I have to admit I’m not good at hearing poems. I prefer to see them.
If I am presented with poem audio, I immediately look around for poem text.
WHERE’S THE TEXT? I NEED THE TEXT!
I’ve subscribed to Poetry Foundation’s Poem Of The Day feed, which just sends you a little audio player to click a play button on and that’s all you get (unless you want to click all the way back to the Poetry Foundation website and hunt down that text, goshdarn it.)
It’s not easy, and each time I am well aware that there’s a monumental mental cheat going on, whereby my traitor head transcribes what my ears hear into something text-like that my inner eye can still ‘see.’
We’ll get there, though.
I have read others’ work for different publications (here and here, for example), in addition to reading my own work for different publications (e.g. here and here).
Reading other peoples’ work aloud is the most tender and respectful, and also the most careful, way to engage with it, I find.
So here’s my new idea.
It’s going to start slowly. I’ve decided I will only read and record poems that sing to me. To me. Not my stuff, though – yours.
There will be a link to text if the poems are available online, but I won’t be posting any text. Just voice.
I’ll be out looking for those poems. So don’t be surprised to hear from me soon, asking if you would let me record and post that brilliant piece of yours that ran in Magazine X last week.
I love this. The Drum: A Literary Magazine for Your Ears.
The amazing thing about it? No text!
One of the questions in the recently-completed Ten Questions on Poets & Technology series was: “Technology is enabling poets today to take poetry off the page in ways that were previously inconceivable. Either comment on [videopoem X] or provide a link to and comments on a different piece of work that uses technology to take the poem off the page.”
Some respondents – most? – answered in so many words, with varying degrees of emphasis: No. Poetry belongs on the page. Poetry is text.
I’m a slave to text myself. It’s almost impossible for me to grasp a poem (intellectually, emotionally, dare I say aurally) without seeing it on a page. I can’t conceive of composing without writing, without the visual affirmation of text on a page.
One respondent, however – Rik Roots, who answered the Ten Questions on his own blog – pointed out that poetry pre-dates text by a long way, that writing itself is just another technological advancement poetry has wrapped itself around.
Rik’s response pulled me up short and made me ask – what am I missing? What does this enslavement to text mean for the way I experience poetry?
Lots of poetry journals have audio. But audio and text. Or, (in some cases), audio and video.
But what about just audio?
What would it be like to hear, instead of read, a whole issue of a poetry journal?
(This ties in somehow sorta to Amy King‘s technology idea.)
I must have dreamt about Colombia last night, because I woke up with this song in my head. From waaay back, when we would drink gallons of aguardiente and dance (on the bar for choice) until 3 am. Dancing vallenatos among others, by Carlos Vives for choice. La Tierra del Olvido, title track from his album of the same name, was a gigantic hit back then:
Where are you now, Carlos?
(And you, Luis Fernando?)
Click on the listening button and hear me read this lovely piece by Leslie St. John, up at Linebreak today. Thanks to the Linebreak folk for the opportunity!
And woohoo again! The poetry planets are lining up for me today! Just heard that I’ve had a poem accepted for the Nature in the Cracks issue of Dave Bonta’s qarrtsiluni, guest-edited by Brent Goodman and Ken Lamberton.
Am I fortunate or what! And this one involves audio too!
Woohoo! Soundzine has accepted two of my poems for its April 2008 edition. This is a very cool sound-focused publication started by Salli Shepherd and Charles Musser, two amazing poets I first encountered through PFFA and then at The Gazebo. There’s no stopping these two!
Soundzine is an online journal for the spoken word. Poetry and stories can be traced at least as far back as Homer, who recited his epics by torch or firelight. It was born and flourished in the milieu of the cadences, inflections and stresses of the human voice. We’re not presumptuous enough to think we’ll revolutionize the world of literature by turning to the roots of things, which is the real meaning of “radical,” but we do think that the modern digital world offers an opportunity to enrich and enliven an art that has waned of late.