SONG

What I took in my hand
grew in weight. You must
understand it
was not obscene.

Night comes. We sleep.
Then if you know what
say it.
Don't pretend.

Guises are
what enemies wear. You
and I live
in a prayer.

Helpless. Helpless,
should I speak.
Would you.
What do you think of me.

No woman ever was,
was wiser
than you. None is
more true.

But fate, love, fate
scares me. What
I took in my hand
grows in weight.



Robert Creeley (1926-2005)

Edward Gorey’s cover for Nineteenth Century German Tales edited by Angel Flores.
  

e·

E·RATIO SMEARED

Who is Phillip Levine and why is he saying such awful things about me?


This post was found on one of the message boards at Web del Sol:

“Posted by Phillip Levine on Tuesday, 1 March 2005, at 5:30 p.m.

Warning! Eratio Postmodern Poetry by St. Thomasino - some of the worst poetry published on the web. Except for certain poets like Eldon and Foley, the work in Eratio Postmodern Poetry is uneven and often even childish. Some of it appears straight out of a Klingon dictionary while other parts are Hallmark-esque in nature. Good for a laugh, but not to be taken seriously.

PL

ps: don't criticize the editor or he'll make you a feature of his bizarre hate blog.”


St. Thomasino responds:

No, this is not THE Philip Levine, the highly regarded American poet. (If it was I would die of embarrassment.) No, this jerk has two l’s in his name. And curiously enough, this jerk teaches poetry in a poetry workshop. Isn't it interesting, that somebody who teaches poetry should use such language to criticize poetry, to criticize a poetry journal, and to criticize that journal's editor? It's interesting, that this failed poet, this wanna-be poet, this real stinker, should then become the teacher of poetry, but as though to make up for his disappointment he then desires some sort of power and influence and control over those who can.

And just for the record: Sources have informed us here at the eratio blog-auxiliary that for years Michael Neff was a regular speck on the Buffalo Poetics List, and that even then he was self-appointed Wizard of Oz. (But check the archives, see for yourself. . . .) It seems Michael Neff has a “pre-existing condition.”

E·RATIO SMEARED

WHERE’S THE ROPE?

In his infinite wisdom (or is it, “wiz-” dom), Michael Neff, founder, chief artist, and executive director of the Web del Sol Association, has seen fit to elaborate upon Tim McGrath’s “review” (which we all agree was worthless, anyway):

“And yet, the publication has its defenders, like the famous cut-and-paste 'poet' out of San Francisco, Jack Foley, who is published in Eratio PP and fancies himself good buddies with the editor, St. Thomasino. Since the first publication of this review, both of them have used email harassment, flaming, and defamatory blog posts with invented language in an attempt to censor PDS and brand the editors. In addition, one of them wrote an editor's faculty advisory in an attempt to get him booted from his college writing program. Be that as it may, PDS will not be censored, no matter how many cretins arise to inflict retaliation.”

But surely, had Michael Neff the evidence to prove these allegations, surely he would have included it. Did someone say “email harassment”? Did someone say “flaming, and defamatory”? Here is a sample of Michael Neff’s language:

“My advice is to put St. Thomasino's dick in your mouth and suck on it till you orgasm. Then fall asleep. Sleeeeeeeeep, Jack, sleeeeeeep ... into that eternal night. No one will miss you, not even the ticks on your shriveled old balls.”

And so we draw the curtain to reveal the true Michael Neff, the miserable non-person (without honor, without self-control) behind the faux “tragically hip” gloss at Web del Sol. Shame on you, Michael Neff. I will never look at Web del Sol the same again.

Where’s the rope? Indeed. Just for the record:

1. “Invented language”? You do better, Michael Neff, to claim that someone has been sending e-mails using your e-mail account. (It’s the same difference -- a lie is a lie, after all.)

2. Michael Neff, you demonstrate your bad judgment, your frustration, and your desperation, when you pollute the Palaver and Natter list with your ill will regarding this unhappy episode. Are you attempting some kind of damage control? Are you attempting to propagandize the people on this list? The Palaver and Natter list is “A Locus for High School Writing Programs.” I declare, when you stoop so low as to pollute this list, you are not only demonstrating bad judgment, frustration, and desperation, you are demonstrating BAD LEADERSHIP.

3. For you, Michael Neff, to be so despicably vile and disrespectful to Jack Foley. . . .

SHAME ON YOU, MICHAEL NEFF. YOU OUGHT TO WEAR A DIAPER, YOU'RE LOSING IT ALL OVER THE PLACE.


Since this nonsense first broke with Michael Neff and Web del Sol the eratio blog-auxiliary has been contacted by all sorts of people with all sorts of horror stories all having in common the name and MO of Michael Neff. (As for Tim McGrath, I am convinced he’s just a patsy. And although he came off like a punk -- that is until the instant karma got him -- it is quite obviously Neff who pulls the strings, and there will always be another “Tim McGrath” to take his place, the role requires nothing, save a pinch of ambition.) There really is nothing extraordinary about Neff’s campaign against eratio (evidently, this is what he does -- he gets revenge; or rather he wounds himself, then picks at his scab; for, yes, Michael Neff is a pathology), except this time he stepped out of his weight class, and we got the better of him. Neff is at a loss, he is in the dark, he is clueless to try to figure what has happened, and how it happened, and why. He has nothing but his (oh, what is the opposite of “fancy”?) rote imagination to try to piece together the pieces with. The question begs itself: Why? Why the need to belittle? Why this contempt for the poets? It must be torture, the coming to terms with the realization that you’ll never be well thought of as a poet, that although you’ll be well known for a website, or for some folly or burlesque, you’ll never be well thought of as a poet. Can a popular website substitute for a lack of real poetic achievement? Evidently not. It is Neff who is out for revenge, eratio is only documenting it. Neff must learn to accept the truth, that sometimes he is the cause of his misfortunes, and that he alone can set things right again. Why the need for enemies? Why the fortress mentality? Why the emotional rallying points? And why the ridiculous “tragically hip” gloss? What troubles most about Neff’s “tragically hip” is, there is no sympathy, no simpatico, no sympathetic link with others and the world. This is most telling.

E·RATIO SMEARED

Jack Foley responds:

Various people, including Dana Gioia, have insisted that we need more criticism. No doubt these people are right, but the problem is that most “critics” have no better idea of what constitutes criticism than they have of what constitutes poetry. Tim McGrath’s review of Eratio is a case in point. An enormous amount of the critic’s energy is spent on the name of the magazine’s editor--not on the name of the magazine, which presumably the critic hasn’t a clue about, but on the name of the editor. The critic puts forth many nasty, bullying words, words which constitute his basic way of making his case: “incomprehensible postmodern fodder,” “embarrassing asseverations”--oh, if the critic knows a word like “asseveration,” he must know something. Unfortunately--to continue to quote “Old Man River” or Old Man Discourse--he don’t say nothing. Why should we believe this big mouth? Does he offer any actual quotation to support any of his claims--for instance the designation of editor St. Thomasino as “a pseudonymously guarded narcissist or the tragi-comic hero of a Wes Anderson film.” Oh my, oh my. The strategy here is that if the critic establishes a suitably pompous and/or academic, “authoritative” tone, he doesn’t have to offer any proof: we’ll just believe him. Well, I for one don’t, and I have looked into Eratio. There is no essential difference between what this “critic” offers us and what we are offered by the Bush administration. “Believe me.” “Why?” “Because I’m an authority, that’s why.” If ever we need to “question authority,” it is at such moments. We do indeed need more criticism--words enlightening texts. We don’t need more authoritarian bullshit.

-- Jack Foley


HOUSE PAINTER

I hear you paint houses.
Yeh, it’s mostly the color red.
You wanna be my pal?
Sure.
You can paint some houses for me.
Glad to.
You just stick with me.
Glad to.
You don’t paint my house.
No.
Or if you hafta, don’t make me suffer, ok?
Ok.
You can be my friend.
Yeah.
And I’ll take care of you, you know?
Yeah.
We’ll be pals. I need a friend.
Ok.
You like girls?
Yeh.
You paint houses for me, you get girls.
Ok.
And money. You get money. But don’t paint my house.
Ok.
Not my house. Just those others. Remember that and you’ll be ok.
Ok.
House paintin’. Jeez.

Poem by Jack Foley

Edward Gorey’s cover for Poor People & A Little Hero by Fyodor Dostoevsky. 

e·

Edward Gorey’s cover for Redburn by Herman Melville.  
e·

E·RATIO SMEARED


Letter of 2/11/05:

Dear Editor of Eratio Postmodern Poetry,

Recently, you made an effort to have one of our editors thrown out of his college program at BC for a writing negative critique of your journal on Portal Del Sol. If you had come to us and requested a "taming" of the review so that your name was not compromised, we would have listened and worked with you.

As a rule, we do not censor our editors. They are free to work as they please and are not micromanaged. Be that as it may, we will work with you to remove direct references to your name in the review if you will cease and desist all retaliatory efforts against the editor in question, Tim M, and also remove your blog posting with his name and address in it.

If you must repost a note on your blog knocking WDS for the negative review, that is your right, of course, and we consider that fair play.

Rest assured, we would never attempt to disrupt your career path in NYC by contacting any of your clients. Such behavior is really unconscionable, and as you must know, actionable, i.e., if real harm is done to the plaintiff.

How could you do such a thing, really?

Regardless, I hope you consider our offer.

Sincerely,

The Editor [Michael Neff]



St. Thomasino responds:

Just for the record: Tim McGrath and Michael Neff have runaway imaginations. It would appear that Tim McGrath, in his extremities (a case of "instant karma"), told Michael Neff a whopper of a lie (this "asseveration" that I "made an effort to have one of our editors thrown out of his college program at BC for a writing negative critique of your journal on Portal Del Sol"). But a close reading of these letters shows that, well, one lies and the other swears to it. Here is Tim McGrath in his own words in one of his e-mails to me:

"I write these fucking reviews as a favor to Mike Neff, Web del Sol's editor. And I write them in the style he wants."

I believe you, Tim. And so I am not posting your letters on this blog. But still, I guess you have to have compromised ethics to write for Michael Neff. Certainly, you have to have compromised ethics to dehumanize people.

It's interesting to note that Tim McGrath did have his name removed from the Portal Del Sol masthead. And that "Stephanie" had her last name removed. (Don't worry, "Steph," we already took note of your name. And of your brazenness!) And that "Bodega Babe" is hiding behind an alias. (Talk about your "pseudonymously guarded." At Web del Sol, it's "in house.")

It would appear Web del Sol have the luxury of a ridiculous attitude. (And how they scurry to protect themselves! That Neff, what tooth and claw!)

Hey guys, remember your initial e-mails? You know, the ones you sent prior to the ones I've decided not to exhibit on this blog? You know, the really ballsy, nasty ones? I do. And I still got 'em! Well, you should have figured it out for yourselves: I do not reply to e-mails sent by cranks or by punks. (Ask that other crank -- you know him, Neff, he's an ally of yours -- he'll tell you.) It's just not my MO.

E·RATIO SMEARED

This "review" just up at Web del Sol, by Tim McGrath:


"Eratio Postmodern Poetry :// View | Rating:
Eratio offers up incomprehensible postmodern fodder for critics of postmodern incomprehensibility. Good luck finding anything intentionally; look for links and find a blog, look for poetry and find quotations. And when you realize that Eratio's editor, Gregory Vincent St. Thomasino (whose name suggests either a pseudonymously guarded narcissist or the tragi-comic hero of a Wes Anderson film) has included his own embarrassing asseverations ("Discourse is like a river" is his unqualified and deplorably facile, but apparently quotable, simile) along with the words of Nietszche, Plato, and Jung, you'll start wondering whether this postmodern experiment is, in fact, a postmodern parody. On the same page, alongside the luminous Lord Duke G.V. St. Thomasino, Diane Wakoski is quoted as saying, "I feel that poetry is the completely personal expression of someone about his feelings and reactions to the world. I think it is only interesting in proportion to how interesting the person who writes it is." By Wakoski's logic, the people who bring you Eratio are not very interesting at all."


St. Thomasino responds:

Friends, as contributors to eratio postmodern poetry, you should proudly count yourselves among some of the most talented and influential writers and artists on the scene today. As editor of the site, I can honestly say that many of the works submitted for eratio simply do not make the cut (and I'm sorry if I've rejected your work, Mr. McGrath, but there's always the welcome to send again). I try to be fair when making these judgments, because I know what it means to put your heart into something (especially something like poetry), and how it feels to be rejected.

Eratio is a labor of love, since it generates no revenue for me (but rather costs me time and energy and money). Each issue requires months of work, involving coding, design, correspondence, planning, and an immeasurable amount of frustration. Ultimately, it's very gratifying -- but I cannot say it's fun.

Still, I am proud to publish your work and hope that its presence at eratio gives you some exposure and some degree of satisfaction that you otherwise would not have had, and gives you some encouragement to continue being a poet in an economy that doesn't much care about you.

I do not know Tim McGrath. But if you read him closely you'll see that this is nothing more than a personal attack on me (based on his dislike of my name!). I am distressed because none of the poetry or artworks are mentioned, and in fact I do not believe Mr. McGrath even bothered to read or look at any of it. (But can he, indeed, talk about the poetry, or the content of the page, or the logic of the concept, I wonder? Why the subterfuge of fixating on my name? No one of any real insight or wit would do that -- unless he were inclined to burlesque.)

As a poet and a critic, I take great care to explicate my reasons for "liking" or "disliking" something. More importantly, I consider it my responsibility to try to place a work into context, to appreciate what it is the poet is trying to achieve, and to assess whether this has been accomplished (and sometimes I offer alternatives, but I never ridicule and I am never disrespectful, and I always manage to point out a poet's successes). There are several reviews in the current issue that I took great care in writing, I hope you'll see them for yourself now that the issue is up.

Reading Tim McGrath's personal attack (on my name, for Pete's sake!) is an example of something a poet or a critic should never do. Mr. McGrath has latched on to my name as something that irritates him a great deal, and in the process has ignored your work and mine. Why does Mr. McGrath dislike me personally? Could it be that this is payback? (Or else: What's "pseudonymously guarded" about it? What's "narcissist" about it? I will, however, accept that being a Roman Catholic name it is somewhat "tragi-comic.")

Mr. McGrath's tone -- glib, cynical, condescending, and uninformed and lacking of the requisite vocabulary to comprehend let alone explicate or set a value upon "the postmodern" -- is indicative not only of Web Del Sol but of the "unlettered lad" generally. I do not know why Web del Sol has adopted this attack mentality toward anything to do with "the postmodern," but for sure it is the creativity of resentment.


And here, in situ, is the offending "asseveration":



















e·

ELECTION EVE 2004

I go out hungry.
Vestiges of ancient meat hang in the branches,
swing from the flag poles, pour like
rain out of windows in rooms
where murder is born. The men there,
a squat, tailored homunculus
surrounded by chanting politicians,
feed on the navels of outland children
forced to machines in Shanghai and Jakarta.
They grow terrible amusements of
death mask zealots that lock me in at the trough.
I go out hungry and mean for the
world's lean spoils and eat till my tongue corrodes.
This is my birthright.
These are my reptile eyes.



Poem by Jake Berry 11.1.04

























“But you ought to know that What is Grand is necessarily obscure to Weak men. That which can be made Explicit to the Idiot is not worth my care.”

--William Blake (from a letter to Dr. Trusler, a clergyman for whom he had made a drawing, 8/23/1799).

e·

Edward Gorey’s covers for The Adventures of the Black Girl in her Search for God by George Bernard Shaw and Noble Essences by Osbert Sitwell.

Companionables.

e·

What's Jukka up to at nonlinear poetry?

I've been following the discourse that has sprung up around Jukka-Pekka Kervinen's recent work at his NONLINEAR POETRY blog and I'm inspired to chime in with my own interpretation.

Bill Allegrezza, at p-ramblings, remarks that "they complicate reading patterns in a way that two dimensional writing does not. As a reader I am left wondering where to enter into the text, if there is a consistent text, and if the text is primarily aesthetic or communicative." Jean Vengua, at okir, remarks about "graphic surface (color, shape) and structure. Some partial sense of meaning comes through in the existence of words or word-fragments." And Mark Young, at pelican dreaming, seeing a turn from the poetic to the painterly, remarks, "Now I feel we do not enter the poems but step back from them the way we do with paintings so that we can see them entire. Certainly the words are there, fragmented, hinting, eroded. It is as if we have passed beyond the ocular microscope & are now dealing with electron microscopy that is showing us that what we thought were empty spaces between words and letters have a depth & a topography of their own. The entrance way is way back, in the verbal poems that still are there behind. We've entered a Mandelbrot world of fractals where the poems enter us rather than us entering the poems."

I like the reference to Benoit Mandelbrot, and to fractals (I think there is much in the Mandelbrot set, and in fractal geometry, and in a close study of reiteration, to interest, and perhaps to inspire, all creative poets). And the question of the primacy of the "aesthetic" or the "communicative," which I am here wont to interpret as "the showing" or "the telling." Of course both are "aesthetic," and both are "communicative," but there are distinctions, such as to matters of technique and of genre, and most importantly perhaps, in what sense "communicative," by what means and to what end. And then there is that "sense of meaning," which "comes through in the existence of words or word-fragments." I interpret this as though to say, we sense that "meaning" is present, that "meaning" in some form or other is to be perceived, to be comprehended, but as to what exactly is meant or proposed, how exactly to satisfy our interest, here we are given to pause.

What strikes me most about these comments, is that they all seem to allude to what Mr. Young points out as the "painterly" turn in Mr. Kervinen's work. "Painterly," "aesthetic" and "graphic surface" all seem to refer to something being "shown," to something we do not exactly "read" so much as "see" or "pore over," as we would when faced with a painting, or with a work of concrete art. Inasmuch as these works attract us and hold us in suspension, that in and of itself is enough to recommend them (even to the casual blog surfer).

What if what we were seeing were only details (cropped portions, each) of a greater whole? What if that greater whole were, say, a mural? The mural is a wall-size painting, we need step back to see it entire. I agree with Mr. Young that we must, in a sense, "step back" to see these works entire. And I agree with Mr. Young's reference to the Mandelbrot set, as here, too, we see a whole represented in a part, an instance of the macro in the micro. . . .

I think there is a relation between these works and Nico Vassilakis' STAMPOLOGUE and John Byrum's "placeholders." I think this relation is as much to do with technique as with genre, although as regards technique the relation may not be obvious. I want to leave aside the question of technique with regard to craft and focus instead on genre.

When Jean Vengua remarks that "some partial sense of meaning comes through in the existence of words or word-fragments," (granting that existence) I think she is speaking of the intimation of meaning only. That is to say, this is not "meaning" as that which is intermediate, as signification is the bond that holds between a signifier and a signified. This meaning, this potential meaning, is prior, it is anterior. It is not actual meaning, but meaning in posse (that is, in possibility, or, rather, in process).

Mr. Kervinen's works "speak" to us in terms of grammata, and not in terms of pragmata, and then only in terms of a grammata that is in abstractus--drawn away, if you will, from any thing, from any pragmata. And thus these words and word-fragments do not signify, but come to symbolize.

What we see, what we construe to be words and word-fragments--hinted at, yes, but not, I think, eroded (it is rather as though we're given to witness them in phases, in appearances of intellection, in phases of mentation!)--are not words and word-fragments as such, but the anterior, pre-articulate phase of expression--this is the sememe phase (and is as such prior to the morpheme and phoneme phases).

I see this work as a type of concrete poetry, and a specialized type at that. I call this "eidetic poetry." And what's more, I see this as a special type, a specialized type of "eidetic poetry." I call it the "eidograph"--because it presents us with a picture, or, more precisely, an aperçu, of language-in-eidos, language in ideal form. This is the atomic language of Wittgenstein's logical space. As I see it, Mr. Kervinen is giving us to see (via aperçus) language as a postulated transcendent totality of system. This is language in ideal form, language in conceptus, language in situ, the world in logical space. The eidograph is an aperçu, if you will, at once an insight into and a summary, a brief digest of, language-in-eidos. These works are eidographs. They are eidographic.

How Mr. Kervinen goes about creating these aperçus, these eidographs, is topic for another discussion. Suffice it to say here that he is in complete control of his craft. It would be delusive to introduce the idea of chance or the element of randomness into this investigation, that is unless one understands that even here Mr. Kervinen works with strict deliberation.

Jukka-Pekka Kervinen is a true artist, immune to the fetish of celebrity. I've been on his trail for a year now (he introduced me to stochastics) and it inspires me that he is my contemporary. These recent works of his, at NONLINEAR POETRY, are most deserving of deep consideration.

A Selection of Visual Poems by Bob Grumman

I've been following Bob Grumman's writings, both poetic and theoretical, and his progress, and his various columns, since around 1993. I still have (of course) the first postcard he sent me, telling how busy he was and that a letter would soon follow. Well, that letter did follow, and many others after it. I consider my "Grumman correspondence" a personal literary treasure. Bob has always been "a compulsive explainer" (as he readily says in the "4word" to this, his latest collection, A Selection of Visual Poems) and his letters are chock full of compulsive explaining. You know, there is a whole literary genre, you might say, inhabited by writers who prefer personal correspondence, letter writting, as the vehicle by which and in which to express their ideas and opinions, and to maintain and articulate explanations and objectives for and about their work. And this, genre, is vast. And it's virtually anonymous, or, unknown, because the exchange of correspondence is personal, and may not see the light of day for years, and then maybe only posthumously. Think of the letters between Pound and Joyce, or between yourself and your own personal correspondents. I came on board just about when Bob began experimenting with mathematics and was discovering his mathemaku form and was publishing his first "specimen" (Bob has always enjoyed using scientific/experimental jargon). My initial impression of all this was to ask why anyone would want to "quantify" sentiments. Then Bob began sending me photocopies of more and more mathemaku specimen and I saw that my initial impression was all wrong, that Bob was not exactly "quantifying" sentiments as much as substituting math, or the arithmetical, for grammar. The end result was an amplification (or perhaps I should say "a mutiplication") of symbolism. Realizing this, I knew he was onto something worthwhile, something fascinating, and in time as I came to know a little and then a lot about Bob personally, I also realized why he had to make it different. Early on I recognized something important about Bob, that Bob was a poet—that Bob was indeed the genuine article. And like all poets, but especially Bob's type of poet (the same type as Emily Dickinson, I maintain, although Bob maintains he has no use for the wren, and yet I think he secretly delights in their kinship), he had to discover, to create, to originate a form to fit his poetic afflatus. And this "form" would equal that afflatus in idiosyncrasy. But it could not end with idiosyncrasy, there would have to be a gnomic element, something esoteric, something hidden. While Bob would both show and tell his poetry, he would almost withhold or protect the quintessence of that poetry, reserving—and preserving—that for his initiate, or, as it were, his lover. Because all of Bob's poetry is love poetry, love poetry aimed at an ideal lover! Some poets go through life in a sort of alienation from form, never really comfortable in any form (and it shows), but then others, of the type that share kinship with Bob, outright create their own form. (And after all, this is how new forms come into being.) To this day, what strikes me about the mathemaku is how uncannily literary they are—certainly, methinks, as literary as any typographical order by Cummings. Compared to Cummings, Bob's vocabulary (both word and picture) is stark and limited (no tulips or chimneys, but a store of indirectly communicated yearning and deep, almost dangerous, sensitivity), and Bob is in no wise prolific (as he readily confesses), although if one were to take into account his letters and columns and posted opinions—mighty generous opinions, I might add, in that they readily share where others, perhaps those less confident, hold back—one would find that there is a whole lot more than first imagined. In his "4word," Bob says that while he may not be prolific he is nonetheless "rigorous." Well, if by "rigorous" we also mean scrupulous, especially with regard to keeping safe that quintessence—and so it is no wonder that he is a master at indirect communication—and in the precise, if sometimes poetic, manner in which he strives to explain himself, then Bob is most certainly a rigorous poet, and especially where regards the pursuit of his ideal.

There are 26 pieces including cover art, the pages are not numbered. (All the works are in black and white.) We begin with "The Word." The word is "poem." And inside the "o" of "poem" is the word "morning," and inside the "o" of "morning" is the word "glory," and inside the "o" of "glory" is a face giving us a wink. This is fitting, because Bob is telling us there's more to visual poetry than meets the eye, and moreover, that "wink" says more than words can say (directly)—it's a signal that there is a quintessence here, but we must be playful and coax it out. Next is "Arrival," followed by "CREATIVITY" and then "the poem r." One might call these "alphabet" poems—the "arrival" of sound and musical pattern, the alphabet that is a fond of origin, essential to poetry. Here we have, not poetry as such, but some ideas that might serve as preamble, after our welcoming wink, to what follows.

Next comes a "visual poem" entitled "The Intellect at Work." "The Intellect at Work" is kidstuff, relying on a single visual trope that "sees" the word "REALITY," by a process of morphological development, "morph" into the word "DEFINITION." In lesser hands this page would not rate a second look. (As the situation stands, most visual poems are—and sadly so—one-trick ponies that fail to reward a closer reading.) But Bob makes the most of his two words. First, there is the suggestion that "DEFINITION" might somehow reside dormant or unrealized in, or be latent in, "REALITY." Ergo, a passsive, or undeveloped, reality will yield no definition. Moreover we notice that the word "DEFINITION" is enclosed inside a frame! Where did this frame come from? If we go back to the top of the page and again follow the word "REALITY" through its morphological development, we see that the outlines of the letters have joined together, closed circle or to delimit or cocoon as it were, thus releasing the morphemes—the minimal linguistic units—of the word within ("REALITY") from their phase as "REALITY," and thus as though to amnion (or chrysalis) the morphemes continue their generation, their metamorphosis, into "DEFINITION." And thus, definition is found in reality. Or, reality gives way, or gives birth, to definition. Or, reality can be defined. It's also interesting to watch (!) how the letters REAL "morph" (change shape, that is) into DEFINI (you simply must see this for yourself). Always, there are questions left over after reading Bob's work, for instance does he take the Greek word "morphe" to mean physical, material "shape" rather than functional form? I would ask him, then, does meaning turn upon the function or upon the material (of words)?

Next follows "Failed Disguise," and "The Serpent." These seem to be products of collage, cut up bits fitted together, and are two good reasons why I dislike the term "visual poetry." "Eidetics" is much more appropriate here. In "The Serpent," the vowels a, e, i, o and u, in string, are "snaking" across a (rather barren-looking) field of letters, broken language and what appears to be a tree right out of Beckett.

In "After Apollo," there is "moon," "sky," "THE EARTH" and "HEART." The "H" of "HEART" is moved to after the "T" to form "EARTH." I like this piece very much. Next is "April!" which, again, shows sound or musical pattern, or rhythm, arisen out of the rhythmic waves of the (alphabetic) sea of language.

"Revelation" reveals the word "truth" spelled "troooooooooooooooooooooooooooooth." "EROS: A DEFINITION" is perhaps a most cryptic mathemaku. (Out of summer comes eros.) "Paradise Enow, 1959" is a Bob Grumman-style haiku in which the word "love" is a mutual feeling. "Enow" is pronounced, "enough." Next is "Mathemaku No. 24d." This is one of only four mathemaku included in this collection. Also here are "Mathemaku for Ron Johnson," "Mathemaku for Richard Kostelanetz" and "Mathemaku for Karl Young." In my opinion, the mathemaku are without doubt Bob's best work, and they are the four best pieces in this collection. (I question Bob on his mathemaku work in my interview with him, and I recommend this to anyone interested in this aspect of his work. As I intend to write about the mathemaku at length elsewhere, I won't go into these pieces here, except to say they are all excellent, and really lovely.)

The remaining pieces are "NOCTURNE" (where day turns to night and then "the sound of her voice"), "The Huge Night" (which succeeds very well), "HOMAGE TO SHAKESPEARE" (one of Bob's classic pieces), "Summer," "Somewhere in Manhattan, 1958" (see what I mean about Cummings?), "The Four Seasons," "Homage to Wordsworth" (more classic Grumman), and "Homage to Athena" (again, classic Grumman, simple and to the point).

I can't complain about there being only four mathemaku in this collection because the mathemaku are avilable otherwise. What's important about A Selection is that it collects works that have to this point been scattered here and there. My only complaint is that they are not dated and their publication history is not provided.

A Selection of Visual Poems by Bob Grumman is Xerolage #30, published by Xexoxial Editions.  Write to them at 10375 Cty Hway A, LaFarge, WI, 54639.

Read The Bob Grumman Interview in ē·rātiō issue one, spring 2003.

Edward Gorey’s cover for Troilus and Cressida by Geoffrey Chaucer.  
e·

e·