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Subject:

41 blurbs: Miseries of Poetry

From:

KENT JOHNSON <[log in to unmask]>

Reply-To:

Poetryetc provides a venue for a dialogue relating to poetry and poetics <[log in to unmask]>

Date:

Mon, 7 Apr 2003 10:04:17 -0500

Content-Type:

text/plain

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Announcing: The Miseries of Poetry: Traductions from the
Greek, translated by Alexandra Papaditsas (1960-2002) and
Kent Johnson. Vestibulum [spora tradere], by Slavoj Zizek;
Preface, by Kent Johnson; Introduction, by Alexandra
Papaditsas; Afterword by Brother Savvas. Twenty translations.
50+ pages. $6. First 25 copies, B through Z, signed by Kent
Johnson. Advance signed copies ordered directly through the
publisher: Skanky Possum Press * 2925 Higgins Street *
Austin, TX 78722

*
Praises and Confusions for The Miseries of Poetry


We have all always desired the eyeless goddess, the handsome
whore-boy,
the Megala Louloudia.  Here they are.  Ever since the cache was
discovered
at Montazah Palace, we’ve been waiting for translations suitable
for Greek
menus everywhere.  Had the Greeks invented fortune cookies,
they could not
have foretold the strange beauty of these versions.

-Eleni Sikelianos


I'm doubled over by the Miseries of Poetry, folded into a
mirror
world of literature and here live on moth-ambrosia, play happily
with
possible ancillas of the Pre-Socratics.

-Garrett Kalleberg


Like the Jews, if Kent Johnson didn't exist, someone would have
to invent
him. His mind leaks nomads constantly naming world-historic
hinges as if
inscription were always underfoot. You can't pull Catullus out of
the
'incubated / god, writhing himself into being' but you can pull the
door
open. Literature is close to fraud, evanescent and trembling in
these times of
incipient terror. Johnson's approach deconstructs and
exacerbates that
fraud; I think of his work as returning to the (re)creation of
language -
political and sexual language, the languages of the last people
speaking
on earth.

-Alan Sondheim


If they ever need a Classics Geek on "Beat the Geeks," Dr.
Kent Johnson is
their man. The Miseries of Poetry is an operatically nerdy
intervention
in the transmission of ancient lyric, a scurrilous, fantastical,
erudite,
shameless, and often very moving addition to the Geek--er,
Greek--Anthology. More faithful in its peregrinate Sapphic
incontinence than most of the
last two centuries of vanilla-flavored translations, this sheaf of
cracked-amphora smut will change the way people misinterpret
Linear B
forever.  Roll over, Richmond Lattimore: this is not your father's
Mimnermus.

-Kasey Silem Mohammad


In the realm of ethics the ends rarely justify the means; in the
realm of art they always do. This complex translation by
Alexandra Papaditsas and Kent Johnson is flamboyant,
provocative, and brilliant. In three or four thousand years, when
English has long sounded more Asian than European, The
Miseries of Poetry will no doubt be inciting tremendous
passions at the KGB Bar.

-David Lehman


..still...moisture on the long
papyrus fragments, vivid
charm and cultural
codes transposed
on a spit the
tang of the Johnson mystagogus,
with live voice on quitch-grass
carnal and refined,
the then swag of buddhistic
pomegranites, the bull-leapers..

-Lissa Wolsak


In The Miseries of Poetry, which court(s) opprobrium as a
slanted form
of cultural capital, violent mannerism is at war with erudite
imagination.
Neither wins. Read it to behold their struggle and moments of
startling
poetry.

-Nada Gordon


A pair of fabled translators politely ambushes us with a rich and
randy
trove of ancient papyri with a dicey provenance. Here the real is
imbedded
in the unreal, the imaginary in the factual. Lacunae appear where
there
were none, and credible texts, adeptly contemporized, where
there were
holes. The holes themselves are deliciously elaborated. Once the
reader is
urged to fall, "Fall, orangely, to the ground" resistance, in a single
adverb, is dispelled.

-C.D. Wright


When Frank, Kenneth, Jimmy and I were young, the
idea of forgery
was a kind of coal to make us go very fast: We
shoveled it,
hungrily, into the bellowing fire, and the speed of our
engine became often
quite fantastic. There were no rules in that magical
land; the backs of
our chairs were turned toward the sun, and
sometimes we would
get this overwhelming feeling of exaltation. Now,
suddenly, we are
here at this station, and one wonders, frankly,
what has happened.
"Avant-garde" poetry, whatever it is, like Amtrak
rail travel, so clickety-
clack, so predictable and slow... May I suggest
that Alexandra Papaditsas
be canonized as a saint of translation, and the cast
of her horned head
placed like a warning above the door of The
Academy of American Poets.

-John Ashbery


What a strange debt of gratitude we owe to Kent Johnson and
his
co-translator, the perpetually-betrayed and haplessly goat-
horned
Alexandra Papaditsas (now deceased). In The Miseries of
Poetry they
bring us versions from the Greek that are at once bafflingly
poignant,
shriekingly funny, and far lovelier than they have any right to be,
especially in light of their vexed provenance. These are poems
full of
mystery and buggery, flying in from an unmapped world on thin
gold wings.

-Rachel Loden


Kent Johnson's Miseries probes our own relation with ancient
Greek
musicks, which for most of us are only ever received through
"translation." In so doing, he celebrates and tweaks the
permeability
of that membrane we call "self" or "author-ity." Who is alive and
who
is not, now? Are you alive, reader? The arguments and
skirmishes of a
translator are, perhaps, "the miseries of poetry." And, in this,
though translation might be always a "weird extrinsic
appendage," we
like it, we crave it, for it's also "love's ultimate excrescence into
joy."

-Erin Moure


O to be struck by lightning
And have a horn sprout
From the middle of your forehead!
Kent Johnson & Alexandra
Papaditsas, may the ancient
Greeks forgive you.  And us.

-John Bradley


From the halls of Carl Rakosi's objectivism to the shores of Dr.
Kinbote's cretian textual labyrinths come the conquering soldier
boys of
Alexandra Papaditsas and Kent Johnson's translations. What
too but the pith
and vinegar of Brautigan and Koch, the pint-sized minotaur
farting in the
center of these inventions and oh we can't forget the horn, no, on
Alexandra Papaditsas' head: that horn of plenty on which Kent
Johnson
impaled himself and rode up and down the alleyways of Thylakis
groaning
and drunk. Yes, I think that "objectionable" is the best term for
such poems.
In fact, as with all great works of art, this book is utterly
tasteless.

-Gabriel Gudding


I spent a careless youth looting ancient sites in West Texas,
taking
artifacts and shards to decorate my bookcase and bedroom.
Later I
discovered the volumes of LITERARY PAPYRII in the Loeb
Series, and stole
the fragmented  images shamelessly. We each translate the
world we find
ourselves in-- it is the only way we can understand the void.
Nothing
whole remains. Even the universe is incomplete.  If Papaditsas
believes it
was Romans who destroyed Alexandria, let it be. Though all the
Emperor
Caracalla did in reply to satires was massacre the inhabitants in
215 CE.
It was 'Amir the Arab who is said to have burnt the Library
there in 640
CE, though that too is not exactly correct. Just like these poems,
and the
universe entire. And ourselves, wretched readers. But what
beauty and
astonishment remains!

-Howard McCord


questions. 1) Can you spell your big fat Greek craving? 2)
Should
collaborators play without interruption? We took your friend's
life.
That's what Alexandra Papaditsas and Kent Johnson have in
mind. The
Miseries of Poetry: Versions from the Greek  is inexact
translation and
whorish paratext spookily rerun within your mind, a menu board
digitalized
by oracles. Poetry beats you over the head with a baseball bat,
spirals
with "bizarre behavioral changes," spoken of (& to) in "low
voices," as at
a Hooter's drive-thru. Godammit, Lisa, give me the bag back.
This is that
Hades you may have dreamt of or slept with perpetually, "not
bound by
imitation." Shit steams, water spills from amphorae until thinking
(and
reading) processes shrink to next summer's Cretan feature, a
"large ant --
indeed, one of the very few capable of emitting a cry audible to
the human
ear." I didn't actually kill him. Another poet writes of  'blind
hatred… /
hurled against stone walls / of ingratitude' to which Papaditsas
and
Johnson respond, "then he traitored her." The Miseries dishes
insight that
exhorts as it gives real pleasure. It's so gross I can't stop thinking
about it.

-Jack Kimball


My great uncle thought he had contracted Simonides once.
When the local
folk remedies did not work, a villager told him it was poetry
from which
he was suffering. Can I get a commiserator? Where is that
confounded
bridge? Kent Johnson knows the way to Patmos. Fitts and
Rexroth got
nothing on Johnson, Kent that is. The existing order alters yet
again.

-Anastasios Kozaitis


Kent Johnson has provided us with yet another work of
profound
unoriginality. The impossibility of pure artifact is here flaunted
expertly, lyrically, orangely. The result is ‘classics’ fit for
inscription
in your local Olive Garden™ vomitorium. That many are utterly
beautiful poems is beside the point—right beside it.

-Ben Lerner


These raunchy versions from the Greek are hard as nails.  The
collaboration between Kent Johnson & Alexandra Papaditsas
(the latter
goat-horned due to a “rare” condition) has produced a work as
darkly
compelling as its origins are unlikely. Here the evanescence
which time
lends the originals is bracketed by fittingly modern intrusions.
The
Greeks have never sounded better, or funnier— yet the strength
of these
poems lies as much in their ineffability as their earthiness.  In
Johnson’s “Miseries,” new finds of papyri, and distant worlds,
are
strangely audible.  “And strange beauty sings that poetry is not
bound by
imitation.”

-Mark DuCharme


It’s good, in The Miseries of Poetry, to see the Possible
Fruition of lyric in Holderlin’s definition—the continuous
metaphor of a feeling—back on an Actual Vine. The
recognition that things have lifetimes—including the
circumstances that give rise to poetry, poems, and all the
entanglements between these two and the “persons” comprising
their subjects, objects, etcetera—perpetuates a chaos that, like
the carnival atmosphere in “the right to comment” often apparent
in the clear address of many of these translations, makes it
peculiarly apt for our times, its rush to vantage, power and
judgment. Kent Johnson creates a complex correspondence
between the absolute appearance of “poetry” and the
completely fallible tattered manuscripts, neurotic, and/or make-
believe translation partners, and near occult underparts of a still
archaic language (i.e., sex, rather than Greek) that are then
available for working across a widened bandwidth of reference.
It’s as if giving the poems complex occasion anterior to their
incrementally mounting it in translation, makes their formal
delicacy and freshness—their talent to cause one to jubilate and
despond—by comparison that much more fiercely clairvoyant, if
that’s possible. Evidently, it is.

-Stephen Ellis


After hiking all day across the desert I came at nightfall,
shivering, to the small heap that is Alexandra Papaditsas and
Kent Johnson's The Miseries of Poetry.  It wasn't an oasis.  It
wasn't even a canteen.  It was more of a cactus, St. Sebastianed
on its own spines.  I was reminded of Baudelaire's carcass.
Then the wreathy face of Auden.  Then Dante, in a hood, turning
away.  And I thought: how like the Celts these ancient Greeks
turn out to be.  At that point, a red ant, an animate bead of
extraordinary delicacy, descended from the cactus and I left that
place, on my elbows and knees.

 -Mairead Byrne


The Miseries of Poetry is a wildly adventurous and deeply
engaging work.  Rough, tender, provocative, certain of their own
longing, these poems emanate the shifting ground of voice
layering voice layering voice in rich textures rivaled only by the
transformative journey of the Camaroonian stink ant itself.  This
book illuminates some of the dark gaps from antiquity; to read it
is to bask in the shadowy brilliance brought across centuries,
brought upon this century, preserved in papyrus and now . . .
[partially gnawed by moths] . . .

-George Kalamaras


Once I wrote a fake interview with John Ashbery, and this
caused some poets to become very anxious. Now I am writing a
fake blurb for the pathetically fake Kent Johnson. But for the
real keras of the real genius Alexandra Papaditsas it is not a
fake blurb at all. Look at it. Take it. Curl your hand around its
oily, keratinous tube and move it up and down with great
rapidity. Scream, repeatedly, the name of Athena.

-Jacques Debrot


In The Miseries of Poetry, the reader is flung by a catapult of
rough hewn
gods through a turbid and torch lit night sky into an ancient Greek
diorama. That the lethal drip of cult-ure is pinched should come
as a
welcomed shock. That this work is as obscene as it is
necessary, as tender
as it is mordant, as hilarious as it is conjured should send us
reeling
back into the stacks of The Alexandrian Library.

-Andrew Felsinger


Classicists say that if you don't find an
obscenity in every line of
Aristophanes, you're translating him
wrong.  Drawing upon that principle,
Kent Johnson's rollicking excesses of
anal sadism, vulgarity and bawdiness
nonetheless make way to moments of
exceptional lyrical purity of the highest
refinement. Building upon evidence of
authentic scholarship, even when
willfully boring or alienatingly
scatological, that purity has the
unimpeachable foreignness and
integrity of a Greek satyr play's dull
lewdness.  It's remarkable how
someone as well-read in current
poetry as he is has managed to escape
all trace of the
homogenizing, mandatory styles that
are dominant today, to stake out his
own irritating originality, bathos, and
penitence.

-Jeffrey Jullich


Dryden said, "If by traduction came thy mind, / Our wonder is
the less to
find/ A soul so charming from a stock so good," which describes
the very
antithesis of the present work… There is no doubt that
Alexandra
Papaditsas is a poet, but she is not a poet's poet.  She is no
one's poet.
Or maybe just a poet's poet's poet. And Mr. Johnson, I suspect,
is her
lyre. Play on, Mr. Johnson, remain in arms against our pathetic
rage for
order. In rejecting poetry, in fucking poetry spitefully and in
striking
poetry dead, you and Ms. Papaditsas in your depraved
consummation have
consummately revived it.

-Patrick Herron


Kent Johnson dedicates The Miseries of Poetry to his son with
fatherly advice—“Reject Poetry with all of your might.” Clearly,
instruction and entertainment must follow. Johnson and
Papaditsas construct from fragments, holes, and anecdotes an
assemblage they call Traductions that colonize the contemporary
ear & set a place there, a locale. If all politics is, as the bumper
stickers say, local, then ditto for its better, poetry. It’s a hard
code, but traditional to veggie cults (no strangers to the classical
world), to hold the City-Founder responsible for the City’s
woes. The voice behind the poems is responsible for the
resulting city of voices, & to the speaker falls the sacrificial role.
His hide must purify the city of its ills. So mama, don’t let your
babies grow up to be poets. If you do, it’s likely, as Lacan is
rumored to have said of Artaud, that they will become “blue and
stiff as a kite in a Chinese wind.”

-Carl Thayler


If all is translated, and moreover, if everything exists as a
fragment of something larger and unknown, then whence comes
our knowledge, and not only our knowledge, but also our bases
for certainty?  These traductions by Alexandra Papaditsas and
Kent Johnson intimate that not only is there a maker, but there
also exists an antimaker, who is not necessarily malicious, but
necessary nonetheless in instilling wonder and imagination before
both what is seen and unseen.  Being such, of course, this text is
guaranteed to raise suspicion and leave one unsettled; however,
the reader will be good to note George Steiner’s notion that
there exists “in every act of translation—and specially where it
succeeds—a touch of treason.”  If our wits are entirely informed
by our surmises (i.e. our translating the world around us), and if
our surmises are impeded by the fragmentary nature of whatever
history it is we inherit, then this text, humorous and beautiful yet
sneering and imploring, demonstrates how these seeming “holes”
allow us to see into some sort of truth.

-Jenny Boully


"I is a monkey's other," laments an uprooted Ovid from his tree
house in
exile. While a fashionably scarred Friedrick's of Holderlin
tearfully
declaims: "Language, the most dangerous of goods, has been
given to man,
so that in creating, destroying and perishing, and then returning
to the
ever-living, he may witness what he is." Whereupon every critic's
heartthrob Emmanuel Blanchot secures the third swift strike to
the bloody
core of this post-dialectical pin cushion: "Being is the
impossibility of
being anything for the first time." We thus are drawn by the
ineluctable
patterns of inference to declare that Miseries is unquestionably
the most
astonishing purloining of letters since raven-headed Poe himself
descended
into the whirling maelstrom of delirium and brought forth reason's
fatal
temptation upon his broken back.

-Mark W. Palmer


Having been caught myself at things Greek, I could hardly refuse
Mr. Johnson’s request for a blurb to The Miseries of Poetry. I
suppose my role here is to say two things: 1) These are
marvelous pieces of art and collapsed time, and 2) Although it
might seem too fantastic to believe, I knew Ms. Papaditsas, and
knew her fairly well. Do not assume that all that is here is
invention or forgery. The full story is much more complicated.
Including who killed her.

-David Solway


How many times has Kent Johnson read Pale Fire?  I forgive
him for
stealing my Armand Schwerner collection, but this audacious
performance is
something else entirely.  Rumor has it that St. John of Patmos
was given
to delusions brought on by inadvertent ergot consumption. The
result was a
great revelation. One might conjecture that Kent Johnson is
given to
delusions brought on by intentional consumption of synthetic
ergot-derived
tablets. Much, too, is revealed in The Miseries of Poetry. The
delights
here are too numerous to enumerate, but they leave me numb
and purple,
like my _______ after a session of robust ________ with
________.  But
that's not really the point. The point is this: these are weird little
translations, as beautiful and disturbing as Alexandra Papaditsas
was
horny.

-Anthony Robinson


Moving with the wit and elegance of a purveyor of marginally
fresh
taramosalata, Kent Johnson has elevated the literary grift to an
art form.
The result is a collection as timeless and ecstatic as an eight-
track of Nana
Mouskouri B-sides.

-Bill Freind


A is D; B is C. The catapult on which Ammonides laid
Theorphrastus is now released, and all the daily objects are
exactly in their situations in the artist’s room. So what if the room
is in the Museum? The Museum, too, has a hole in its roof,
blown outward from within, no different than a sheaf of decayed
papyrus. The poet’s body is a projectile. Nothing can stop the
upward force of History.

-Dmitri Prigov


Kent Johnson weaves an electrifying tapestry of poetic tradition
through a
vitriolic translation in a spirit close to Nikola Tesla's strange poem
"Fragments of Olympian Gossip." The experience of this work
will generate
a catastrophic ripple effect on the poetic community. This is truly
the gods’
way of saying "Buy American."

-Geoffrey Gatza


Yes, I remember well that day in Axel's.  It was December 15,
1977, and we
had been sitting in the back booth celebrating the semester's end
with
pitchers of beer.  As we entered the third hour, I recall leaning
towards
Kent and saying, "You'll have to slide out of the booth.  I know
it's going
to be hard for you, but I've got a wicked piss.  Will you try?"
Given the
state he was in, it's not surprising that he has misremembered my
words to fit
his own obscure poetic purposes on this occasion.

-James Chapson


A field report from the prehistory of the SCA? Johnson either
proves that
the sins of omission are constituitive authorities or that candor is
the
brightest shield we'll ever know apart from privacy. Too
enthusiastic to
be textual tourism, The Miseries of Poetry upends the sideshow
mummy
circuit for big tent imagineering, where it's impossible to read
what's an
aside and what's a show. Our translator-hero plays celebrity
coroner
Thomas Noguchi to one Elmer J. McCurdy after another...all in
togas! The
result is somewhere between Petronian hip and ramshackle
Char. I'm
sh-sh-shattered.

-Andrew Maxwell


All who care about our current poetry and its red-headed step-twin,
translation, know of Kent Johnson, and follow his work with interest and
pleasure, but there is something in his work that I admire particularly:
He is without a doubt the only poet among us who, firstly, really
understands what Fernando Pessoa did, and, secondly, is really doing
something about it. What a ravishing book this is! These haunted
translations are welcome proof of what I believe to be one of Kent
Johnson's greatest gifts, which is his ability to cause uncomfortable
silences in our small, partisan, chronically envious minds. In some of us,
these silences have led to disgust; such unlovely creatures among us can
be pitied, but they should not be allowed to matter. I can think of no
current poetry more beautiful, no poetics more radically necessary, no
critical attitude more bracing, no sense of humor deeper or more humane.
We should, in spite of ourselves, be grateful for his combative presence
in our complacent midst.

-Chris Daniels


The Miseries of Poetry
 is looking for hosts in the shape
of readers to propagate its vision of language's glorious life cycle.
Reader, are you ready?
These translations are fresh as hot,
steaming shit.


-Murat Nemet-Nejat


 I am having second thoughts about Kent Johnson.  My first were these:
“Reader, be wary. KJ is a known liar. He grabs onto the ideals and idols
that political communities and communities of identity hold sacred and
claims them as his invention. He has no shame, he
’ll bring great French
thinkers, colonized ants (that would be colonized colonizers) and even his
child into this mix, a mix into which he splices arcane bodies of
knowledge, with lines and ingredients from the labels of processed food.
This, which he calls poetry.   To be kind, (which I
’m not sure Mr. Johnson
is, for I don
’t know him, though something tells me he has sweetheart
qualities) these perverse lies flow with an infective music, humor, SEX
and suspicious scholarship, as the liar KJ seems intent to interconnect
all things including past and present, mortal and spiritual, East and
West, and ugh! female male.”   . . . at which point a different spirit
seized me, that my flip use of the word liar was, though intended as
playful, a dangerous feed to those propagandists and manipulators of power
who claim Truth as some absolute, though what is called Truth are
selections from the spectacle useful in propping their power to pursue us
meek seeklings of that-which-is-otherwise, whose product crosses and poses
threat to the rippling mirages and echoes that assure them.  I empathize
with KJ.  Like him I bitterly regret this meekness, while knowing, as my
friend Peter Neufeld repeats, “a poet must never, never, enter a duel.”
Bravo Kent Johnson, your traductions, and your identities, adopted and
blood, your battles, be they not duels.  Live as long as you can.

-Rachel Levitsky


I got drunk with Kent Johnson in Monroe, Wisconsin, and I'm one of the
publishers of this book. So maybe those two things will disqualify
anything I say here. But for the record, which erases itself every 15
seconds, these little Miseries are to die for. Translated with Alexandra
Papaditsas, these Greek fragments vibrate with renewed life. This isn't
accomplished by the translators' genius, but by way of language's
continued metamorphosis of life into form. What is translation, after all,
but an attention to language that seeks to release the unknown from a
tyrant otherness?  I ask, dear reader, what is truth if Art can
’t show what
lies beneath the sludge of self and time? Perhaps here, for a few moments,
we may indulge in a fantasy of psychic passage. Here are little sparks,
illuminations, showing us of the afterlife that surrounds us.

-Dale Smith

Kent Johnson's still here, plonking the daily dailies, thinking how
inert and typical a finished book actually looks. These kinds of
poems
could hardly have been made in Freeport, Illinois in a burst of
reluctant
enthusiasm on a porch overlooking the post-millenial street. And
weren't.
Or so one can imagine. And you Hellenophiliae, don't be doing
the "What ya
doin' _that_ for, hunh?" Read the sincerity through the
witlessness here,
and stoop to honor no one. Yea, it's a kick-ass collection, and
the body
of work gets gummed and lamed and bespattered in the
process.

-John Latta


To the old metaphysical debate, whether a hole is something or
nothing, I
want to add, after reading this book, a third opinion: it is almost
everything. Gnosticism is powerfully revived, both in contents
and form,
after centuries of oblivion. Kent Johnson has surpassed himself
(and nobody else
has surpassed him) in inoculating the  mundane  holiness and
mystical holes of
other cultures, Japanese and Greek,  to the tree of English
poetry.

-Mikhail Epstein


*

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