Rabbit holes. The Internet has them, but Goodreads does too. Meaning: Sometimes I pick up a book I saw mentioned on GR, yet haven't a clue where it waRabbit holes. The Internet has them, but Goodreads does too. Meaning: Sometimes I pick up a book I saw mentioned on GR, yet haven't a clue where it was or who it was or how it was.
But I do know I got this book via interlibrary loan, and that I'd never heard of Joe Brainard. Well, now I have. Heard of him, I mean. Linked with the New York School of Artists and Writers, if that means anything.
As for the Collected Works, the first section, called "I Remember," is worth the price of admission alone. It's only 134 pp. of a book that's over 500 pp., but if you read only that, I think you'd be happy with it. That is, if you are of a certain age, because it makes sense that a lot of things that a guy born in 1942 writes would be dated. Though some of his remembrances are timeless. And some are particular to him (he was gay, so a lot of his remembrances concern the struggles he experienced both coming out and out). A sampling:
I remember canasta.
I remember butter and sugar sandwiches.
I remember when I lived in Boston reading all of Dostoevsky's novels one right after the other.
I remember learning to play bridge so I could get to know Frank O'Hara better.
I remember many first days of school. And that empty feeling.
I remember the clock from three to three-thirty.
I remember when girls wore cardigan sweaters backwards.
I remember the outhouse and a Sears and Roebuck catalog to wipe off with.
I remember very old people when I was very young. Their houses smelled funny.
I remember a boy. He worked in a store. I spent a fortune buying things from him I didn't want. Then one day we wasn't there anymore.
I remember drive-in onion rings.
I remember pearlized plastic toilet seats.
I remember having marbles more than I remember playing marbles.
I remember wondering if girls fart too.
I remember big puzzles on card tables that never got finished.
I remember borrowed punch bowls.
I remember candy cigarettes like chalk.
I remember the fear of not getting a present for someone who might give me one.
I remember after Christmas shopping coming home and gloating over everything I bought.
I remember how sad and happy at the same time Christmas carols always made me feel: all warm inside.
I remember not being able to fall asleep Christmas Eve.
I remember opening my first packages very fast and my last few very slowly.
I remember after opening packages what an empty day Christmas day is.
You get the idea. They go down easy and quickly, some of them striking a chord with your own remembrances and some just striking a chord because they are interestingly particular to Brainard. But you keep reading because there's so much space between them and some are funny and some are sad and some are like YOUR childhood and some are not at all.
After this? A lot of journal-like entries. But after the "I Remember" bit, you feel like you kind of know Joe and feel sorry for Joe and want to cheer Joe on, as he is so honest and polite and painfully blunt and self-conscious with little self-confidence at times. Especially about his body, which he is obsessed with (too skinny).
But whether you go on or not is up to you. The sampling above gives you a hint over whether you'd like it or not. Just don't expect the whole thing to be engaging. And though there's some artwork and cartoons, which Joe was most known for (vs. writing), don't expect a lot of that, either.
Do expect some news about Ted Berrigan and Ron Padgett and a bit (only) about Frank O'Hara. Brainard knew a lot of poets and did illustrations / covers for their books. So if you're into some of the New York School people, maybe this is a yes. Still, as "rabbit hole" discoveries go, this was some light-reading fun....more
Erasure poetry melds the worlds of poetry and art by taking "found poetry" to another level. With found poetry, the writer selects words from a publisErasure poetry melds the worlds of poetry and art by taking "found poetry" to another level. With found poetry, the writer selects words from a published work of prose to create a poem, sometimes with the source's themes in mind and sometimes with novel ones. With erasure poetry, on the other hand, the actual page of the source appears on the page, only most of it is "erased," leaving only words the poet selects which, linked together, make a poem. Then the author adds artwork, typically a collage of colors and cut-outs, to illustrate the poem.
Sarah Sloat's Hotel Almighty uses as its source pages from Stephen King's well-known novel, Misery, to create 70 poems booked in five suites known as "Hotel of Strange and Poisonous Flowers," "Hotel Filled With Smoke," "Hotel Wonk-Wonk," "Hotel Almighty," and "Hotel of Queer Silence."
Through Sloat's lens, handpicked words of King create some startling, mystical, and fun creations enhanced with colorful collages. As Sloat states in the introduction: "Collage, too, is surprise and accident. You might clip an image from an old book only to be bowled over by what sits on the other side. You move the pieces around, add, subtract, reshuffle your circles and swans, until it makes some kind of sense." Clearly a lot of thought goes into the illustrations accompany each erasure poem.
Here are a few examples of poems I checked out of Hotel Almighty:
"you come back / broken / in three different places / in / quality / in/ time / and / in / the glorious / hills I keep / in / my / prayers"
Here it's not so much line breaks the slashes signify as jumps between erasures on King's page. Sloat searches his pages for ones where old words (his) create new meanings (hers) in the form of poetry that, punctuated, might look like so: "You come back broken in three different places in quality, in time, and in the glorious hills I keep in my prayers." It's reminiscent of the "Hidden Pictures" feature in Highlights for Children, only in this case the writer must find words, reorder them, and create good poetry.
Here's another erasure poem, as a line: "Darkness was a woman's fingers pushing something like capsules, a little like the freight of memory in to his mouth." From novelist King to poet Sloat to reader, notions of a troubled man in the dark remembering, against his will, "the freight of memory."
Good erasure poetry require writers with both an eye for art and a way with verse. With Hotel Almighty, Sarah Sloat scores on both fronts, creating a book that will appeal equally to fans of poetry, fans of art, and and fans of Stephen King, Maine's Master of Horror....more
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