Bill Sigler's comments about meta-English

If you have read any of my poetry, you know I am engaged in a project to transform the language into one that can facilitate a more accurate understanding and description of the world. Existing grammars not only constrain vision and understanding, they distort and tend to polarize reality. Thus my project.

It has had many names. It was first dubbed Stevespell by a friendly critic, at a time when the main thrust was to normalize English spelling. As it evolved and I began to focus on grammar and new modes of thinking and describing, I started calling it Stevetok. But more recently I am inclined to think of it as meta-English, and "standard" English as "old English."

Recently, as I began work on turning Bouk 3 of The Song ov Elmallahz Kumming into an ebook, I discovered that a couple of other authors had worked on the same underlying text, the Sumerian Nin-me-sar-ra text, that lies beneath my Bouk 3. One of those authors is Bill Sigler, who has written a notable re-translation.

We began a conversation, and I sent him links to my poem and some short essays on meta-English. What follows are some comments Bill made, which were very gratifying. I don't think anyone else has understood so clearly what I'm doing:

I appreciate the hat tip on your lucid yet wide-ranging linguistics pieces. The poetics are intriguing, the idealism familiar. ... Still, call me weird, but I think "Blak Fiyer on Jennettek Fiyer" explicates the whole thing so beautifully and perfectly, without trying to patiently shine the pearls in the swine's ass. Your essays call to mind a more sober Finnegan's Wake, but your poems are something else entirely, like those filters that turn music into pure sound and break up the hegemony of melody and harmony. In other words, because word meanings are so intangible, the implications need to enigmatized for the sake of the holy transportation away from mind into spirit through the word. Few have been called for such work, fewer are chosen. I for one honor that you've created and maintained this reality in the face of Blakean odds. It does not need more justification, in my view, only more time ( from me and others). I haven't had much chance to delve in much yet, but nothing I've seen yet would discourage that. I will get to it in my own way, and will undoubtedly report back. For now I'll just say the Sumerian tree of life is on the edges of our existence, waiting to be found...

Thanks Bill! You can find Bill's poetry and ideas at:
http://billsigler.blogspot.com/ and other sites (check his profile).
His translations of the Nin-me-sar-ra are at:
http://billsigler.blogspot.com/search?q=Nin-me-sar-ra

Contra Eliot and Pound, 2

On August 15, 2008 I posted a response to some comments related to my poem Europa, Europa. I entitled that response "Contra Eliot and Pound", in which I condemned both authors, but especially Eliot for their anti-Semitism.  That article can be found at:

http://shivvetee.blogspot.com/2008/08/contra-eliot-and-pound.html

Of the many things I didn't mention in that article was the poem by Emanuel Litvinoff, To T. S. Eliot, in which he takes Eliot to task for his anti-Semitism. Litvinoff died in early October of this year, and the New York Times published an article, eulogizing him. However, the article primarily focused on his poem To T. S. Eliot, and his criticism of Eliot. Here's a link to the article, and following the link, a few noteworthy excerpts from it:

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/10/03/books/emanuel-litvinoff-poet-dies-at-96.html?_r=1

The article begins:

Emanuel Litvinoff, an English-born Jewish poet known for his scathing verse indictment of T. S. Eliot’s anti-Semitism — and for reading it before an audience that happened to include Eliot — died on Sept. 24 at his home in London. He was 96. ...

But it was for his poem “To T. S. Eliot” that he was best remembered. Written after World War II and widely anthologized, it was a response to work by Eliot that contained unapologetic anti-Semitic elements. One such poem, “Burbank With a Baedeker: Bleistein With a Cigar,”...

This poem (Burbank ...) was first published in 1920. Before World War II, Mr. Litvinoff, who otherwise admired Eliot’s work, was prepared to dismiss it as simply another link in the venerable chain of British literary anti-Semitism.

Eliot chose to reprint the poem in his anthology “Selected Poems,” published in 1948. That, in the post-Holocaust world, struck Mr. Litvinoff as inexcusable. ...

In early 1951, Mr. Litvinoff was invited to take part in an illustrious public poetry reading at the Institute of Contemporary Arts in London. He brought the poem with him.

He had no idea, though, that just before he began reading it aloud, its subject would walk through the door. ...

By the time it was Mr. Litvinoff’s turn to read, he said afterward, he was keenly aware that the target of the corrosive lines he was about to utter was sitting in the audience. ...

When Mr. Litvinoff finished, as was widely reported, pandemonium ensued. The poet Stephen Spender stood up and denounced him for insulting Eliot, prompting others in the crowd to cry “Hear, hear” in assent. [And here I denounce Stephen Spender -- smb]

There was, however, a dissenting voice. Amid the tumult, a man in the back of the room was heard to mutter: “It’s a good poem. It’s a very good poem.”

The speaker was Thomas Stearns Eliot.

More on that public reading can be found by clicking the links in the excerpts above, at least one of which will take you here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ot1VZD6b14U

Europa, Europa: further discussion

My very good friend and fellow pilgrim, Greg Barker responded in this way to my poem of July 24, 2008, Europa, Europa:

GB:
Powerful. The Muslim flood IS coming. And it seems that you are suggesting that Freethinking-Atheism will not be providing anything more than that which can be choked on.

SMB:
My thought is that hollow men do not have the wherewithal to resist people with a mission. And that an empty soul will seek to be filled.

GB:
Can you tell me more about:
Their little bigots, they call them prophets,
Whose manifesto reads, "You are the hollow men."

SMB:
T.S. Eliot., the so-called great poet/prophet of C20, and his equally bigoted sidekick Ezra Pound. These men have done untold damage to culture, in my opinion. These are the kind of people that the Prophet Jeremiah railed against. And I will follow in Jeremiah’s footsteps.

GB:
I could carry on with so many more questions that this has sparked...and don't know if you want to go down these roads...but I'll put it out there anyways. I think the George Lucas of the 70's had some parallel concerns. Did he offer any solution in his mythology?

SMB:
Not sure what you mean here. The battle between good and evil in Star Wars? I'm not saying Islam is evil in this poem. I'm saying Europe's soul is dying, and that Christianity is in big trouble and may need some serious rethinking if it wants to survive in Europe. I'm hinting at the fact that nazism may have succeeded in at least one of its programs. By undermining and discrediting Europe’s Christian foundations, Europe has been re-paganized, in a manner of speaking. In the end Europe’s secular paganism will not stand up against existential spiritual yearnings, and the focus and authority of monotheism.

Where might this all go? Clearly, Europe won't become Jewish [smile]. But either Christianity will revitalize itself, or Islam will make significant, even massive inroads. The revitalization of Christianity is not out of the question. We see a religious resurgence in Eastern Europe and Russia after its long-standing ideological suppression. However, the Islamification of secular Europe might be a very interesting thing if it brings about the liberalizing of Islam's fundamentalism. Wouldn't that be an ironic and surprising development? And with a liberal Islam, the religious wars of the last 2000 years might very well come to a non-apocalyptic, and spiritually elevated end! We might finally be able to put the jihadist and hate-embedded apocalyptic mythology of Christianity and Islam behind us.

Why I write verses

An angel came and plopped himself down in my study last night. No one listened to him but me. Some people didn’t even see him. Sad, sad world we live in, eh? Oh well. He said,

“It is difficult to see a way ahead for the human race--though I fully believe there must be ways ahead.”

I suppose he was checking to see how closely my thoughts aspired to his. I’ll have to ask him the next time he stops by. Anyway, this is what I said, more or less:

Defining and declaring those ways ahead is critical. As I've said many times, quoting/misquoting Fred Turner, ‘we cannot build a better world if we don't first imagine what it will look like.’

Putting aside those who can only look backwards and cluck their tongues at how bad the world has become. And those who can only make cynical comments about our current state, but who have themselves done absolutely nothing to find a better path forward. And those who draw realistic pictures of the world and say, ‘this is all there is.’ And those who exaggerate, twist up, misrepresent, and just plain lie about how things are, in their vicious hypocrisy. There are yet many with faith, who believe that we can find a good way forward.

But too often those with such faith look so far ahead, they lose touch with who/what/where we are. Most religious thinkers and moralizers are driven by messianic visions that hang only by a thread to this world. Or take Marx, in his socialist dream. He is a perfect example of a utopian who forgot that he had to work with real people. Can anyone articulate the next step, rather than the final step? The final step is easy: people who are moral, wise, happy, full of wonder and love.

So how can we invoke more love from ourselves? That is a question dear to my angel friend, and is a theme he is working on in all his mystical machinations. How can we inspire more wonder? That was A.J. Heschel's theme. The problem is, we actually need to build the tools, and not just talk about what we ought to do, or where we ought to be. Perhaps that’s what the Buddha intended with his 8-fold path. That is definitely the purpose of all the 12-step programs that have become so popular, but which, unfortunately, are mostly just intended to get us back to “normal.”

I would suggest that art must take a leading role here. We have all seen great films that were meant to inspire people to want to love more or be wiser or be kinder. And at least until the 20th century, this was a major topic for literature. But still, there’s a problem. There’s plenty of inspirational material, but little that gives us a detailed how-to. Real change is assumed, but the process is glossed over.

What a contrast to our technological world! We can build all kinds of wonderful tools, to wash clothes or to fly to the moon. But we live in a world of dearth when it comes to psychological and spiritual tools.

The US - Iran axis can be seen as a stereotypic model (remembering that stereotypes distort and misrepresent even while offering a template). In the US people live in a Roman wilderness of indulgence. Or more crudely, people grow fat and stupid on junk food and junk entertainment. In Iran people live enchained in harsh religious mores that suppress creativity and diversity. Crudely, people are xenophobic and ignorant.

In general, we see a medieval world of ruthless oppressions to control rampant sinfulnesses. In the example above it's the sneering ayatollahs vs the fat Americans. Both are lawless and revolting, each in their separate ways. In both states there can be no dignity. Dignity must be earned through restraint and sensitivity. There is no restraint where indulgence reigns, and nothing can be earned where behavior is controlled from without. This is the state of our moral and psychological technology. Medieval.

And therefore I compose verses, trying to show how real people come to grips with new ways to see the world. Ahhh, to such little avail.

Talking to other poems

The following poem was entered by a friend, Nancy Gerth, http://www.nancygerth.com/, into a Mother’s Day poetry contest. She wrote the following comment when she sent it to me:
"I know, I know, my poetry isn't what they are looking for. But I used it for a writing prompt."

Diamoms

Earth’s early heart.
Seeded by a billion and a half old
Splintered stars
Slips mothers one by one
From out beneath the mantle;
Spews them up the self-same pipe
We all must ride to heaven.

Diamondiferous, on blue ground,
Their hidden loose charm
A jubilee of patience
For all the earth to wash away.
‘Til grow, phosphoring in shadow,

Round, radiant gazes,
Gold-bezeled all with hair;
Trans-parents with fair
Clarity and fire.
By pressure harded, heat intensed,
Yet glowing with soft brilliance,

That forgives their cradlings,
Overblue and hard edged,
Luster-smudged
(Each sees hers the first one offered Mary);
That smooths and lights our way
With dust ground from sharded stars.
-- Nancy Gerth


What follows is my (unsolicited) critique of this poem. Really, a dialog between me, the poem, and the author. I wrote:

“I confess, this is not the kind of poetry I like to write, or read. In truth, it is an exceedingly difficult form to succeed in, at least in my narrowly bounded world. Thus my delay in reading and responding. Please forgive.

“Here's what I think:

“Lots of wonderful word play. I sure hope I'm not the only one that gets it and likes it (but I fear it's outside most peoples' boxes).

“Poem structure: complex superimposition, which, honestly, I doubt most will comprehend.

“Abstract. I couldn't really find a narrative, so it's hard to walk away holding onto anything more than ephemeral image-feelings. The poem's superimposition structure causes or amplifies that. And in general, superimposition is a hard mode to work in. I'm not even sure this is the right place to be trying something like that. [I'm sure *that* makes you feel good. Not.]

“First stanza: I'm not sure I understand it, but it's the best stanza *by far*, ending with a very powerful image of ascent/death/birth.

“Last 2 lines of 2nd stanza: "Til grow" clashes with the tense/movement of the rest of the stanza. I know you want the clash, but I don't think it works. Piss-assed me.

“I don't get what "that forgives their cradlings" refers to.

“Last stanza doesn't wrap it, even tho I know you like the "lights our way With dust ground from sharded stars" image. It doesn't clarify enough into a big bang. In my opinion, it's the momentary clarities that make this kind of form really powerful. But without those clarities that emerge from the relative chaos, abstract poems fall flat, at least on my ears. Actually, I'd try putting the first stanza last. THAT can stand as a closer, for sure. Then do a bit of touch up, if needed, to make it all work.

“But remember, I like diamonds because they're geologically and chemically interesting, not because they're valuable, and as for moms, they are all-too-human in my little mind. So this subject is going to be a hard-sell to me from the get-go.”

Concerning Allen Ginsberg's poem "Howl", part 3 of 3

Lies, Illusions, Fake Madness, Fake Art

Part 3

And from here we can finally confront the fourth level of dishonesty in this poem. The poem presents itself, and is intended to be seen, as the scribblings and desperate cry of just such a mad artist at the margin of sanity, or beyond. Because Ginsberg's readership is so primed by an absurd poetics that establishes madness as a qualifying necessity for artistic greatness, the minions bow down in awe. Here it is! The recovered writings of a mad prophet. But like faux marble, scratch the false colors, even with a dull knife, and they flake off.

The poet is not mad and there is nothing honest about the perception of madness he creates. If indeed the world had defeated him, and this was his last half-sane cry, perhaps we could find meaning in his words, and surely we would feel empathy for his broken spirit. But the poet is not defeated. The facts of his life speak loudly and clearly to the contrary. Ginsberg was a fighter and talented self-promoter to the very end. No, this is a paean to self-indulgence, with cynical disregard for the truth

So why is Howl so popular? Although I believe I have laid out some partial answers already, frankly, I ask the question, not to seek an answer, but to expose the real question. What has gone wrong with our literary standards, that we have lost the desire for exemplary art? Why is not moral grandeur the defining feature of our literature?

There is only one way to answer these two questions, and that is to throw off this shabby, ill-fitting and confining garment we call 20th century literature. We need to once again take responsibility for our words and the words that we read and endorse. Authors, not readers, are the creators of meaning. And those authors that take responsibility for the value of their words, will also take responsibility for creating pathways into our future.

Where are those great ones that can imagine a way from here to a desirable future? We have plenty of piddlers who can rant on about the morass and despair they live in. Enough of lies and narcissism, cynicism and despair! If our intentions do not have a clear purpose and meaning, and if that purpose and meaning is not essentially ethical, then we're not ready to sit down and write. Paraphrasing the words of Frederick Turner in his introduction to The New World, "If we're not prepared to imagine a better future, how can we possibly create one?"

Concerning Allen Ginsberg's poem "Howl", part 2 of 3

Part 2

Continued from 10/4/06

But this lie, about who the great ones are, is the necessary first step into the poetics of dissipation and futility.

The second misapprehension, one step below the surface, is the self-referential justification of the first lie. Here we learn from the fake prophet that the world is unredeemable, so much so that the only, or best, or at least the most "artistic" response to these times is rejection and withdrawal. The world is too terrible and the sensitive soul (oh woe, oh woe) is crushed by it.

There are indeed many people crushed by the harshness of the world. Each of these people represents a great diminishment of what "could be." They are deserving (and demanding) of our help. They require an active response to bring healing, and are not to be silenced and shunted off in locked corners.

But, this is surely not the point of the poetics that guided Howl. The poet is not making a plea for more kindness. Nor is he guiding our steps through or around the morass of oppression, violence, and insensitivity that confronts us. Nor is he lamenting our ruin and loss. No! He is reveling in drunken and drugged-out disregard and disdain. His burning question to the reader is, "What is your drug of choice?" Those committed to dissipation and futility will smile and say, "Yes! That's the main question. Why not? What else is there?"

Yes indeed! Many people feel this way, and I have too, on occasion. But the fact that people think this is an honest response, and not merely honest but worthy of a whole poetics; this is what causes me to worry about our state of affairs.

And this fact takes us into the real inner workings of dishonesty and cynicism in this poem: the fable that has long equated inspiration with madness. This idea, articulated at least as long ago as German "Sturm and Drang" and found in English romanticism (although none of the romantics I've read were mad), became the calling card of dada and surrealism and their numerous offshoots. It is embedded in the popular mythologizing about the artist, in spite of the fact that one is hard-pressed to find meaningful examples. With a notable exception or two, like Nerval, the best we can do is point to some second-rate writers and local losers like Pound and Artaud and Plath. Ginsberg has simply summed up a long history of illusion and sloppy thinking. If we take Howl seriously we can only conclude that art and literature are degenerate, self-destructive activities, and that imagination and creativity are signs of disease, worthy of close medical monitoring at their first appearance. And yet this foolishness is the modus operandi of Howl, and a cornerstone of the poetic imagination of this century.

Concerning Allen Ginsberg's poem "Howl", part 1 of 3

Excavating my notebooks, I found this little essay on Ginsberg's Howl written in 1999. Perhaps I am ranting some [smile], but I think it's interesting reading. I’ll upload it in 3 parts. Here’s the first


Lies, Illusion, Fake Madness, Fake Art

Part 1

Lies, illusion, fake madness, and fake art: that's what our poetics and art theorists have passed on to yet another generation. Exemplified, but by no means originating in Ginsberg's so-called epic, Howl, it is summarized quite neatly in the first line: "I have seen the best minds of my generation...." Reading these words, you can put the book down. Everything that follows is mere hysterics.

This line embodies four lies, and can thus be taken as a defining statement of the artistic and intellectual cul-de-sac we have long been caught in, like those stories of lost hikers we have all heard, who wander round and round in a rather narrow circle, entirely unaware that they are going nowhere and doing absolutely nothing to help themselves, in spite of all their effort.

In what follows, I lay out the four lies Ginsberg has reproduced so cleverly in his poem. I say "reproduced" because there's nothing new here. And I say "cleverly" because by all sales measures, this is one of the most successful poems ever published. Already a second generation is gobbling it up like so much fast food.

The first lie is on the literal level. It is quite obvious and direct. Ginsberg is not describing the best minds of his, or any generation. These are the failed and broken minds and souls of his generation. These are the rejected ones, who are rejecting the world (and themselves), as much as the world is rejecting them.

The truth is anathema to the four-tiered lie Ginsberg has built. The truth is that the best minds for many generations now have been disgusted by art and literature and its futile and impotent and nay-saying view of the world. The best minds have turned to science, math, and occasionally spiritual matters. The best minds have not given up on the world, but rather, are determined to rebuild it. They have left art and literature to wallow in its own drunken swill. With this line of Ginsberg's we get a good lungfull of the smell of modern literature. With catch-phrases like ,"It's not the artist's job to create meaning; that's the job of the reader," we get another deep breath of the same vomit.