Dreaming, I am.

What a way to start a book of poems, huh?

Are you ready to begin, Bennet?

Challenging Readers: A Review of a Review: James Crews reviewing Wayne Miller in New Pages

In recent pages of New Pages, poet James Crews reviews Wayne Miller's The City, Our City (Milkweed Editions, September 2011) with a "critical" eye that manages to clumsily bypass the actual poetry and instead seems to proffer, once again, a very old argument about how and why poetry should do what it does and how a poet fails by being "inaccessible." (Which, in much poetry reviewing means "writing not like I do.")

[I should state outright that I haven't yet read Miller's book, and have only a passing familiarity with his work. Before enountering this review, I had never heard of James Crews but have learned through Google that he was born and educated in the mid-west, recently won a book prize of some sort, and now resides in Portland, Oregon, where he does something, I guess, to do with poetry. If there is any personal politics informing this review, I know nothing of them.  Similarly, as I have no association with either of these poets, my review here is based solely upon, well, the review I'm reviewing.  Still following?   I mention this because in future posts, I will be writing about poets and poetry with whom I have a personal connection or some personal stake--I'll note these connections when necessary.]

Crews begins with a declaration that, while appearing descriptive, is actually a prescription for what poetry should not do:

The principal aim of The City, Our City, [. . .] is to construct a difficult, philosophical poetics that most audiences will have trouble wrestling into meaning.

The assured tone here is admirable; the sentiment is not--not because it's empirically wrong in any sense, or not even because our reviewer presumes to know "the principal aim," or not even because it makes a sweeping assumption about "most audiences," but because it fails to communicate anything other than a vague disdain for a poetry concerned with the rather nebulous project of "difficult, philosophical poetics," that the equally nebulous readers collectively known here as "most audiences," will find too difficult. This is a sentiment that can't be empirically correct or incorrect, as it doesn't deal with concrete concepts, but abstract ideas that stand in for that which we find yucky. Dig? (I'll leave alone the slightly problematic use of the word "poetics" here to describe not "poetics" per se, but simply poetry.)

To put it another way, we have heard this argument before, and it is almost completely devoid of meaning, saying no more than poetry we don't like or can't make mean a certain way (our way, the normal way) is poetry to be avoided, or at least not worth much of our time. Crews proceeds to posit this imaginary audience as one that will not tolerate being "turned off," but may not mind being "unsettled" as long as there's a payoff. So far, our imagined readership here is a cipher, a null. What reader does like being turned off?  Part of this book's objective, we're told, is to almost turn off the fake readers, while unsettling perhaps a bit too much. I guess it does both.  And that's a real bummer.

Finally, Crews faintly praises Miller's "remarkable skill" and as an example, quotes a passage from a poem he deems "successful" because, at least in part, it "establish[es] a scene and context in which his [Miller's] talent begins to shine."  Less-than-adroit turn of phrase aside, this seems reasonable.   Here's the passage:

The sound of the wind--but the wind
has no sound, we hear
only the vibrations
of whatever it touches. How silent
this room would be
without the creaking trees...

My own first impression is that it recalls Stevens and early Ashbery, though stripped a bit of the mystery characteristic of say "The Snow Man" or "Some Trees."  Crews praises the language here because it "appeals to the ear" (whose ear, I ask?  I listen to Black Metal a fair amount of the time. My mother likes New Country) and "has the power to change how we think of something as simple as the wind." Okay, Crews.  Let's get this straight.  This language has "power."  Awesome.  I hate wimpy language. And it can change how we think about the wind.  Crews has never, it seems, been caught in a windstorm, or even noticed that an errant gust can indeed make trees creak, strip them of limbs, and so forth.   What Crews praises here is not the power of language to change anything but the fact that this language is quite direct--nothing here to think too hard about.  That might, after all, ruin our fun, unsettle us too much, and ultimately, turn us off.

He praises another piece because its title, "Those Boys," is "helpful" in indicating what the poem is about.  If only he had named ALL the poems so helpfully!  It might then even be suitable for your mother's book club.

Crews finally turns to the real work of the review which is to show all the ways in which Miller's poems do not work, the myriad strategies they employ in a deliberate attempt to turn off the imaginary reader.  In a preface to a section of a (watch:  this is important) poem that is untitled and "illogically broken up," Crews bemoans the inspecificity of it all.  This poem has no title, and it fails to "locate readers in a specific time and place" and the sky is falling but you forget to pencil in the sky! To disrupt, he helpfully reminds us, one first must establish stability.  (In this case, I guess this would start with giving the poem a title.)  Then, he says, the poet may stray.  Before I turn to that poem, I'd like to point out this observation he makes a paragraph earlier about a poem he does like, one he calls a "gorgeous, affecting elegy, which stays with the reader."  The poem places the speaker and his father in a large city, and, Crews tells us "Miller does not even need to specify the place here [. . .] he creates a vast literal and emotional landscape."  Mmmmkay.  And a bit later he sternly instructs us:  "Writers cannot have it both ways [!]" (overenthusiastic punctuation mine).

The poem ultimately fails because the reader isn't told which city this is, can't tell if it actually exists (London?) or is fictional (Mordor?).  Oh, and some of the poems are allusive. Some of them have notes. (Insert groan and sigh here.)  Crews looks out for the little guy when he opines that most readers, even avid readers of poetry, won't have the patience to read the notes simply to understand the poem. And, you know, the notes aren't all that good anyway.  We are still left "scratching our heads."

So I've tried to cobble together a rough crib sheet for Crews' anti-philosophical poetics.  Think of it as A Few Donts for an Imagiste, a century later.

1. Don't be philosphical. Whatever that actually means.

2. Names, people!  Titles.  Poems with titles, good.  No titles, bad.

3. Places.  See 2 above.  Disregard this rule if your poem is about your dad.

4. Your language should have the "power to change!"

5. The poem must not successfully resist the intelligence.  In fact, it should require very little intelligence. And please don't bore the reader with notes, references, allusions.  "The reader" has been at work all day, his feet are killing him, and he needs to get dinner on the table by 6 pm.

6. Address, whenever possible, other poets condescendingly by referring to them by way of backhanded compliments.  For example, "young writer" is a good one.  This is really fun if you are actually younger than the poet you're reviewing.

7. Disregard #6 as it is really a handy tip not for the poet but for the reviewer.

8. Five O' Clock shadow is always sexy.

*

I could go on.  I could conjure some clumsy metaphors about frozen food vs. homemade pot pies, or draw parellels between James Crews and Simon Cowell.   Instead, I'll end with two quotes.  The first is the entire final paragraph of the review.  The second is, (thanks John B. for looking these up), a pair of lines by James Crews himself.

*

One hopes that, in future volumes, Miller will find ways of including more readers by crafting poems that are both accessible and complex, both heart-wrenching and intellectually astute at the same time. A poet need not be obscure or detached to make work that challenges readers. He can choose to invite us into a piece, to share the wonder of experiencing our world more deeply.

*


Her mouth pondered the sweet crush of wet grass
as I approached.

--James Crews, "Palomino"

Applying my very limited critical faculties to a ten-year old film.

I managed to catch a bit of The Royal Tenenbaums the other night while scanning the Dish for made-for-cable slasher flicks, true crime documentaries, and any number of shows featuring gay men critiquing fashion and style.  Okay, so I also occasionally watch Piers Morgan too.

My surfing yielded this insight:   The Rotal Tenenbaums is a much better film if you just watch the last ten minutes or so.  An old friend of mine, after I posted this observation on Facebook, mentioned that he never got that far because the film was a "piece of crap."  Au contraire, my French-speaking faux-Texan theater geek.   I think it's only fair that if you call something a piece of crap, you need to watch at least half of it to, you know, have some sort of authority on the subject.  

So what's up with TRT?  Well, it's a Wes Anderson film.  It's for many of us, THE Wes Anderson film, or at least the one that marked his transition from indie semi-cult guy to "major director" (in a still kinda minor sort of way).   It's typically over-saturated in both primary colors and WA's primary actors.  Characters have audacious names.  Absurdity seems to be normalized, and hence, no longer absurd.  Everyone says hello and everyone is a bit sad and precious.

This film is no more a piece of crap than, well, a piece of crap.  It's better than crap.  Is it a "good" movie?  I'm not so sure.  I do feel fairly confident in proclaiming it a failure.  But a lot of art, good and bad, enduring and vaporous, fails.  

I'm not against Wes Anderson, nor am I a fan boy.  Royal is his "one big chance" film, it seems.  He takes all of his obsessions, affectations, general anxiety, and compresses them into a ball of a mess of a cartoon of a movie that happens to include Gene Hackman and Danny Glover.   And those Wilsons.    It's a mess, yes.   Eliot, rather famously (if you read shit like that--I, unfortunately and fortunately, do) wrote that Hamlet is a mess, a bad play, etc.   And well, I agree that Hamlet is a mess.  It's also brilliantly messy.  Wes Anderson is no Shakespeare.  Neither is Chris Marlowe, but that's for another post.

So, to you Todd Sheets, who deemed The Royal Tenenbaums "a piece of crap," I say, just watch the last 10 minutes or so.  It's rather pretty, actually.  You get the aftermath of a clusterfuck, some pretty colors and confused people, all the  major characters making appearances but few of them having anything stupid to say, as the dialogue is pretty slim, and then you get a funeral, where everyone is quiet because it's a funeral. You get the Anderson, single filing ending scene, slow-mo, and of course, you get Van Morrison singing "Everyone," which is lovely. Our man WA really *does* have a way with a soundtrack, despite his often slipshod auteur's eye.

"Indie Rock" and me

Kaya Oakes opines, from a slightly altered place, that “indie rock is dead.”

Fair enough. I wonder, though, if “Indie Rock” ever existed. In the Reagan and Bush Sr. years, teenagers like me, in my small town had a few musical options: Top 40, Metal (mostly of the Hair variety), “Classic Rock,” which didn't yet really mean anything, and “New” Country (as opposed to Country & Western in the Williams, Cash, Nelson tradition).

This was the standard bill of fare. Hip-hop, had not, in any form really infiltrated middle America, let alone our out-of-the-way outpost in the foothills of a mountain range, squarely in the middle of a National Forest, separated from civilization by 50 miles of windy, narrow, often icy highway. It may as well have been 50 light years.

There were teens and young adults, like me, however, who did seek out alternatives. Pre-internet, I couldn't simply see what Pitchfork or Stereogum was up to, or download entire albums for “free.” I couldn't chat with my friends online and pick their brains and hard drives for the next big sonic thrill. Kids like me, we read magazines, paying special attention to tiny ads in the back, promoting bands with names like Dinosaur, Black Flag, Bad Brains, Skinny Puppy, Minor Threat, Minutemen. We'd send SASEs and a few weeks later, receive a crudely mastered cassette of crude-sounding music that meant the world to a kid stuck between Michael Jackson and Garth Brooks.

So there was punk, post-punk, hardcore, thrash metal, punk-funk, lo-fi garage music, and much, if not all, was released on small independent labels. We didn't call it Indie Rock, though. When I was a sophomore in high school, rocking my Descendents, my fIREHOSE, my Suicidal Tendencies, (along with the more mainstream-but-still “cool” Cure, R.E.M., The Smiths, etc.), we were just a few years from the emergence of something called “Alternative” music. I should be clear here—“Alternative” existed, in my time, not as a category or genre or marketing niche, but rather a plain descriptor. If a kid said she liked “alternative” music, she meant that what she listened to was mostly stuff you couldn't find on the radio, unless you managed to know a really cool college station and listened between the hours of 2 and 4 am. And most of us, we just said what we liked—metal, punk, etc.

By 1993 or so, I was 21 years old, the media was telling us that “punk had broke.” The music of stoners, burn-outs, and the generally anti-social youth was now on every Top 40 playlist, pushed forward largely by the unlikely success of Nirvana and the media-created “Grunge” scene, repackaged once again as “Alternative.” What did an alternative band sound like? Got me. It was no longer tied to independent labels, no longer confined to certain modes of production, certain ethics or a DIY aesthetic. Alternative was some dollar signs, a fake fashion trend, a Seattle-centric fetishization of the “normal kids” behind the corporate glitz, which of course had now been gussied up with a ton of corporate glitz. I began to drift.

By my early 20s I had largely forgotten what was cool or what was new and had turned my gaze backward, discovering the rock and roll of the 60s and 70s, most of which I had managed to neglect during my teen years. And then I grew up a little. Music ceased to be central to my way of being. I had other things to do--go to college, drink too much, unsuccessfully ply co-eds.  These activities required no new soundtrack.  The old stuff worked (or didn't work) just fine.

When I woke up from this hibernation in the early 2000s, things had changed. No longer was it necessary to hang out in dark record stores, subscribe to cheap, badly written magazines, or physically seek out, on foot, as it were, new music. Now, it was available in a few clicks. I began, tentatively at first, to see what I had missed.

A few things I learned: Metallica now sucked and were assholes, to boot; there was this thing people called “alt-country” that I was really digging on; a lot of bands had seemed to emerge that re-embraced the old school punk DIY aesthetic: people were starting bands, starting labels, releasing their own records, gathering fans through Myspace and other social media outlets. Pitchfork and their ilk provided a guide to this new landscape, and as a reborn music fan, I was grateful.

Then I started meeting the fans. The scene kids. The hipsters. You know the drill, the stereotypes, so I won't expound. I started to question the music and what these kids meant when they professed a love for “indie rock.” Sure, a lot of these bands sounded similar, but many more did not. Some of them started on indie labels and had moved on to things like making money. This “new” musical landscape, it seemed, was similar to what had existed 20 years earlier—the internet, among other things, had just made it more visible, more widely accessible. And the hip kids had decided that it was “Indie Rock” that they loved. It was like “Alternative” of the early 90s, but that fad had a very short lifespan. Now, in 2012, I still hear people in their 20s and 30s waxing ecstatic about this or that “Indie” band. I find myself having no idea what that means as a description; it says more about the fan than the music most of the time.