Written in Beijing

Beijing Journal: Hutoongs

I know I cannot see far
Among these alleys and their crooked, aching ways.
But step by step and veil by veil, I pick my way,
As if thru gauzy curtains; as if thru dusk and shadows.
Another dead end. I turn and brush aside another veil.
It slides across my face in whiffs of charcoal and kabob.
Beyond, I push back courser curtains of dust and fumes,
Swirling in the wake of a motorized rickshaw.

With each step I traverse a momentary universe.
This one is bordered in a frayed brocade of rubbish.
And then, behind a curtain of airy music,
A man squats on an oily stone, picking for ball bearings
From a pile of motor parts. Like a fine machine, he rolls them
Between his finger and thumb, to test if they are worn.

Now, sitting within a lacy cloud of boiling tea
Two men play a board game with ivory disks,
Thinking, slamming, sliding, then... I've passed beyond.

On a slower board, a roof tile slides.
The world thinks; it slides some more, and slams
With a muffled crash into a hidden courtyard.

Wondering, searching, I bend and peek
Around a low and narrow doorway framed in banners.
What say these hieroglyphs on crimson drapes
Fluttering around doors into a still more narrow path?
Aha! I see the broken roof tile, where it lies
Among a stack of crates, a twisted broom,
Some broken pots, a heap of coal.
So much more, but these veils close so fast...

I come to another set of doors, all patched and shrouded
With hammered plates of tin and heavy bolts.
Someone else’s hand throws askew these veils.
Inside, a wall of broken bricks, aslant to the vertical.
By art or by decay, it achieves a certain grace,
As I pass by. And that veil, too, turns once again opaque
Within this maze of glimpses and conjecture.

More on science and religion

In his insightful comment to my last post, David Van Dusen <http://www.typeschrift.blogspot.com/> says:

"The dogs will fight." & "There is a (divine) gradient to nature." --- Indeed! --- And a divine gradient, also, to the blood-feuds, cock-fights, and peace-by-other-means we wage over Divinity, and Nature?

Well David, a "Divine gradient" does not mean a straight line. To the contrary, it means a tendency with many irregularities and seeming inconsistencies, and even much that appears retrograde.

One example: The Romans destroyed the 2nd Temple and did their best to destroy Judaism, but what resulted was a renewed Judaism, Rabbinic Judaism, with a profoundly powerful social, moral, and intellectual trajectory. That’s the Jewish view, and we’ve been saying it for 1800 years, but you would be hard-pressed to find much Christian (or Muslim) acknowledgment of that point of view until the enlightenment was well under way (1750+). In fact, in Europe (as opposed to the US, whose founders used Judaism as an important model) it only became "reasonable" to openly talk about Judaism’s historic value and validity after the military destruction of European nazism. That war, which dismantled the last vestiges of Europe’s moral and intellectual "authority," allowed a more open and honest reevaluation of Judaism and Jews. In sum, in spite of, shall we say, 95 generations of active resistence, the Divine gradient, which we Jews believe establishes Judaism’s priesthood role, persisted. Israel was restored, and Judaism’s fundamental importance to Western and Middle Eastern culture is now beginning to be acknowledged and studied by people other than Jews.

The clash of science and religion

Jbooks.com, in its 'discussions' section posed the following question to its readers, under the title of The Clash of Scientific Understanding and Religious Truth:

"Rabbi Soloveitchik suggests that the controversy isn't between evolution and creationism, nor is it whether God exists. The issue at heart is that man cannot be both made in the divine image and be equal to other species.

Are you convinced? Does human capacity for understanding our physical world separate us from everything or do biological similarities trump religion? Can science and religion ultimately be synthesized?"

I responded:

I think the Reb is a bit inaccurate in his thinking here. Science can not, and will not extinguish the divine spark in humans. That spark is an existential fact, tho many may not be attuned to it. Neither will science diminish our (apparent) higher consciousness of the divine; that is, higher as compared to other animals. The conflict between science and religion is really not about truth. It is about modes of thinking, and authority.

As for authority, the transfer of power from religious institutions to secular ones (or vice versa), was and is a turf war. The dogs will fight.

I think the more interesting issue is modes of thought. Put in its simplest terms, science asks how, and religion asks why. For example, we would not go to an evolutionary biologist to get an answer to why we humans exist. We would rather ask how we (probably) came to exist here. We would ask 'why are we here?' to a person who specializes in addressing questions of ethics and values.

However, the 2 modes of thinking are critically dependent. The Hebrew Bible often addresses the issue of how, and produces anecdotal evidence to describe the process. For example, Beraysheet/Genesis begins as a clearly scientific text, addressing the issues of origin of the universe (1:1+), origin (and evolution) of species (1:11+), origin of culture (2:16+, 6:18+, and other places), and origin of nations (10:1+). Science has filled in a great deal of detail in some areas.

But the evolutionists (and I am being specific here for the sake of brevity), for all their focus on process, have failed to grasp and work with an essential fact: there is a (divine) gradient to nature. What drives evolution, a process that goes from simple to more complex? There is no survival advantage in greater complexity. Indeed, it violates the principles of inertia and entropy. Specifically, "life" appears to be non-inertial in its behavior. There are no physics to answer the questions of what sets life in motion, what resists it, and what impels it. Life is anti-entropic in its trajectory towards greater complexity and organization. The evolutionists simply ignore these essential "details" and not a few other issues as well.

In sum, there is no conflict between science and religion, even tho there are many foolish and uninformed (or ideologically pre-formed) people on both sides.

Musings on the nature of cause and effect

We must rethink our linear and simplistic ideas about cause and effect. This is true not only for the physical world, but even more critically, for the nature of consciousness, or as some would call it, the spiritual world. The following poem continues my explorations on these matters.

Mewzen on Kawz in Effeks

Hoeshaya 8:4: "They ordained officers but I [God] did not know."

How kan this be?
Wut iz it God duz not kno?

Thus we ar telld:
The hewman Seel in Addom iz non-exxisten.
Oenlee az it seek holeeness,
Oenlee az it bilden knowen,
Oenlee az it persu justis,
Duz it rizen tu exxisten.
Els it stumbel in degreez a darkness
And exxert itsellz tu no effeks.

Addom themsell iz mere indetermennus.
The Prezzens a God alone giv direkten tu the werl.
And wut iz not tu God will fall awway, debree,
Az a skatter a leevz sterrd by a winden,
Az a pile ov ashez, a life bernd awway.

That wich livz in darkness, in Addom
Haz no fewcher in Godz evolven werlz.
It shudder and flikkerz, it vibe and reverb
Beneeth the kawz and effeks a Life.
The vast and tedeyus hewman laberz
Ar but soyelz in wich the dellakkut frute
Ov the hewman Seel iz seed and rooted.
This sivvillazzaten, this moest ov wut we see
Iz insubstanshel, iz a dezzert merrozh,
Like dust devvelz sterrd by owwer on-rushen Lor.

The Ejjipshenz, the Babballoneyanz, and the Romenz,
The inkwizzatterz, the zarz, the notseez,
The iyattolahz, thay will all tare down,
But the Lor iz lift Hem holee wunz.
And the tru, the holee werk kontinnewz
And, nevver dout, but nuthing haz bin loss.

Opening stanza to (Stormz and Graevz)

What follows is transcribed out of my notebooks. It’s a kind of peek into my literary and conceptual processes, as I try to convert threshold experiences into known language. It is really a process of translation. The Biblical Prophets, Dante, Milton, Shelley, Blake, Bialek: they were all expert translators, and they are my guides.

Two simple notes for those of you who may try to read this:
Words in parentheses are uncertain. Often I come up with a series of alternatives as I try to unpack and explore the poetic experience (ie, the thought-vision) shaping the image and action. Not infrequently, there is no “correct” word, the poetic experience being multi-faceted. In this case, the group of alternatives, as a whole, can be thought of as being the best estimate of the experience. But, God knows, my poetry is hard enough as it is, so, ultimately, I pare it down to produce a fair copy of the poem.
Phrases in brackets are also uncertain, as with words in parens.

(Down marbel kollonaedz that (sparkel)(boyel)(plunj) like (wotterfallz)(kristel kaskaedz)
Eech likwid kollum splashing at owwer feet,
A spray of lite, mika and (korts)(kworts),
Iz a (gaetway) intu [the Pardaes Uddoniy][owwer Pardaes breet*][owwer Pardaes, a breet*].
               * “breet:” holee kontrakt; kuvvannent

A week later, I revised the above to this:

Ar thay (marbel)(skulpted)(ruwend) kollonnaedz? Ar thay (kristel)(marbel) kaskaedz?
Ar thay likwid (kollumz)(skroelz)(duenz) (unroling at)(washing tu) owwer feet?
A spray ov lite (;)(frum) mika and korts,
[A fomee serf][And a kwiyer ov waevz][And the rumbel and mermer] (at)(by) [the Gaets ov the See].

And as I try to focus the above, this is what I’m currently thinking will work:

Ar thay marbel kollonnaedz? Ar thay kristel kaskaedz?
Ar thay likwid skroelz unroling at owwer feet?
A spray ov lite, mika and korts,
In a kwiyer ov waevz at the Gaets ov the See.

From: Ammung the Ruwenz ov the Tempel, I Herd...

I have always felt that everything that can be known, is revealed in the waves of the ocean...

Open Wun Skroel, Enter the Ferst Wave
               Shabbat Pesukh khoel Ha-mowaed 5760
               Shakhreet Shemmona Esray

And then I kame tu the Grate See.
And the darkness in the forres
Reseeded intu oek shrub
And yello flowwer brume.
Then sharp ej beech grass rubbd my shinz,
And the roer ov brakerz washt akross my fase.

My foutprints krosst the beech in her singing,
Her armz spred wide with fraktel pattern tallit*.
               *shawl; sandz
She dessendz and the wotterz rize up tu her,
Erasing the kruwelteez that hav echt thaer furroez
Intu her fase. Re-riets her histerree evree momen.
Unkovverz her seel in salm an immerzhen.

I lay with her, lips tu her lips,
Brest tu my brest; the shape ov my boddee
Imprest in her Soel, an expans ov sand.
The see sang its versez tu me by thowzendz,
Wave after wave, vers after vers,
Storee after storee, letter after letter,
Era after era, the brakerz the song,
Reveeled tu eech Soel and tu all the werldz,
And hu evver iz reddee tu approech tu lissen.

I gaezd on the skroelz unroeling befor me
Trying tu interpret thaer infinnit voise.
Eech skroel az it opend reveeld ferther skroelz,
Eech werd expanding tu hewman lievz,
Eech skroel re-roeling and klozing at my feet,
Swerling a foming arrownd my aenkelz.

I reecht down tu gather and lift up a handful.
Between my feengerz a dimend kaskade.
I splash my fase, senshuwus and koeld.

The songz kaskaden; thay rize and re-spirel,
And I, huze steps will be eraest frum the beech,
Konkluden my praerz, I steppt back and bow.

A message from beyond the body

This poem won an award in the 2005 Reuben Rose International Competition.

Tahharra: Borderz
               begun 10 Tishray, 5764
Frum I, hu am not,
Tu yu, hu ar not;
I, hu hav seest tu be
Tu yu, hu ar no mor.

Havving taken wun step up the infinnit ladder
Owwer lumennus boddeez tranzmit thaer knowenz...
     A bowndree ov C,
     Ware we stand, this side
     Ov the ark ov the Lor.

With theze eyz
     The long ark ov dezzerted beech
     Seen frum on hi, the Truro duenz.
     And the koeld Atlantek, ultra mareen,
     Rippeld in the tenshenz ov plannettaree moeshenz.
     Between the infinnit graenz ov sand
     And the kolapsing waevz ov rezistless momentum,
     A thin wite line of lasee foem,
     Swaying and swerling a dellikut border...
That iz the kerten, and behiend it I stand,
The not me of lite in the not yu ov lite
Within the arken Torrah and Divvine gaetwayz.

With eyz kuvverd by karben** shardz
               ** utherz say "potterree"
     The Hi Preest prepaerz,
     Hiz breth groez shallo.
     Hiz fase deth pale, handz almoest fleshless,
     Hiz skin tranzlusen az skraept parchmen.
     Kloethd in a robe ov fine woven kotten,
     A brusht wite brokade and thik kotten belt.
     A brusht wite skull kap, kotten brokade
          Its dansing liyonz and leeping deer.
     Hiz naelz ar klippt, hiz wite beerd trimmd,
     He immerst 3 tiemz in a chill mikvah.**
               ** ritchuwel baething

     The Hi Preest prepaerz.
     He seesez tu breeth;
     The waevlike moeshen ov hiz puls groez long.
     He taeks a last step, an endless instant
     Az he enterz the ark ov Divvine Prezzens.

That iz the kerten, and behiend it I stand,
The not me ov lite in the not yu ov lite,
Boddeez ov lite within the tranzlusent arks ov Torrah.

RE: the poem: Guerden ov Addomz (see 10/26/06)

Reb Rick Kool wrote to me, asking:

So what is it that is written in our cells that we drag up the hill? The search for the peaceful place, the search for the garden with food (all kinds of foods for mind and body), or is it that our cells tell us to stir up dust?

In answering him, I thought maybe it would be of interest to all of you, so here it is:

I guess I would have to answer that, on the first level, the poem attempts to unlock these kind of questions, rather than provide answers. But then again, I hate writers that spew out the copped-out, bullshit company line that "art and literature have no meaning except what each reader/viewer gives it." That's just so much hogwash in a bucket.

So I am glad if this poem inspires questions, but if that's all it does, it's a failure. If art/literature is to be more than decoration or entertainment, if it is to take leadership responsibility for making this world a better place, the author must be able to clearly convey intentions (in-tensions) and meanings, and not merely create questions, ambiguities, and bizarreties.

Technically, I am merging/superimposing into a single picture a few worlds: 1) this, the one we see with our eyes; 2) the after-death state which we cannot see at all with any certainty; 3) the Biblical-spiritual world that provides us with images of some kind of original (or pre-world) paradise, that may also be, 4) a Divine state of peace and perfection that is immanent but hidden.

We are the tillers of this soil, this world, but yet we hardly know what fruit it is we grow or harvest. Indeed, we are so busy, so overwhelmed even, with the details, that we hardly have the time, much less the vision, to contemplate what, if any, are the enduring impacts of our presence and our work here. We have hardly the time or the vision to consider that, as many believe, we stand in the Presence of the Divine, and yet, grievously, we see with our eyes how shameless our behavior can be. Many also believe the Messiah has come, and yet, grievously, we see with our eyes that these are not Messianic times, at least by any definition I can understand.

Perhaps with these kinds of meditations we can begin to remove the veil from our eyes, a curtain upon which is projected this obvious world, but which separates us from higher states of knowing and being. Many say, "no, there is only this world, and it is not (but) a veil." They say there is nothing deeper, nothing Divine, nothing Messianic to see or to know.

But I have seen the veil pulled back, and I am trying to address that experience and convey it, both for those who don't believe there is anything beyond this world, and for those who have seen beyond, and want to see more. The problem is, visionary experiences transcend our rationality, and thus can't be conveyed in simple, or literal, or rationalistic modalities. I'm not interested in telling about the experience. Plenty of others have done that. I want to generate a reality transcending experience in the reader! My response is to construct linguistic forms that stretch, or tear, the fabric of language, and that superimpose multiple states and places. By partially emulating the "visionary" experience, perhaps I can literarily (and literally) activate or stimulate it. I don't know what else to do, to try to help people see thru, or beyond, that which appears so opaque, so impenetrable, so insurmountable.

But to attempt to achieve such results in one way or another is absolutely necessary. Whether I succeed or fail is another issue entirely. How else are we to be inspired to change, to do better, if we cannot begin to glimpse the Divine Presence beyond the veil?

Tahara: "purities," also used in the sense to prepare a body for burial

Deer Wunzelz and Rappunzelz,

There's nothing like good poesy. Well, anyway... today, I'm not uploading the one that refers to Darcy Thomson's On Growth and Form. That one's titled "Lamment ov the Hi Preest." It happened to me while walking my son Cal to school. Aaaaannnnd, I'm not uploading the one that explores, in an imagistic manner, the way in which randomness and determinism are simply two sides of a divine coin. It begins with a cool epigram from Zohar 1:15b, "The letters and vowel-points follow (Him) in their singing... like an army at the behest of the king."

Instead, this (which was recently published in the journal Sh’ma)...


Tahharrah: Boddeez ov Lite
               week ov Va'yera, (Genesis 18-22)
Thare iz a man, hiz boddeez wer lite.

Wen he sat in hiz hows, mingeld with eevning,
Hiz boddee ar shaddoez in the pajez ov a bouk.

Wen he wokkt on the way, hiz chields befor him,
Hiz boddee iz a darkness aggenst the briten sun.

Wen he praez with hiz minyen, wisper and wunder,
Hiz boddee ar not, but a fluttering shawl.

Ware he sell frum hiz skreen owt tu the markets,
He wer fleshee fasez, and hevvee armz.

He haz wokkt in feeldz, furro and klod,
The raen a dripping down hiz shivver ov boenz.

This iz the man and hiz boddeez ov lite.

Eech benden shape and eech deegree ov thikness
Iz a vael, abstrakt on the Hevvenlee pallas.

Eech gate tu Hevven iz thin az a shaddo,
     Like a pawlish marbel, likwid and smooth.
Eech windo dissolvz in a prizzem ov lite,
     An oeshen ov unprediktabbel glints.
It's wallz ar kerv in a mennee foelden kerten,
     Lase within lase ov intrekkut dezine.
With iyz, the man will not see a way in.

Kaerful, methoddek, intense reppattishen
Ov lissen and feel, a strikt hullakhah*,
               * Jewish law; divine behavior patterns
Such a dellakut tuch on a flutter ov shawlz.

     Like lips slo karressing her foerhed, her nape,
     Her shoelderz, her brests, such a slo karress;
     Downwerd, downwerd, in erottek foeldz,
     Lips barelee tuch, all breth and trembel...

So the man ov lite, hiz boddeez ov deziyer
Muving ekstattek* in the vaelz ov Uddoniy.
               * the fizzekz ov it iz, mor propperlee
               "Muving diskontinnuwus"

New verses for the Zohar

So here's something I'm working on. This is an excerpt from a long semi-narrative poem called The Pardaes Dokkumen. It is the first 2 of 4 stanzas, but I thought 22 lines was enough to begin with here.

Context: There is a story (midrash) in Talmud (~2nd-5th C. CE) of 4 sages who ascend to "pardaes." This word can be translated as "garden" or "paradise" in its most obvious interpretations, but the midrash itself is very enigmatic. Of the 4 sages who ascend, one comes back an apostate, one comes back apparently mad, one doesn't come back (suicide? dead?), and one comes back "whole." The Zohar (~13th C. CE) picks up on the Pardaes midrash, directly and indirectly in many of its passages - mostly tangential expansions on the story. Also, the Zohar occasionally cloaks a great sage in the appearance of a peasant or lowly worker. "The Pardaes Dokkumen" draws on both Talmud and Zohar, as it reframes the story. I hope that gives you enough references points to read this excerpt.

Plowmen with Taelz

A donkee driver sed,
"I met a plowman reterning frum feeldz,
"Hu sed, ‘This partikkuler vallee iz flud,
     ‘And the oxxen ar serlee and I hav plow
     ‘The muk and the klay intu thik slerree.
     ‘Up tu my waest I hav groen and drivven
     ‘The beests, foemen at nostrel and kikken;
     ‘The plow in my handz, a sord tu the erth.
     ‘That iz the Torrah ov my narro vale.
     ‘The ferro ar fludden and no wun kan dissern
     ‘The seed frum the staen in the lienz I skribe.'"

A wotter kareyer sed,
"I meet a plowman a reternen frum feelz.
"He will say, ‘For jennerratenz I am plow this expanz.
     ‘My lingz ar groen frum its oxxide dust.
     ‘In morning its salt iz kurst on my iyz.
     ‘My fout print rekorden on the dune and drift.
     ‘My skin a reenkel az my plow iz reenkel.
     ‘Wut I du tu the lan, it duz tu me.
     ‘That iz the Torrah ov this endless span.
     ‘The sun and the wind strip off owwer raen.
     ‘We kut owwer ferro; thay bekum owwer grave.'"

What is this paradise of bitter fruits?

Ritual and reason serve the same purposes. What follows is neither ritual nor reason, at least in the limited and traditional sense of those concepts...

I. The Guerden ov Addomz

We hav kum tu this guerden tu gather frute;
We doent kno wut frute; we doent kno this gena.*
               * "garden" in Hebrew
We hav kum tu this hilltop, so perfektlee peesful,
But we see with owwer eyz it iz not peesful at all.
This iz the Plase and this iz the Trueth,
This Plase we kno not, nor kno we its Trueth.
We hav kum tu pluk frute, but in owwer kliming
We hav stirrd up dust and we hav shed (owwer) blud.
Guerden ov frute so still and begiling
Plase ov pees so stunninglee fraegrent,
I assend with my oderz; thay ar ritten in my sellz.
Distrakten and distorten I will arrive.

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.

Wordless voices

Something I've been working on during these Days of Awe:

The vois ov God-Seel sownz lusid.
     Porz us, a wine in fine kut kristel,
     A blu blak prizzem tu krimsen vilet.
     Opake in its deep tranzlusen.
We dreenk this wine
     And mezher the taest
     In shaedz ov sweetlee bitterz.

But the God wine krusht
Frum the robust God-Vine
Iz not reddee,
     Iz lak ov boddee
Till it lay in kask
     In its blak lase shrowd
     Waeten tu pass the gaetwayz
     Ov its kemmek tranzmigratenz.

Oenlee then the taest and the dizzy wunder...
Hu woud reveelen?
And hu woud beleeven?
The God-Werd, self-werd, fals-werd, un-werd
Vois.