The Yearly Flamer

The Daily Flamer Spotlight: Ron Silliman's Blurbocaust

2005-12-04T04:02:00.000Z

I wouldn't be the first person to intimate that Ron Silliman is a poetry glutton. He consumes books as if the study of literature were a pie-eating contest. His own books of poetry are Big Important Works, filled with impressive numbers of words piled awkwardly on top of each other. We must be bludgeoned by the density of his project.

Lately I've noticed that he is also producing, at a staggering rate, the most grizzly, hyberbolic, and truly absurd blurbage of our time. Surely he can't be serious? Is his enthusiasm for every cheap new design at the mfa SuperTarget of Poetry sincere? Does it make him feel he's "In the Zone" -- rushing with his cart through the aisles of the Poetry Career Supermarket Sweepstakes? Is this what happens when one greedily reads too much poetry just to keep up with trends? Or is this simply a crass move mounted to ensure that the poets he slobbers upon and their ragged schools are indentured to pay homage to him in the future? How much does Silliman's career as a market analyst in the computer industry inform his approach to poetics and poetry world socio-politicking?

Let's look at the first paragraph of recent review on Silliman's weblog of Joseph Massey's chapbook Bramble. (In fairness, since I have not read this book, my criticism of Silliman's blurbing practice does not necessarily extend to Massey's work; however, I think I can fairly say, looking at the work quoted, that this is not, as Silliman absurdly claims, in the realm of the best poetry ever crafted.)

"One great consequence of this weblog is that people send me books & magazines that they want me to see. Some are just so-so, a few are real cringers, but I’m struck at how high the overall quality is – many are much more than “merely competent.” People who decide after all to tackle this most difficult (& deeply underappreciated) art form really do, to appropriate a sports phrase, put themselves out there, leaving everything on the page. That is one reason why I’m such an optimist about poetry, and why I can say with confidence that we have more good poets active right now than ever before, especially if I frame that clearly, say, for example, within the United States. On top of all this a few books just jump out at me & really rock."

Note the emphasis put on the United States. Note the optimism connected with over-production. Note the hep talk (it rocks).

Optimism!
Confidence!
USA!
It's like an Exxon ad in The New Yorker.

But it gets worse:

Joseph Massey’s Bramble is not only a joy to read – I’ve already done so more than once – but it’s unusual & remarkable in several ways. The most important of these is the writing.

From what I can surmise Silliman wants us, the readers, to understand that this book is really a remarkable, unusual book and a joy to read; but get this -- that's mostly because of the writing. Fascinating, is it not? Have we come to this? That we need to actually make a point of saying in a review that we like a book of poetry because of the writing? He Doth Protest Too Much.

The poet is routinely congratulated for having "a good ear", and then, as is the custom in Silli-land, crowned like a spoiled child at a Burger King birthday party; Silliman quotes from one of Massey's poems and declares:

I don’t think it’s possible, frankly, to craft a better poem than that last one.

Joseph Massey is writing some of the best work of our time, and it’s accessible to boot. He’s a post-avant even Ted Kooser should be able to love.

And why shouldn't I believe him?

Am I Mallie?

2005-05-15T14:48:00.000+01:00

There has been some concern among my fans as to whether I am the the authentic, the true Mallie Urn of Foetry.com lore. One fan writes:

Anonymous said...: I don't believe you are/were Mallie. What state did you claim to move to as Mallie?; 3/5/05 8:58 PM

First of all, my readers must take me at my word when I say that I did not "plant" this comment. I'll leave our friends at The Poetry Snark to that sort of meta-game of meta-meandering meaning. No, friends--this is a real reader with real questions!

To my anonymous fan, and all of you out there, I assure you that my mother was a witch, she was burned alive. Now, ask yourself again, "Am I Mallie?" Yes, I am.

Verses of Ikkyu

2005-05-03T17:36:00.000+01:00

I Hate Incense

A master’s handiwork cannot be measured
But still priests wag their tongues explaining the “Way” and babbling about “Zen.”
This old monk has never cared for false piety
And my nose wrinkles at the dark smell of incense before the Buddha.

From Crow With No Mouth, translated by Stephen Berg.

Ikkyu this body isn't yours I say to myself
wherever I am I'm there
ten fussy days running this temple all red tape
look me up if you want to in the bar whorehouse fish market

nature's a killer I won't sing to it
I hold my breath and listen to the dead singing under the grass

suddenly nothing but grief
so I put on my father's old ripped raincoat

when I was forty-seven everybody came to see me
so I walked out forever

my monk friend has a weird endearing habit
he weaves sandals and leaves them secretly by the roadside

a crazy lecher shuttling back and forth between whorehouse and bar
this past master paints south north east west with his cock

no nothing only those wintry crows
bright black in the sun

peace isn't luck for six years stand facing a silent wall
until the you of your face melts like a candle

don't hesitate get laid that's wisdom
sitting around chanting what crap

life's like climbing knife-tree hills with swords sticking up
day and night something stabs you

we live in a cage of light an incredible cage
animals animals without end

sick of it whatever it's called sick of the names
I dedicate every pore to what's here

inside the koan clear mind
gashes the great darkness

ten years of whorehouse joy I'm alone now in the mountains
the pines are like a jail the wind scratches my skin

the wise know nothing at all
well maybe one song

men are like cows horses fuck poetry
look at your hand read it

I woke from a dream of death to day's amazing
death grass death rice death chairs death death asleep or
awake

no words sitting alone night in my hut eyes closed hands open
wisps of an unknown face

my death? who was it anyway always where he was never
no not once ever seeing himself an eyeball speaks
a well nobody dug filled with no water
ripples and a shapeless weightless man drinks
oh green green willow wonderfully red flower
but I know the colors are not there

my gray cat jumped up just as I lifted this spoon
we're born we die

if there's nowhere to rest at the end
how can I get lost along the way?

that stone Buddha deserves all the birdshit it gets
I wave my skinny arms like a tall flower in the wind

I won't die I won't go away I'll always be here
no good asking me I won't speak

only a kind deadly sincere man
can show you the way here in the other world

melons eggplants rice rivers the sky
I offer them to you on this holiday

oh yes things exist like the echo when you yell at the foot of a
huge mountain

hear the cruel no-answer until blood drips down
beat your head against the wall of it

the mind is exactly this tree that grass
without thought or feeling both disappear

not two not one either
and the unpainted breeze in the ink painting feels cool

go down on your silly knees pray
for what? tomorrow is yesterday

I found my sparrow Sonrin dead one morning
and buried him just as gently as I would my own daughter

I hate it I know it's nothing but I
suck out the world's sweet juicy plum

why is it all so beautiful this fake dream
this craziness why?

it's logical: if you are not going anywhere
any road is the right one

know nothing I know nothing nobody does can you face me
and know nothing know

stare at it until your eyes drop out
this desk this wall this unreal page

only one koan matters
you

you stand inside me naked infinite love
the dawn bell rips my dreaming heart

we're lost where the mind can't find us
utterly lost

Daily Dose of Flaming Shakespeare: From The Tempest, Act IV

2005-04-26T06:43:00.000+01:00

PROSPERO and ARIEL remain invisible. Enter CALIBAN, STEPHANO, and TRINCULO, all wet

CALIBAN
Pray you, tread softly, that the blind mole may not
Hear a foot fall: we now are near his cell.

STEPHANO
Monster, your fairy, which you say is
a harmless fairy, has done little better than
played the Jack with us.

TRINCULO
Monster, I do smell all horse-piss; at
which my nose is in great indignation.

STEPHANO
So is mine. Do you hear, monster? If I should take
a displeasure against you, look you,--

TRINCULO
Thou wert but a lost monster.

CALIBAN
Good my lord, give me thy favour still.
Be patient, for the prize I'll bring thee to
Shall hoodwink this mischance: therefore speak softly.
All's hush'd as midnight yet.

TRINCULO
Ay, but to lose our bottles in the pool,--

STEPHANO
There is not only disgrace and dishonour in that,
monster, but an infinite loss.

TRINCULO
That's more to me than my wetting: yet this is your
harmless fairy, monster.

STEPHANO
I will fetch off my bottle, though I be o'er ears
for my labour.

CALIBAN
Prithee, my king, be quiet. Seest thou here,
This is the mouth o' the cell: no noise, and enter.
Do that good mischief which may make this island
Thine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban,
For aye thy foot-licker.

STEPHANO
Give me thy hand. I do begin to have bloody thoughts.

TRINCULO
O king Stephano! O peer! O worthy Stephano! look
what a wardrobe here is for thee!

CALIBAN
Let it alone, thou fool; it is but trash.

TRINCULO
O, ho, monster! we know what belongs to a frippery.
O king Stephano!

STEPHANO
Put off that gown, Trinculo; by this hand, I'll have
that gown.

TRINCULO
Thy grace shall have it.

CALIBAN
The dropsy drown this fool I what do you mean
To dote thus on such luggage? Let's alone
And do the murder first: if he awake,
From toe to crown he'll fill our skins with pinches,
Make us strange stuff.

STEPHANO
Be you quiet, monster. Mistress line,
is not this my jerkin? Now is the jerkin under
the line: now, jerkin, you are like to lose your
hair and prove a bald jerkin.

TRINCULO
Do, do: we steal by line and level, an't like your grace.

STEPHANO
I thank thee for that jest; here's a garment for't:
wit shall not go unrewarded while I am king of this
country. 'Steal by line and level' is an excellent
pass of pate; there's another garment for't.

TRINCULO
Monster, come, put some lime upon your fingers, and
away with the rest.

CALIBAN
I will have none on't: we shall lose our time,
And all be turn'd to barnacles, or to apes
With foreheads villanous low.

STEPHANO
Monster, lay-to your fingers: help to bear this
away where my hogshead of wine is, or I'll turn you
out of my kingdom: go to, carry this.

TRINCULO
And this.

STEPHANO
Ay, and this.

A noise of hunters heard. Enter divers Spirits, in shape of dogs and hounds, and hunt them about, PROSPERO and ARIEL setting them on

PROSPERO
Hey, Mountain, hey!

ARIEL
Silver I there it goes, Silver!

PROSPERO
Fury, Fury! there, Tyrant, there! hark! hark!

The Daily Flamer Spotlight

2005-04-25T22:09:00.000+01:00

Garry Norris, aka "the Ivory Turtleneck" has sworn to murder the anti-foets and set their bodies aflame. Is that any way for an Ivory Turtleneck to talk? You want to murder us Garry?

From his weblog, Dagzine:

For the mass-kill...er...I mean culture of life...uh...misery-ending...their just isn't a nice word for it. For the execution: for the anti-foets: we will offer them a long walk into a formal room, a promenade, a march, Elgar's Pomp and Circumstance, we'll have them in robes, we'll present them with $500,000 Grants, National Book Awards, Janet Holmes begging for forgiveness, Jorie Graham burnt at the stake, they'll see chapbooks with new flashy graphic designs, all true-bound and expensive paper, each with their names on them, not limited editions either, and The New York Times will get their story straight,

and slowly we will chemically squeeze the life out of each of their petty, pitiful, raisined hearts with invisible gamma-foet-rays.

I volunteer to light the fire to burn their bodies

and we will flush their ashes down public toilets
in anonymous prairie-town Greyhound Stations.

We will count out meter--a new prosody--in
multiple flushes, map new stresses,

Yes, Garry, it's all very satyrical (sic). What are you angry about, what is your cause? You will defend to the death (our death, you imagine) corruption and fraud? My, that sounds an awful lot like the United States Army. But, you were in the Army, weren't you, Garry? Perhaps you even come from a military family? And perhaps academe is also a sort of military to you? Do you think foeting should have an "don't ask, don't tell" policy?

Why don't you put some of that energy into starting a movement? You can call it The New Careerists!

Thank you for letting me watch your reality tv blog life Garry, it's been most enlightening for a bloke like myself. I am truly impressed by your spleen. Artaud might have written a missive like yours above--had he been an AWP weenie, that is.

Pip Pip,
The Daily Flamer

Next Week:

Ron Silliman: A Fair Man
&
Laurrel Snider: Why are you off your meds, shouldn't you get a job?

2005-04-24T09:45:00.000+01:00

Smoke and Substance

For Renata Dumitrascu

Light up in this restaurant;
you might as well
bomb a few dozen perfect bodies
politely wounding their food.

It’s dark here, and we’ve all heard
of shadows—why should we speak of them again?
What does an old, hairy shadow actually know
as it watches the patrons regard one another’s
heavy gold skin? Under a fragile lamplight
it’s still not dark enough in this establishment
to light up and sit in a cloud
of your own smoke.
You’ll have to close your two mouths
to do that
there.

2005-04-23T07:02:00.000+01:00

Top O the morning and welcome to Steve Barron's The Daily Flamer. Some of you may remember me from my role as the beloved character "Mallie" in the situationist comedy Foetry.com, but today most people just call me Steve. No longer am I the terror of the North American poetry scene; these days I'm just a regular Londoner who works in an office and spends his spare time making taxidermy sculpture and writing poetry on trees.

But one never knows what may come up, do one?