fleadh
fertile blue chip radon

belief in carrot upheld
birth pill feared on cue

Randolph concluded (after a brief comedic interlude with a blackboard and a
Gaelic primer) with a reading from _Scales_, his most recent long poem. On
the page, this is a highly various work, including everything from
anecdotal/discursive writing to abstract wordplay (at one point a quotation
from Newton is sorted into piles according to parts of speech) to concrete
poetry; but the reader becomes gradually hemmed in by the black blocks
which increasingly replace words. During performance many of these missing
words were in fact vocalized--in, for instance, a mordant found-poem
rearrangement of words from an undertaker's manual that made me squirm a
bit; but the last section was read with the blanks intact (becoming long
pauses in reading): a legal document with all the verbiage except the word
"Whereas" blacked-out made for a quiet, haunted coda.
     This brought the poetry readings of the conference proper to an end,
though still ahead were one paper (Romana Huk's), miscellaneous
wrappings-up, and the final hunt for a good pub at which to lunch. But
I'll end there, with a last thanks to Alex Davis for organizing the whole
conference. Much appreciated & enjoyed. --N

----


Nate Dorward
[log in to unmask]
109 Hounslow Ave., Willowdale, ON, M2N 2B1, Canada
ph: (416) 221 6865


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