Action Steps
What are we doing?
We hardly know.
We hardly can know.
Not knowing, we do it anyway.
We say it is our right and our way.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Brian Davis channels Philip Larkin
Out of Interest
Purely out of interest, let me put my hand up your skirt and see if I can find your G-spot.
I’ve had a few and maybe it’ll end in farce:
Instead of pleasing you and seeing you grow hot,
I’ll doubtless put my fingers up your arse.
Purely in the cause of research, officer, let me knock your antiquated helmet off and see if you’ve got hair.
You may well have a barnet in the style of Gareth Hunt;
In love and war, I know, everything is fair
But, let’s face it, you’re a bent and racist cunt.
Purely by the by, Tony, let me ask you what you think of welfare, health, farming and Britain’s rails.
Isn’t it true that all of them, once great, aren’t worth a hillock?
You stand and posture, suck Clinton’s cock and claim you’re gonna blaze trails
To the future, when actually you’re a cheesy pillock.
Purely out of interest, please cough,
And then, the lot of you, fuck off.
-------------------------------------
Hmm? So, it's a poem meant to break cultural taboos, question authority, and expose national hypocrisies. It's satire. It's extended dirty limerick. It's proletarian rant. It's social comment. It's . . . common. It's the kind of stuff that maybe Brian wouldn't want seen on the Internet, if he were serious about writing poetry? It's just mental diddling. It's bad! Yes! And it's great fun if you recite it out loud!
One or two references worth noting: What is a "barnet," a kind of period hair-do? Yes, in the sense of British (typically Cockney) rhyming slang; a reference to Barnet Fair, a horse fair, and so, I guess, a wig or a spectacular coif? (The cockneyism is supported of course by "arse" ending the first stanza.)
And who is Gareth Hunt? An English actor of the '70s who appeared in some Dr. Who episodes and, for two seasons, on "The New Avengers." According to Wikipedia, Hunt also apparently shipped out with the Merchant Navy in 1957 (at the age of 15), jumped ship in New Zealand and, after a number of years, was apprehended then deported back to Britain, where he served some months in jail for going AWOL. So, a bit of an anti-authority guy himself, like the persona behind the poem. Also, a handy pairing for a raunchy rhyme.
Let's assume we all know what G-spot refers to, but do we know the origin of the name?
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Another Brian Davis poem
Stopover
The neon lights their imperfections. Awkwardly, they call
For cigarettes as dim loudspeakers broadcast dull commands.
Before, they took the world to task for being small;
Now, grounded, they can barely focus on their hands.
-----------------------
So what's the deal with this poem? It's all perspective, a point of view with no clear referent. The title suggests its placelessness and the use of the third person pronoun reinforces the poem's impersonality. Could be anyone viewing any group anywhere. You get the impression of a lone subject observing events from a place (a world?) apart. From the first line, though, you must note that this subject, the speaker-observer, is actually quite engaged and is commenting, not merely describing--unless you take the reference to imperfections to be totally without judgement. In the third line, the observer could simply be recounting an opinion. But the fourth line grounds "them" in some kind of limitation, a failure, maybe.
This kind of poem is awfully hard to think about because its emotional content feels stunted (what does the observer of the situation actually feel?) and its referents are vague. What imperfections are we talking about--physical (that is, something that can be seen in the light)? Spiritual? Psychological? Cultural? Is the reference supposed to be ambiguous? I have held onto many a lame line of poetry in the name of modernist ambiguity! How can a loudspeaker be "dim" (a mixed metaphor)? And why are there loudspeakers through which commands are being issued, and whose commands are they? Why did "they" once take the world to task for being small? And what does it mean that these characters are "grounded" and barely able to focus on their hands?
So, the question to ask is, what's the quality of this as a poem? In fact, is it a poem? That's harsh. It's a poem, I suppose, because it falls into lines and cadence, because it is direct and lyrical (musical) and rhymes. Rhyme, of course, draws attention to the language of the poem and poetry is just that, a shaping of language, an acknowledgement of the materiality of words. Another observation: there are four lines comprising three, effectively four, sentences (a properly used semi-colon separates two independent clauses--two statements that can also be sentences!). All four structures are loose (that is, subject-verb-object order), a common technique in post-Modernist style whereby poets can reduce poems to series of simple statements and position the voice as "merely" observational. It's a means of evading responsibility, a little like watching a mugging from across the street. This, too, is common in post-Modernist poetry, and in poetry borne of inexperience. But this poet has trouble fully disengaging from the situation he describes. And I admire him for his effort to comment on what he sees, even if he can't quite say what it is he feels about what he sees. You can see that struggle in the transitional adverbs (all editorial and value-laden) leading off each of the last three sentence structures of the poem.
Finally, it's a poem of nearly complete privation, on all sides, isn't it? I mean, where's the life? I guess that's what stopovers are all about: they have nothing to offer in the way of comfort, reassurance, community, sense of place, hope. For some people at least.
-----------------------
So what's the deal with this poem? It's all perspective, a point of view with no clear referent. The title suggests its placelessness and the use of the third person pronoun reinforces the poem's impersonality. Could be anyone viewing any group anywhere. You get the impression of a lone subject observing events from a place (a world?) apart. From the first line, though, you must note that this subject, the speaker-observer, is actually quite engaged and is commenting, not merely describing--unless you take the reference to imperfections to be totally without judgement. In the third line, the observer could simply be recounting an opinion. But the fourth line grounds "them" in some kind of limitation, a failure, maybe.
This kind of poem is awfully hard to think about because its emotional content feels stunted (what does the observer of the situation actually feel?) and its referents are vague. What imperfections are we talking about--physical (that is, something that can be seen in the light)? Spiritual? Psychological? Cultural? Is the reference supposed to be ambiguous? I have held onto many a lame line of poetry in the name of modernist ambiguity! How can a loudspeaker be "dim" (a mixed metaphor)? And why are there loudspeakers through which commands are being issued, and whose commands are they? Why did "they" once take the world to task for being small? And what does it mean that these characters are "grounded" and barely able to focus on their hands?
So, the question to ask is, what's the quality of this as a poem? In fact, is it a poem? That's harsh. It's a poem, I suppose, because it falls into lines and cadence, because it is direct and lyrical (musical) and rhymes. Rhyme, of course, draws attention to the language of the poem and poetry is just that, a shaping of language, an acknowledgement of the materiality of words. Another observation: there are four lines comprising three, effectively four, sentences (a properly used semi-colon separates two independent clauses--two statements that can also be sentences!). All four structures are loose (that is, subject-verb-object order), a common technique in post-Modernist style whereby poets can reduce poems to series of simple statements and position the voice as "merely" observational. It's a means of evading responsibility, a little like watching a mugging from across the street. This, too, is common in post-Modernist poetry, and in poetry borne of inexperience. But this poet has trouble fully disengaging from the situation he describes. And I admire him for his effort to comment on what he sees, even if he can't quite say what it is he feels about what he sees. You can see that struggle in the transitional adverbs (all editorial and value-laden) leading off each of the last three sentence structures of the poem.
Finally, it's a poem of nearly complete privation, on all sides, isn't it? I mean, where's the life? I guess that's what stopovers are all about: they have nothing to offer in the way of comfort, reassurance, community, sense of place, hope. For some people at least.
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