Jordan,
Having sampled one of your poems, Masking Tape, I wonder at the exact message, whether it is a simplistic thing, a simple recitation of an ongoing project, or instead something more complex.
The reader gathers of the words an ongoing project, the painting of one's home, one's apartment. It seems practical enough when doing so to make use of masking tape, to preserve unmolested and unmarked the moulding you do not wish to change.
But I wondered much over this from the second quatrain, whether there was a stronger implication, a comparison of the moulding to the self, and it settled into my thoughts that if I were this moulding, the base and beginning of the wall, should I not want to have a care when painting parts of myself another shade? Whether in earnest or artifice, if I am required to build upon myself or proffer something different, I do not want the root of me to change, that part of me that embodies so completely my sense of self.
Do I want others to see the process? Does the new incarnation of self require that I 'mask' the windows as well, implying that the entire operation is one that must be carried on in secret? This reinvention of self, from day to day is a necessity, and not necessarily one to be observed by the outside world until the entire transition is complete, whereupon I shrug myself free of the chrysalis.
Yet, perhaps this is digging to deep, for much of your poetry seems a recitation of a day, of your life; you breathe and live it as you walk from morning to evening. Perhaps it is simply a day's project, something new and eventful to be recorded on the page; one or the other, I am better for reading it.
Si vales, valebo,
David
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Mr. Davis,
I find myself at a point of consternation with the rise of 'flarf' poetry. Having been first acquainted a year ago with this phenomenon, the prevalence of spam and the sometime similarity of the random text to a discerned 'message', I must admit treating it with a certain amount of disregard.
Granted, this could have been due to my own dislike for those messages(one can only tolerate invitations from Lisa, Veronica or Tiffany to inflate one's manhood so many times before a disgruntled annoyance settles in). Yet, whatever the cause of my negligence, after reading your article O, You Cosh-Boned Posers! in the Village Voice, I brought the matter under careful consideration.
As an exercise in creativity, flarf poetry seems to fit the bill. While I am myself a traditionalist, there is something whimsical in the thing itself, whether it be googling a phrase or pulling random bits from email or article to create a poem; it presents a less weighty matter of poetry that can be both entertaining and refreshing. Revitalizing is perhaps a better word, and for those poets who seek to make some sense from the senseless or order from the orderless, one must award them the proper respect. As you stated, it is now a matter of seeking rather than finding; flarf poetry has become an active exercise.
However, I do have my own reservations. I was reminded much of the old arguments, where if one were to spin lettered panels or sit monkeys in front of typewriters, you would eventually by probability create a discernible work of literature. Poetry is steadily becoming a more open, inclusive devotion, allowing for many beautiful and until recently excluded forms of expression. This is commendable, but the retracing of that same breath, I find myself somewhat disturbed, for while there is danger in exclusion, there is also danger to be found in being too open, too inclusive. In being better able to disseminate a body of work, one might easily do so to its detriment and break the beauty of the thing itself.
What are your thoughts on this matter? Do you feel the advent of this kind of poetry, or any poetry for that matter runs such a danger?
Thoughtfully,
David
