Monday, 16 July 2007

French Made

There's a good and interesting review written by the British poet and critic, Lachlan Mackinnon, of an important new anthology of English poetry translated into French, in the July 6, 2007 issue (no. 5440) of the TLS. The book in question is from the canon-making Gallimard, and is titled Anthologie Bilingue de la Poesie Anglaise. It is relatively comprehensive, stretching from Beowulf to Simon Armitage, at over two thousand pages.

According to the review, the translators (there are dozens employed) mostly get things right, and, though there are rather curious omissions (Kenneth White) and curiously obscure inclusions (Michael Edwards), the work is ultimately impressive: "the editors of this volume and the translators have achieved an extraordinary entente cordiale."

Eyewear recently lived in Paris for a few years (2001-2003) and is much encouraged by this newly-expressed interest in the English poem. Poetry is apparently less of a living form among the French, with a few Oulipo-exceptions, unlike, say, fiction, or the theoretical essay, so even French poetry gets relative short shrift in France. There are also fewer anthologies of poetry, than in English publishing. I recall, last year, entering a stylishly-situated, and book-crowded bookshop on Saint-Germain, and having the anthology section pointed out to me by a disinterested shop assistant. It was a few brief shelves way at the top, and he gestured at a ladder. I'd climb it for this new book.

Interminable Entertainment

Eyewear would like to report that the war to colonise our imaginations has been won. Prince, as we have all heard in the last few days, has begun to disseminate (I select this term carefully), his songs for free, via newspapers and the Internet; meanwhile, reports stream in of a generation of "screen kids" raised on a steady diet of web-based, digi-tainment. Meanwhile, the Potter franchise - a mighty juggernaut - rolls forward.

Students of media and culture might want to suggest a term for this landscape of ours - one with no foreseeable horizon - "Interminable Entertainment". Put bluntly, there is no end in sight, to TV episodes airing, music groups releasing songs, films being produced, books being published - and new works being created and distributed in media as yet unknown. Creators have a moral right to protect these works - but do we, the targeted audience, have a moral right to resist? To ever shut down, turn away, avoid the never-ending stories and unceasing cacophony of new releases, new writers, new stars, new franchises, and on and on and on. Truth is, and exhaustingly, the people who, like busy bees or productive ants, scurry to make new things for us to consume as cultural entertainment, cannot stop, if they wanted - new people would replace them. Why? Two reasons: glamour and money. The industries that sustain a never-ending supply of product for our minds pay well, and, if only by association with celebrities and famous artists, are considered prestigious by many.

You may say I am being a curmudgeon here. But the lack of surcease, for instance, in the idea of televisual fare, is utterly numbing. Knowing, as I do, that moving images used for narrative pleasure, will be a form of mass communication for the next century, if not longer, fills me with dread and melancholy. All those concepts, all those pitches.

To keep it new, reviewers and marketers speak of new forms of distribution - but, whether the entertainment comes through a TV or other screen (or directly onto the retina) it is still someone selling something to us, to entrance us - shadows on a cave wall, that, alas, and classically, continue to deviate from a sunnier truth.

Friday, 13 July 2007

Poem by John Menaghan

Eyewear is glad to welcome John Menaghan (pictured) this Friday. Menaghan was born in New Jersey to Irish-American parents. He lives in Venice, California.

He is winner of an Academy of American Poets Prize and other awards. Menaghan teaches literature and creative writing at Loyola Marymount University in Los Angeles, where he also serves as Director of both the Irish Studies and Summer in Ireland programs and runs the annual LMU Irish Cultural Festival. Several of his poetry collections have been published by Irish press Salmon, such as All The Money In The World and She Alone.

Menaghan’s recent move into playwriting has seen his one-act play A Rumor of Rain performed at the Empty Stage Theater in Los Angeles (as part of an evening that included work by John Patrick Shanley and Neil Simon). He is currently working on two full-length plays, one set in Berkeley, California and the other in Belfast, Northern Ireland and a sequence of short plays on the theme of leaving and being left behind. His third volume of poetry is forthcoming from Salmon in 2009.


Home

This place suffused not
with spirits but thin traces
gaunt remains of deeds
done words spoken or left
unsaid undone undoes her
now all these years later
coming back to find she
has no home not even one
away from home no firm
connection to the earth no
place that calls her back
and says abide here you
will thrive and feel fully
alive don't look back or
so the wisdom goes and
maybe it's always folly
this effort to visit a past
life situation context lost
dissolved surrendered at
the border to some newer
world so many years ago
some lustrous future once
her future till it too grew
old became no more than
just another past she'll
try to visit someday and
discover it too lies beyond
her grasp teasing her with
dangled shards of fact
fragments of circumstance
so many places where she
once existed still exist
themselves after a fashion
still remain but do not
know her name . . .

Poem by John Menaghan

Reprinted from She Alone (Salmon Poetry, 2006) with permission of the author.

Thursday, 12 July 2007

Moving On Up

There are - according to engine Google - 13 million or more hits that come up when you search for "eyewear". This humble blogspot is now so popular, it is 4th on that list. Who ever said "men seldom make passes / at girls who wear glasses"?

Wednesday, 11 July 2007

Hands Off, She's Mine

Canada is often considered the Switzerland of North America (five hundred years of peace, good government, etc... and all it created was the Cuckoo Clock etc.) - a dull neighbour to the North of the Toxic Texan and his large empire. Think again. Canada is shaping up to be more like the Saudi Arabia of North America, but with ice instead of sand - potentially massive amounts of oil reserves are becoming available in Canada's True North, strong and free. And PM Harper has finally found a position he can defend well and truly - by laying down a strong riposte to American (and other) claims on Canuck territory. Eyewear mainly abhors violence and military might, but, if someone has to control 25% of future oil reserves on the planet, better a mild-mannered middle power like Canada, than, say, Russia or the US.... eh?

Review: Our Love To Admire

The new Interpol album is recently out, with stuffed and mounted (extinct?) animals from kitsch dioaramas on the cover and inside the lyricless booklet. As is well-known, it is their third, but first on a big label. The question that arises on first hearing this moody, slow-burning, sometimes exquisite, even morose album, is: what exactly does this foursome think they're doing?

Labelled under the genre "alternative", American, New Yorkers, and based in the terrorised first decade of the 21st century, Interpol (their name itself is a sign of the times), is a weird cultural throwback. Oddly, the style Interpol have adopted is derived from Joy Division (from a post-industrial town in the North of England) with a hint of The B-52s (listen to those herky-jerky vocals again). Interpol seem like poseurs in this lineage. But they do not parody, but perform a pastiche of a style, and thereby refresh it for the current age.

That is, they sound like Joy Division, if Joy Division (and this is far more the case here than for Editors, for instance) were chemical-using late-nighters in Manhattan post 9/11, instead of, as we know, more complex and limited figures. Interpol - able to think in terms of an American career (Joy Division lost their lead signer on the eve of such a career) - thereby have to plan and execute an album of songs, exploring themes, subjects, using lyrics, and various sonic strategies, to establish a brand for themselves.

As such, the new album is both derivative, and, as a piece of genre work, impressively innovative (as paradoxical as that almost is). Less didactic, or overbearingly symphonic (cacaphonic?) than Arcade Fire, less one-note lo-fi than The Strokes, less pro-American and upbeat than The Killers, and disinterested in cheap forms of epiphany (unlike Coldplay, Snow Patrol and other derivative U2 offshoots) they're marking a niche for themselves as definitively serious, sombre, yet tuneful songwriters, laying down a sort of narcissistic East Coast melancholy soundtrack that Edgar Allan Poe would have understood as just as American as Whitman's more transcendental aims.

Is it a good album? It is a good album. Is it well-crafted? It is well-crafted. The songs are cool, and sinuous in their design. At times, it is small "e" epic. Why do people make such music? Why do people listen to it? Something in us enjoys such sounds, does not refuse such sounds.

Five specs.

Tuesday, 10 July 2007

A report on poetry in 2007

I write this as someone who has spent over 20 years writing, editing, publishing, and promoting poetry, in both North America and Europe.
There is no mass interest in poetry, in the United Kingdom, in 2007.

Last year, I edited a poetry anthology CD for Oxfam that has since sold over 10,000 copies, in less than a year. It is, as such, the best-selling British poetry CD of all time. As far as I can tell, this fact – hardly remote from social or aesthetic concern – has received no mention in any mainstream media in the UK.

Television. Film. Music. These do not need state sponsored support to generate interest, even desire, on the part of mass audiences. It is true that government support may (this is debatable) improve these forms of entertainment / art – but it hardly need advertise them. Marketed, admittedly, by commercial interests, the demand is still high, and continuous, for new movies, TV shows, and songs by popular performers. Novels, too, are relatively popular.

Poetry is not a form of entertainment or the arts that can rely on such a relationship with the British public. Firstly, as an art form, or literary genre, it is widely perceived as either elitist, difficult, or remote from most person’s lives – and the several anthologies (for funerals, weddings, and the like) which try to testify to the contrary – while often selling well – do so despite this general suspicion that poetry is a challenge. Secondly, few of its living practitioners are household names. No living poet is known to the mass general public in the way that Tom Cruise or Madonna is. Thirdly, there are few or no contemporary poems that play a part in most people’s imaginary world, in the way that a favourite song or movie does. Ask any person to list their favourite films, or music, or novels – and most will be able to present a list of 100s of selections. Only a close follower of poetry could do the same for a list of poems.

Who is the current audience for poetry in the UK, then? Poets, poetry editors (often the same), students, and, generally, a slightly older, better-educated person – and, perhaps, a few bohemians (such as a rock star here, a painter there). I would estimate the interested, engaged, audience at between five and fifteen thousand persons. As most poetry collections sell a few hundred (or no) copies, it can be concluded that, except in instances when a great deal of marketing has been done, or the poet in question is known (perhaps for having won a major prize), the actual audience for most British poets is, optimistically, between zero and five hundred readers (not including close family members, and friends).

What is to be made of this state of affairs?

I believe two conclusions can be drawn from this:

One. The attempt to try to market, even spin, poetry, by certain presses, organizations, and arts bodies, as some kind of feel-good art form for the masses has failed – for two reasons, to be discussed below;

Two. Poetry is a specialist art form created by experts for a small coterie audience, whose particular traditions and values are little known or understood by the general population.

The two reasons why the marketing has failed, are these: a) since poetry is in fact a specialist art form, and poets themselves know this, even their own best efforts to popularise poetry cut against the grain of their own artistic practice, which tends to complexity, thoughtfulness, and an artfulness that cannot be widely sold. In short, there is a limit to how dumbed-down a good poem can be, before it ceases to be a poem and becomes instead an advertising slogan;

b) the poetry "establishment" (the so-called gate keepers) of Great Britain is more conservative with regards to the distinctions between high and popular culture than in America, and, notwithstanding the remarks of point a., above, have generally resisted attempts by practitioners within their own ranks to integrate an appreciation of poetry into the wider culture at large – hence, “performance poets” and more “urban” slam poets have tended to be marginalised, as have major political engagements with poetry (the anti-war poetry events, for instance), and electronic, or digital forms of poetry, which do appeal, somewhat more, to younger readers, and writers.

This is the core contradiction at the heart of the current poetry world in the UK: it tries (perhaps half-heartedly) to be more “popular” without, in fact, embracing most or any of the current popular cultural trends – including the diction and subject matter of interest to most people. This leads to a schism such as can be seen in that other faltering, great, traditional institution, the Anglican church, which has its wars between modernisers and evangelicals.

My conclusion from all this is that the poetry communities in Great Britain need to have more dialogue between themselves, to clarify their goals, and open their books, as it were, to greater scrutiny. – or, perhaps, not. Too much energy is taken up with promoting and marketing and selling poetry – and attendant polemical hustling and bustling - and not enough with writing, and reading it.

Poetry, basically removed from the capitalist market agenda, is only a frustrating profession for any practitioner hoping for celebrity, money, or wide public support. Left alone with the poems and poets of the past, the poet herself must always return to the endless resources and challenges of language, form, style, and subject, and in that way, find a way out of the seeming impasse, into the pleasures and rewards of “pure” creativity itself.

What will the language do to us next?

ANNOUNCING THE EYEWEAR PRIZE FOR THE 21 BEST POETRY BOOKS OF THE 21 CENTURY

THE EYEWEAR PRIZE FOR THE 21 BEST POETRY BOOKS OF THE 21ST CENTURY, IN ENGLISH is a one-off major international award, to be judged by...