We Who Are About To Die : Eileen R. Tabios

Eileen R. Tabios loves books and has released about 30 collections of poetry, fiction, essays, and experimental biographies from publishers in nine countries and cyberspace. Her most recent is INVENT(ST)ORY: Selected Catalog Poems and New (1996-1915). With poems translated into seven languages, she also has edited, co-edited or conceptualized ten anthologies of poetry, fiction and essays in addition to serving as editor or guest editor for various literary journals.  She maintains a biblioliphic blog, “Eileen Verbs Books”; edits Galatea Resurrects, a popular poetry review; steers the literary and arts publisher Meritage Press; and frequently curates thematic online poetry projects including LinkedIn Poetry Recommendations (a recommended list of contemporary poetry books).  More information is available at http://eileenrtabios.com

Where are you now?

In front of my computer in kitchen. I have a writing studio outside of the house but it’s impossible for me to use it as my two German Shepherds insist on always being near my ankles (see photo of my dogs Achilles and Athena under my writing desk). So I mostly write in the kitchen … which is fine as I rarely cook so that room has to be useful in other ways.

What are you reading?

Just finished an advance copy of RESCUE ROAD by Peter Theutlin, journalism about Greg Mahle who transports rescued dogs from the southern U.S. where strays proliferate to more adoption-convivial areas. I multi-task read and current reading includes LUCI: A FORBIDDEN SOTERIOLOGY by j/j hastain; LOST WORDS: THE FINAL JOURNALS OF WILLIAM S. BURROUGHS; DEXTER IS DEAD, novel by Jeff Lindsay; NOTES ON CONCEPTUAL POETRY by Felix Bernstein; 1111 #19, literary journal edited by Hugh Behm-Steinberg; and HEAVENLY TREE, NORTHERN EARTH by Gerrit Lansing. As regards the latter, I love reading Collected or big Selected Poems projects to see whether a life devoted to poetry has been worthwhile as determined by the poems (vs. the poet’s life).

What have you discovered lately?
For poetry, I have attempted wide reading for most of the past two decades. I am discovering the limits of this approach, and wondering whether it’s time to narrow the focus in exchange for more in-depth considerations.  I also have to up the quality of my fiction reading in order to write the novel I’d like to write.

Where do you write?
For poems, mostly in my mind. I put them down on paper or computer when the time and place is convenient to do so.

What are you working on?

A new blog focused on poets in or related to Napa Valley, California. Spreading the word about my just-released book, INVENT(ST)ORY: Selected Catalog Poems & New 1996-2015 from Dos Madres Press (http://eileenrtabios.com/poetry/inventstory-selected-catalogue-poems-new/).  Notes for a novel. And final editing and book design for three poetry collections coming out in 2016: THE CONNOISSEUR OF ALLEYS (Marsh Hawk Press); THE OPPOSITE OF CLAUSTROPHOBIA: Prime’s Anti-Autobiography (Knives, Forks and Spoons Press); and AMNESIA: Somebody’s Memoir (Black Radish Books).

Have you anything forthcoming?

See above.

What would you rather be doing?

Eating food prepared by avant garde chefs.

 

NOTA BENE EISWEIN

 

[1]

I forgot the interior, from the beginning, was stone…. I forgot that stone was the compromise defining the absence of void…. I forgot how effectively pain obviates abstractions…. I forgot that thing unidentifiable, though it evoked pink pearls luminescent among a gutted goat’s entrails…. I forgot I was left with a stone watching itself like a poem in a forest, covered fretfully by ancient moss, its legacy only a stone toe with its orange paint long faded (though it lingers in someone’s memory)…. I forgot sunsets call for wine…. I forgot we agreed to toss away the blindfold so that our ears can become more than holes for burning stones tossed our way by a cruel race…. Or stones tossed our way by a passive bureaucrat wielding power over the education of the child we will never have…. Or stones tossed our way by that obscene combination of trust fund baby and hedge fund billionaire…. I forgot the absence of green as my bandaged wing swung to break stalactites.  I forgot that after ice falls, they merely lie on ground, evaporating…. I forgot a mirrored face only partially owns its reflection.

 

[2]

I forgot the interior, from the beginning, was stone…. I forgot how effectively pain obviates abstractions…. I forgot paint can transform canvas to skin. I forgot that when the paint can is empty, only then will innocence reveal itself…. I forgot we agreed to toss away the blindfold so that our ears can become more than holes for burning stones tossed our way by a cruel race…. Or stones tossed our way by a passive bureaucrat wielding power over the education of the child we will never have…. Or stones tossed our way by the demands of poverty: how poverty paradoxically narrows the impoverished focus into the small, then petty, then brutish…. I forgot the absence of green as my bandaged wing swung to break stalactites.  I forgot that after ice falls, they merely lie on ground, evaporating.

I forgot a long-haired woman exists, but outside the frame as has been reality for centuries…. I forgot how the sun’s stare becomes tolerable through the cotton eyelets of another generation’s apron.

 

[3]

I forgot a roof tile flew and slate sliced my cheek.  Blood on fingers after brushing against cheek’s glimmer of bone…. I forgot crackle of light, dream of icicles and the unpredictability of angles cut by any creature chased for its nutritious heart…. I forgot that thing unidentifiable, though it evoked pink pearls luminescent among a gutted goat’s entrails…. I forgot we were swollen underground with rain as certain elements erased their absence:

whisper

Song

stairway

I forgot the moving prop of clouds can fail to soften the edges of dark architecture…. Or stones tossed our way by the demands of poverty: how poverty paradoxically narrows the impoverished focus into the small, then petty, then brutish…. I forgot the absence of green as my bandaged wing swung to break stalactites.  I forgot that after ice falls, they merely lie on ground, evaporating…. I forgot a mirrored face only partially owns its reflection…. I forgot a long-haired woman exists, but outside the frame as has been reality for centuries.

[4]

I forgot we were swollen underground with rain as certain elements erased their absence:

whisper

Song

stairway

I forgot the moving prop of clouds can fail to soften the edges of dark architecture…. I forgot we agreed to toss away the blindfold so that our ears can become more than holes for burning stones tossed our way by a cruel race…. Or stones tossed our way by a venal dictatorship…. Or stones tossed our way by an incompetent health care system…. Or stones tossed our way by a passive bureaucrat wielding power over the education of the child we will never have…. Or stones tossed our way by that obscene combination of trust fund baby and hedge fund billionaire…. I forgot a mirrored face only partially owns its reflection…. I forgot a long-haired woman exists, but outside the frame as has been reality for centuries.

[5]

I forgot the interior, from the beginning, was stone…. I forgot that stone was the compromise defining the absence of void…. I forgot a roof tile flew and slate sliced my cheek.  Blood on fingers after brushing against cheek’s glimmer of bone…. I forgot how effectively pain obviates abstractions…. I forgot the maddened sunlight into which hostages emptied long-held fears as they erupted from a robbed bank…. I forgot that thing unidentifiable, though it evoked pink pearls luminescent among a gutted goat’s entrails…. I forgot I was left with a stone watching itself like a poem in a forest, covered fretfully by ancient moss, its legacy only a stone toe with its orange paint long faded (though it lingers in someone’s memory)…. I forgot a woman shrouded herself in white linen—a poem invisible but stubbornly transparent until flesh became stone…. I forgot sunsets call for wine…. I forgot we agreed to toss away the blindfold so that our ears can become more than holes for burning stones tossed our way by a cruel race.

[6]

I forgot that when a stone hand cracks, its pieces will not be caught…. I forgot a roof tile flew and slate sliced my cheek.  Blood on fingers after brushing against cheek’s glimmer of bone…. I forgot how effectively pain obviates abstractions…. I forgot crackle of light, dream of icicles and the unpredictability of angles cut by any creature chased for its nutritious heart…. I forgot we were swollen underground with rain as certain elements erased their absence:

whisper

Song

stairway

I forgot a woman shrouded herself in white linen—a poem invisible but stubbornly transparent until flesh became stone…. I forgot sunsets call for wine…. I forgot paint can transform canvas to skin. I forgot that when the paint can is empty, only then will innocence reveal itself…. Or stones tossed our way by an incompetent health care system…. Or stones tossed our way by a passive bureaucrat wielding power over the education of the child we will never have…. I forgot the absence of green as my bandaged wing swung to break stalactites.  I forgot that after ice falls, they merely lie on ground, evaporating.

[7]

I forgot that stone was the compromise defining the absence of void…. I forgot a roof tile flew and slate sliced my cheek.  Blood on fingers after brushing against cheek’s glimmer of bone…. I forgot crackle of light, dream of icicles and the unpredictability of angles cut by any creature chased for its nutritious heart…. I forgot the maddened sunlight into which hostages emptied long-held fears as they erupted from a robbed bank…. I forgot I was left with a stone watching itself like a poem in a forest, covered fretfully by ancient moss, its legacy only a stone toe with its orange paint long faded (though it lingers in someone’s memory)…. I forgot sunsets call for wine…. Or stones tossed our way by an incompetent health care system…. Or stones tossed our way by the demands of poverty: how poverty paradoxically narrows the impoverished focus into the small, then petty, then brutish…. I forgot the absence of green as my bandaged wing swung to break stalactites.  I forgot that after ice falls, they merely lie on ground, evaporating…. I forgot flying fish are always wide-eyed always breathless always look unbelieving.

[8]

I forgot that stone was the compromise defining the absence of void…. I forgot we were swollen underground with rain as certain elements erased their absence:

whisper

Song

Stairway

I forgot I was left with a stone watching itself like a poem in a forest, covered fretfully by ancient moss, its legacy only a stone toe with its orange paint long faded (though it lingers in someone’s memory)…. I forgot a woman shrouded herself in white linen—a poem invisible but stubbornly transparent until flesh became stone…. I forgot paint can transform canvas to skin. I forgot that when the paint can is empty, only then will innocence reveal itself…. I forgot we agreed to toss away the blindfold so that our ears can become more than holes for burning stones tossed our way by a cruel race…. Or stones tossed our way by that obscene combination of trust fund baby and hedge fund billionaire…. I forgot the absence of green as my bandaged wing swung to break stalactites.  I forgot that after ice falls, they merely lie on ground, evaporating.

On Writing #75 : Eileen R. Tabios

NO LONGER CASUAL

Eileen R. Tabios

Someone is always dying. One day, I read about a murderer receiving the death sentence. Death breeds death.

A poet, I was moved to write. I wrote:

IN THIS INSTANCE, THE NAME IS ELIZABETH

When anger is maintained, it’s often from a lack of imagination.  That wouldn’t have caused the governor to stay the execution.  Because sometimes anger is appropriate.  There was a father who tied a son to a tree and made the son sing “Ave Maria” while the father threw rocks until the son’s head burst into a bloody pulp that could sing no more.

The father punished his son because … actually, the reason doesn’t matter.  By the law governing the governor, the father received the death penalty.  And the governor stayed the execution, though not because he conceived of a better alternative to a decision that serves only as pure punishment.

The governor stayed the execution because he read through the murderer’s files.  When he stumbled across the name of the father’s mother, the name of the son’s grandmother, he stumbled across the inescapable humanity of the perpetrator and victim.  Thus, did the governor stay the execution of a man he saw anew as a man.  A man birthed by a mother named “Elizabeth.”

I wrote a prose poem. Death breeds death. But it also breeds life, in this case, the life created through writing a poem.  In this poem’s life, the application of a name, which after all is a type of word if not minimalist poetry (there is a life behind a name!), opens up (the reader’s) assessment as regards the unnamed murderer. It wasn’t enough to rely on the abstraction “murderer” for judgment. Poetry demands specifics: Did the murderer deserve the death sentence? Were there mitigating circumstances—was self-defense involved though not ably proved in the court process? Did the murderer suffer from mental illness?  Was the victim in such severe pain that death was considered by someone to be a reprieve?  What really happened? Would the murderer’s death actually atone to the resulting bereaved? What really happens?

And lurking underneath the questions is the largest question of all: can the death sentence ever be … justified?  I am getting agitated as I write these words, becoming bothered—I am feeling the onset of a huge headache.

*****

I began writing poetry at age 35. I have been a poet for 20 years.  At age 55, I have a very clear delineation in my mind about life before and after poetry.  Pre-poetry, I would have read about a murderer receiving a death sentence, mentally noted it, but then moved on to keep reading about other matters, matters that I felt were other to me: Iran, Donald Trump’s hair, Lea Salonga, baby pandas, whatever. (Why do I say, “I would have …”? I did. Pre-poetry, I did read about a murderer receiving a death sentence and reacted simply by moving on…)

Post-transition-to-poetry, I read about humans sentencing another human to die and I pause. I linger over the words. I think. I wonder. I am saddened. I am … irritated. I get on the internet and begin to research death penalty, crime, studies on the related psychology…  My head starts to hurt.

Pre-poetry, my life was, actually, it was okay. But post-transition-to-poetry, my life became engaged. One can’t be an effective poet without thinking, without feeling, and bringing both mind and heart to whatever surfaces in life because a poet must be present. A poet must notice, and then more difficult, be concerned over what is happening in hir environment.

That concern can be difficult to bear. But it can also open up the poet to the vividness of life: the beautiful becomes more beautiful, the low becomes more depressing. As a poet, I am more invested.  As a result:

Pre-poetry, I casually accepted the death penalty. 

With poetry, I no longer accept.

If action unfolds after thought, mine will proceed from that thought.

*****

With poetry, I am no longer casual about how life unfolds, or may not unfold.

Eileen R. Tabios loves books and has released about 30 collections of poetry, fiction, essays, and experimental biographies from publishers in nine countries and cyberspace. Her most recent is INVENT(ST)ORY: Selected Catalog Poems and New (1996-1915). With poems translated into seven languages, she also has edited, co-edited or conceptualized ten anthologies of poetry, fiction and essays in addition to serving as editor or guest editor for various literary journals.  She maintains a biblioliphic blog, “Eileen Verbs Books”; edits Galatea Resurrects, a popular poetry review; steers the literary and arts publisher Meritage Press; and frequently curates thematic online poetry projects including LinkedIn Poetry Recommendations (a recommended list of contemporary poetry books).  More information is available at http://eileenrtabios.com

On Writing #74 : Sheryda Warrener

On Writing: Make It New
Sheryda Warrener

I

On the walk up Comox St. to the market on Saturdays, I pass by an apartment window with a row of twelve Queen Elizabeth II figurines on display, each holding a black purse, each waving that magesterial wave with a white gloved hand. The queens are roughly six inches tall, solar powered, and their bobbly hands never tire.

The first fact of the world is that it repeats itself writes Robert Hass in his essay “Listening and Making,” and it’s true, one doesn’t have to go far to discern some pattern or other, and anyways, we humans are hard-wired to sniff them out. Yet, down the row, the queen second to the end wears not blue but yellow, and holds a white purse. She is ever so slightly fancier than all the others. Hass continues: Repetition makes us feel secure and variation makes us feel free. This queen in yellow is the unexpected twist that makes the whole spectacle so compelling. A disruption to any pattern causes a disorientation necessary to our human existence. In art, as in life, it’s this shift out of the pattern (to return moments later, or immediately) that reminds us we’re alive.

II

Repetition is spontaneous, impels a reader forward or demands attention, inundates or decimates. In poetry (and stories too) it is one of those internal structures that fades into the background so even close readers might miss it entirely. Like the giant pillar running up the center of a pagoda (we know it’s there but can’t see it), repetition is one of those invisible elements that gives the whole structure its strength.

I am enamoured with the repetitive mode. At the level of language, I’m drawn to the simple recurrence of words. Matthew Rohrer pays particular attention to repetition in his poem “A Little Rain,”

Everything beneath the roof
of trees is sticky
from the trees.

The trees have gifted the ground with their stickiness, and the word trees is a gift too, a kind of trade within these two short lines. This kind of repetition creates a tiny, satisfying circuit. Further on in the poem he writes:

The water
comes from lions. It goes
back to water.

How simple, to describe a fountain in this way. In poems like this, not only is the sonic experience of the word a presence, but the image too, like a too-bright light flashing across the eyelids long after the eyes have closed.

Here’s a few lines from Mary Ruefle’s poem “Jumping Ahead”:

If only I'd understood that loneliness
was just loneliness, only loneliness
and nothing more.

The sound of loneliness is like a little bell that tinkles in my ear in a sad way. The texture of the word has a little downward slope, and the echo here describes the experience of the feeling so precisely. But by repeating the word, Ruefle has also totally obliterated its influence. That four beat “and nothing more,” along with the sudden absence of the word, renders the feeling of loneliness useless, literally reducing it to nothing.

A final example: Here is a list of repetitions from Brenda Shaughnessy’s 36-line poem “I Have A Time Machine”: But, but, travel, time, time, next, next, zipping, zipping, window, fish, fish, the past, sometimes, sometimes, myself, myself, me, me, explode, explosion, mother, mother’s mother’s mother, fish, window, travelling, time, the past. I stare in awe at the mastery, I circle and re-circle the words. Like a queen on display in a window, the poem waves metronomically at me, a little smug. She has gotten away with something but I can’t tell what.

III

The act of writing is to enter into the repetitive mode. I sit at the kitchen table at roughly the same time every day (or once a week, or twice a week). I have a cup of coffee, some poems to read, my notebook. I sit sit sit. To be in the moment of writing, open to possibility, to the strange tacks the imagination may take, is brave. To let the pattern be disrupted, and then to drag that pattern back into existence, is hard work. But the ritual of writing is fortifying. By invoking a necessary repetitive practice one gains access to the imagination. It is here where the pattern is disrupted, and the real transformation takes place. Eventually, it will resume: dishes in the sink, emails to answer. But for a time, a new rhythm is discovered.

What these experiences must touch in us is the rhythm of our own individuation. That’s Hass again. I love the tail end of this line: the rhythm of our own individuation. Feeling alive, feeling safe, a back and forth so human it’s innate in us. The part rhythm plays in the work of the imagination can’t be ignored. I’m reminded of a Dean Young poem, “Romanticism 101” that concludes with the lines:

Then I realized repetition could be an ending.
Then I realized repetition could be an ending.

The queens wave each time I pass. The world stops, then starts again. Yes, for sure I’m alive.

-------------------------------------------------
Works Cited

Hass, Robert. “Listening and Making,” from 20th Century Pleasures: Prose on Poetry. The Ecco Press, New Jersey.1984. pp. 107 – 133. Print.

Rohrer, Matthew. “A little rain,” from Surrounded by Friends. Wave Books, Seattle. 2015. pp. 8. Print.

Ruefle, Mary. “Jumping Ahead,”* from Trances of the Blast. Wave Books, Seattle. 2014. pp. 62 – 63. Print.

Shaughnessy, Brenda. “I Have a Time Machine,” from The New Yorker, July 20, 2015. Online.

*With thanks to Curtis AuCoin for reminding me about those Mary Ruefle lines.

Sheryda Warrener lives in Vancouver, where she teaches poetry at the University of British Columbia. Her poems have appeared in Arc, The Malahat Review, Event, and the Believer, among other journals. She is the author of Hard Feelings (Snare/Invisible 2010), and a new collection of poems Floating Is Everything, from Nightwood Editions.