I Do NOT Have A Moses Complex! : a review of the Plastiscene reading series for September 20

           

            It was a much cooler evening than the month before as I rode on Sunday, September 20^th to yet another new location of the Plastiscene Reading Series. This time it was at Habits Gastropub on College Street. It took me eight minutes to get to College and Dovercourt from my home in what is pretty much the centre of Parkdale. That’s one minute longer than it took me to get to The Belljar Café in Roncesvalles Village for last month’s reading. I guess that this venue of the month club is fun and interesting to some extent but it’s probably better to be in one place in order to build recognition and so people don’t have to use their secret decoder rings in order to find the event.

            Susie Berg, David Clink and Michael Fraser were already at a front table when I arrived. Susie told me that the reading would be in the back, but she didn’t yet know exactly where.

            I sat down at their table and asked Susie if she had a Moses complex with all this wandering around from venue to venue from month to month. She didn’t seem to appreciate the humour of my suggestion and was a little testy when she responded, “No I do not!” She added that she just wanted to end all this work and find one place. I said, “So did Moses!”

            They all had piles of paper beside them and it had the look of a group of actors working on a play as they looked down at identical pages that they each had in front of them and made comments about the text. It turned out that they were workshopping one another’s poetry. Kathleen Zinck arrived and joined us, and then she also added a poem to be tweaked by the comments of others. For my part, I’m always willing to listen to other people’s suggestions about my poems and offer mine about theirs, but I find the concept of workshopping a little weird. It seems formal and artificial to me.

            Kathleen’s poem was about being locked up at the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health. CAMH is an oddly named place because one would assume they work for mental health and against addiction and yet the name implies that they are “for” addiction. It seems to me that they should find a word that means the opposite of addiction for their name. The problem though is that there aren’t very many antonyms for addiction that would fit here. Perhaps “independence” would work, as in the “Centre for Independence and Mental Health”.

            Charlene Challenger said she knew someone who had tried to commit suicide and ended up with a psychiatric record that prevented her from working with children.

            We all moved down to the back. Habits Gastropub is long and narrow, and at the back, behind a glass wall, is a living room sized brewery with six shiny cylindrical stainless steel canisters, each about two meters high. Nicki Ward decided to set up the performance area at one side of the back end, facing a long picnic style table with two detached benches.

            Someone who I didn’t recognize said spoke to me by name, asking how I was and how my summer had been. I told him that it had been interesting but I never get as much done as I want to. He said he didn’t either, but added, “It was a nice summer though.” Someone else said, “It’s all over tomorrow!”

            Nicki seemed like she was chomping at the bit to get going, as she started to address the audience about half an hour earlier than usual to let them know we would be underway shortly.

            I was wondering where Paul Valliere was as I signed up for the open stage.

            There were about twelve of us there when Nicki said, “Okay, lets get going!” but Susie said, “It’s so early! We start at 6:30!” “What time is it now?” “6:20.” “Okay, everyone return to their pre-poetic state for another ten minutes.”

            Paul Valliere arrived just before start time. He said he’d gotten the wrong address from the email that Plastiscene sent out.

            As Nicki began mistressing the ceremonies, she had to stop and walk over to tell Paul to be quiet, as he was having a conversation at his table. He hadn’t realized that we’d started, probably because there was no microphone this time to give more authority to Nicki’s voice.

We began with the open stage slash poems from a hat segment and Nicki reminded us to keep it down to three minutes and so not to read anything too Joycean. David Clink quipped, “There’s no Joycean in Mudville!”

As Nicki has done for the last several months in a row, Nicki asked me to go first. I said I was going to do several short pieces that included some thoughts, some haiku, some short poems and a tanka. Nicki asked, “Thirty-one syllables?” I told her that I don’t do all that neurotic syllable counting, and that a tanka is basically a haiku with a couple of lines thrown in at the end. Of the thoughts: “If god doesn’t want me to masturbate, the pervert should stop watching me do it.” Of the haiku, “Above the cleared sidewalk a man walks the tightrope of the snow bank.” The tanka was, “ice plated snow reflecting the alley light glows pearlescent on the roof, breathing the cold air I toss the bag of cat shit.” Of the short poems, I finished with, “It would be a gas for someone to do me a solid and buy me a liquid.” Nicki said that I should title the last one “The Triple Point of Water”.

            David Clink read a poem from the hat. It was Peter Balakian’s “The Children’s Museum at Yad Vashem” – “ … The candles have laughing faces. The sun is sealed across. My mother turns into dust. My hand disappears. I walk across some stones. A scroll of a viola is a Nazi cross; the sky is a cave of faces …”

            Next was another poem from the hat, and this one, selected by one of the featured readers, and read by another member of the audience, was “A  Sea Monster Tells It’s Story” by David Clink – “ … the seas boyancy holdin my skeletun aloft, holdin this oshun enclosd by skin … In the mornin the water is gone. I can hear the ancient creek of my bones, my skin gettin crispy …”

            Returning to the open stage, we heard Sharon Berg reading her poem, “Willow” – “ … all things begin in dust or the memory of dust … my father’s father … not allowing the midwife to assist his wife … my grandfather became the ghost of himself, the bible spread over his knees …” The poem continued on for well over three minutes.

            Then Nicki called on Paul Valliere, who began by telling us that he learned on his recent trip to the Maritimes that at 74%, Prince Edward Island had the highest voter turnout in the last federal election. Paul then did a poem he wrote called “Votin In The Free World”, that was inspired in form by a Neil Young song- “ … Keep on votin' in the free world. I see native women without rights and I cannot understand why they are murdered so easily …” At the end of each verse he repeated the title phrase three times, just as Neil Young does in his song. The problem with such repetition in a spoken version is that it becomes tedious and awkward. It would have been more effective if he’d simply said the phrase once at the end of each verse.

            After Paul was Kathleen Zinck, who read her poem, “The Drifter”, which she said was an “Invisible poem about god …”

            Kathleen was followed by Lisa Richter, and she read her poem, “Visitation in Kensington Market” – “ … Still they lie in incandescent stupor …” and another entitled “Storage Space Contents” – “ … memories of ashtrays …”

            Next someone read George Bilgere’s “Beautiful Country” – “ … the two of them are about to embark upon a long and dangerous pilgrimage … down into a rocky valley
called Couples Counseling … They’re x-raying their relationship like a couple of art collectors trying to figure out if the Rembrandt they bought last month is a fake. They’re giving their love the third-degree under a hot and blinding light, and by God they better get some answers. Meanwhile, every day that tongueless little sachet of cells is finding more and more articulate ways of saying, What about me? But I’m just strolling in my garden with a glass of cold white wine, watching the daisies wave their yellow flags
from that beautiful country called Not My Problem.”

            With the open stage over, Nicki called a fifteen minute break.

            When we returned, Nicki commented about the light shining down on the performance area. She said that a light shining in your eyes changes your prescription while your reading, in the same way that a camera changes its aperture.

            Nicki then shared a quote: “I didn't have time to write a short letter, so I wrote a long one instead.” She wasn’t sure who it was from, but someone suggested Oscar Wilde. It was Mark Twain, but there is a phrase with a similar meaning written much earlier in French by Blaise Pascal.

            I looked behind me and saw that the pub was empty other than us.

            Before introducing the first feature, Nicki, as she sometimes does, added her own voice to revisit a poem that had been read earlier. This time it was Lisa Richter’s “Storage Space Contents” – “ … Forked lizard tongues … the forgotten tails of tadpoles …”

            Nicki referred to the first invited writer, Brian Purdy, as the “fifth Beatle”. She said that five Beatles had gone to see the Maharishi but only four came back.

            Brian began with a poem called “Nervously Smiling”, about himself and his father – “ … You are the same … not one hair is out of place … Soon, like you, I will be embalmed in photographs …” From another poem – “ … Plath could not escape the sucking vacuum, Lawrence rides his rocking horse forever …”

            Brian told us, “What most people don’t know about Al Purdy is that he was a breed.” He explained that this is an old term, meaning that he was part Native. One quarter Cherokee to be specific. Brian read “Bastard Race” – “ … Their women stitched blue mountains in the sky …” At this point there was a sudden loud clattering from behind the nearby kitchen door, and Brian stopped reading to comment, “My friends in the kitchen are making sound effects!”

            Brian’s next poem was entitled “Tin Can Creek”, and when he was finished, the audience applauded, as they had done after every poem. This time though, Brian said, “I’m worried, with all this clapping that you won’t have anything left at the end. He then read “Recalcitrant” – “ … Suffering child, come to me, for comfort given clumsily … If there is not perfect passion, still it will suffice for ration …” He followed this with “Song of the Impractical Poet”, and when that was done he exclaimed, “Now I miss the clapping!” and so people applauded and he said, “I have to be honest! It’s been a long time since I read. You’re a good audience!”  After that Brian read “Home Run, Exhibition Stadium, Toronto, 1985” – “The blood deep roar of a thousand lions …” He talked about having been so swept up in the excitement that he was still holding his lukewarm drink as he left the stadium. He took it home and placed it on the mantle as a souvenir. His next poem was “Egyptian Blues” – “ … There’s a concubine riding my camel …” Then he read “The Ishtar Gates of Babylon”, and then “Sultan Bounce” – “ … The cats wind through their legs like nine mixed blessings … Banging an empty cup against a hydrant … The guests uncoil their question marks …” Brian finished with a poem called “Song At Sixty” – “Bring fireflies to the wedding feast …”

            Brian’s Purdy, when he uses rhyme, shows a talent for it, and while his poetry has, from time to time, some well conceived phrases, they don’t often flow together well as a complete poem. There’s something sentimentally dusty about his style that is more about craft than art as if he doesn’t feel like he has to try to break ground our burn as a poet in order to penetrate to the core of what he is trying to communicate.

            After Brian was finished and Nicki began to speak, a clatter of noise from the dishwashing area near the door rang out. Nicki commented, “In addition to competing with bad lighting, we are also competing with good hygiene!”

            The second feature of the night was Charlene Challenger, who began right away reading from the manuscript of a novel that seemed to represent an alternate world similar to our own but with different names for the societies within. There was tension between westerners and easterners – “ … Five golden loaves of bread … do you think westerners bother to take the maggots out? … Besides our tour group there are no civilians … we were told not to photograph … Six western soldiers point their rifles at me … they wait on edge for the crackle of gunfire, for my blood to hit the dust … Blind soldiers so hungry they can barely hold their guns …” This must have been the end of the chapter, as Charlene changed direction and began reading a story from the point of view of the ten year old daughter of a high ranking official – “ … Vincent told me my birth was never announced because I am a girl … No sense in painting the bud before it blooms … “ The story lingered for a long time on the spoiled girl whining about wanting her aunt to lend her the medals from her uniform until finally the girls father insisted that the child be given what she desired. Charlene had already gone well past her allotted fifteen minutes when she began delving into the rivalry between the girl and her brother. Finally Nicki intervened and cut Charlene short, adding that a good rule of thumb when reading under a time limit is to allow oneself sixty words a minute.

            The first chapter that Charlene Challenger read of her novel for young adults that was engaging and went along at a fairly good pace. She painted a good portrait of a military society keeping up a good front while its people were wasting away. Her second chapter though indicated that she could profit from paring down her narrative to keep it from becoming tedious.

            Nicki called a break at this point, and so I went outside, where I found Paul Valliere and Kathleen Zinck, who asked me hopefully, “Is it over yet?” Paul argued that novels should be banned from poetry readings. I didn’t agree with that. There have been a fair number of well-written prose pieces, either in the format of short stories or novel excerpts that have been read over the years by features at Plastiscene. Paul agreed that short stories can be okay but he said that even to read on his own, most novels have a hard time holding the attention. I told him about Alice Munro’s view that she’s never read a novel that couldn’t have been a better short story. He thought that made sense. I think it’s often true, but some novels, such as Ursula K. LeGuin’s “The Dispossessed” wouldn’t work in a shorter format.

            After the break, Nicki read the bio of the third guest reader, Keith Garebian. After informing us that he’s published more than a thousand articles in one hundred newspapers, she commented that it’s obvious that he can’t hold down a job.

            Keith began by telling us that he believes very strongly in the oral quality of poetry. In the first half of his set he read from his book of poetry about the relationship between Georgia O’Keeffe and Alfred Stieglitz, based on their letters. He began with O’Keeffe alone – “ … Words and I are not good friends … all I have are marks …” Then a poem based on Stieglitz on O’Keeffe – “ It’s the drawings … my heart stood still, I was afraid … reflect you, and you are always you … a soul like yours roaming through space …”

            Keith told us that when they were lovers before marriage, Stieglitz took nude photographs of O’Keeffe. Keith shared a poem based on these pictures – “ … Her nipples … swelling hips … probing the life of her pores … blind touch to sight …” Another poem, called “Apple Fever” spoke on the same subject – “ … Birds stalk the fruit … light that falls on her nakedness like fever …” From another poem about the photos – “ … These photos are by a detached lover … a man with a phallic camera … These photos are by a narcissist … her poses are not fine phrases …”

            Keith said the book is a meditation on desire. From another poem – “ … Foment of blooming clouds … Trusting each other as a perfect lens …” A poem called “Hands” takes O’Keeffe’s perspective – “ … He sees me as a hand curling around … hands are useful things … When I stride around, my walking stick says I am … dead cottonwood … Rorschach colours … my hands make smooth shapes … my hands unafraid … an invisible river under the earth …”

            The second half of Keith’s set featured excerpts from a book of satire aimed at the Republican right wing of the United States. It addresses several right wing politicians and poets as if they were poets. He began with Sean Hannity, who claimed, “Halloween is a Liberal holiday.” Michelle Bachman said, “Planned parenthood is the Lens Crafters of big abortion.” Mitt Romney – “Corporations are people.” Keith said that Rush Limbaugh took on the style of Allen Ginsberg with his assault on classical studies – “What the hell is Classical Studies?  What classics are studied?  Or, is it learning how to study in a classical way?  Or is it learning how to study in a classy as opposed to unclassy way?  And what about unClassical Studies?  Why does nobody care about the unclassics?  What are the classics?  And how are the classics studied?  Oh, cause you're gonna become an expert in Dickens?  You're assuming it's literature.  See, you're assuming we're talking classical literature here.  What if it's classical women's studies?  What if it's classical feminism?  Who the hell knows what it is?  One thing I do know is that she, the brain-dead student, doesn't know what it is, after she's got a major in it.  Because all she knows to do with it is go down to Occupy Wall Street and complain.” Keith then quoted Paris Hilton – “Barbie is my role model.” And “A life without orgasms is a world without flowers.” Actually, I know Keith was making fun, but I think that last one is quite beautiful. He then quoted Ted Nugent, “the Rosa Parks of gun ownership”, who, on the subject of South Africa, where he manages a hunting reserve, says – “The preponderance of South Africa is a different breed of man. I mean that with no disrespect. I say that with great respect. I love them because I'm one of them. They are still people of the earth, but they are different. They still put bones in their noses, they still walk around naked, they wipe their butts with their hands. And when I kill an antelope for 'em, their preference is the gut pile. That's what they fucking want to eat, the intestines. These are different people. You give 'em toothpaste, they fucking eat it...I hope they don't become civilized. They're way ahead of the game.” Keith finished with a piece called “Epistemology”, which he said was by Donald Rumsfeld – “There are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns – the ones we don't know we don't know.”  This is also quite beautiful, and I remember when Rumsfeld said this, but even he has said that he didn’t originate these phrases, as they go back at least to the 1970s in quotes from various scientists in both astrophysics and in the mining industry.

            Keith Garebian is a good poet, but I find that his choice of subject matter robs him of a chance to truly shine. His voyeuristic use of the letters of Georgia O’Keeffe and Alfred Stieglitz as a jumping off point for writing poetry is all fine and good, but their own letters are really just as poetic in themselves and so his efforts don’t really enhance our experience of them. Keith’s use of direct quotes from right wing politicians and pundits is interesting and entertaining as found poetry, but it would have been better if he had brought something drawn from his own life, from his own ideas to share. Every poet’s life makes better poetry than when he or she tries to make poetry out of someone else’s life. We know ourselves infinitely better. Turning someone else’s writing into poetry, especially if that’s all one does, feels like an escape.

            The final featured reader of the night was James Dewar, who read two pieces. The first had been written in the aftermath of a three year affair, when a friend of his invited him out of Toronto to Pakenham to help him get over it – “ … Deer hunters clustered … faces flickering in the lights … many looked too young to be taking aim … The bartender, hiding her beauty still inside her … Stood on the only five span stone bridge in North America … We left the highway … rocks poking up like ribs … knuckles sometimes white against the doors … This a place to kill everything and put in hydro lines … My eyes immobilized me … We’re carved from this land, sometimes as hard as stone,  the cottage … I clung to the back of an old oak … “woosh!” back to the night … I lived … The first thin lines of translucent brittle ice …”

            James told us that he and his friend had drank a lot more than was mentioned in the piece, and they’d smoked 250 grams of hash.

            The dishwasher went behind James with a mop pale on wheels. James commented that it sounded like a plane coming in.

            James’s second piece was written about 9-11, and entitled “Armageddon, Come and Gone” – “ …The three remaining gods … Obliteration of all things proven and disproved before … the jarring end to technocratic ignorance … that split second of understanding that we are not immortal …Each side sacrifices their young … a land of graves … still and dead in the searing dust … bullets traded for oil refineries … helicopters aloft in black dragon arrays … consumers of misery7 … the brick and mortar of useless temples ...”

            James Dewar has some good descriptive writing, interspersed with prose that captures the mood that the surroundings inspire and his 9-11 piece captured the sentiment of weariness over the war that followed the attack and the futility of perpetual conflict spurred by greed and fanaticism.

            Nicki closed by stating that poetry can be frivolous, but it must always be intentional. “Go forth” she urged, “and be good poets!”