Tag Archives: shelly taylor

Random Criticism and other exciting ventures of the mindplace

On his blog, Joshua Corey wrote some gab about The Possess Nothing off-site reading at AWP. Here it is:

The stand-out readers are Johannes (reading from A New Quarantine Will Take My Place), Gordon Massman (talk about queer heterosexuality! reading from The Essential Numbers 1991 – 2008), and Abraham Smith, an electric hopping presence (reading from a book I regret not purchasing, whim man mammon). Afterward fall in with Johannes who insists on “famous tequila shots” and leads a small group of us, pied-piper style, to the Whiskey Bar. I wander off and meet Mark and Richard for late night fish n’ chips at a pub.

I had that tequila shot with you. Thank you Johannes. Josh, I should have asked when we were at the whiskey bar. I wish I had known about what you wrote in the future when we were at the bar. Did you hear Shelly Taylor or Lara Glenum? Did you not notice their gangsterly poesy?

This is just another tack on the makes-me-sad-to-be-a-part-of-the-sex-with-the-dick list. Someone as smart and charming as Joshua Corey should know better than to commit the same mistake that’s been made by men, well, since ever. Ignoring women to the point of erasure is offensive, particularly when the women writers held it as down and dirty as the men. Not knocking Gordon, Abe, or Johannes, who are fucking ridiculous awesomeness, just saying, the women is as good as the men, and in my opinion, much better dressed.

When discussing with Charles Alexander the possibility of getting Action books people in for a reading to Tucson, I accidentally labeled them post-avant. My bad. My tongue slips. I’m only young!

So I tried to write something to Charles about the aesthetic sensibility of my new favorite authors. This is what came out:

Dear Charles,

For the work.

I think this is something other than post-avant. Sorry for the mishap. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t think it’s quite there yet. I do think its something new. I don’t know how I fit in the mix yet, but I feel it in my bones. At the Action/Tarpaulin Sky/Black Ocean/Slope Editions reading there were a wide array of new poets with varied aesthetics, but there was something binding them together (maybe it was just energy? maybe it was the PBR?). Perhaps its a push for the absurd, a fascination with language that is less of an intellectual investigation and more of a children’s game, with rules that are only meant to be broken, why have them? I’ve been thinking a lot about how the internet and contemporary artists like Banksy and Koons kind of represent this aesthetic. I’ve been thinking about these sonnets Tim Peterson just scooped for EOAGH, that is half appropriated half riffing and are sonnets, but sonnets that break all the rules a sonnet can have. I’ve been reading Tenney Nathanson’s new book and wish I wrote it. So I’m going to. I think about how I appropriate material that my computer generates based on my likes and dislikes, like my computer writes my poems better than I can. I just took work from Abe Smith that is Hank Williams mixed with William Carlos Williams and captain of the slam team. I am thinking punk rock, being defiant just to be defiant, language without ethics or politics. I am thinking about asking people to publish my work rather than submitting. I like making books, so I think I’m going to duct tape them. there is no grammar or punctuation. there is only grammar and punctuation. Offensive and shocking. I think its all coming out of Langpo, maybe a reaction to Langpo. Deep down we all want to write like Charles Bernstein, but I don’t think I’m that smart or charming. Everybody’s in love with John Ashbery and John Berryman. I think they need to be more in love with Barbara Guest. I think Gertrude Stein was the most well hung poet that ever lived, even though there are rumors about Galway Kinnell. It’s perverse, I know that. I think Zachary Schomburg is onto something.  It’s accessible DaDa. Lady GaGa, who uses auto-tune even though she can sing. Imagine a bird made out of donuts. When you try to shoot it, the bullet misses through the donut hole. It’s definitely not egalitarian. I don’t know if people are more interested in getting drunk and talking about Michael Stipe or Michael Palmer, but I’m interested in their relationship. What if Elizabeth Bishop did sleep with Robert Lowell? Their kids would be less interesting than if Elizabeth Bishop slept with Elizabeth Bishop. Maybe there is no substance or argument… it’s just a show and everyone wants to be a rockstar? I once had a teacher who said in the field of poetry some poets sit and stare at a blade of grass and some run around naked, screaming, and on fire. I’m naked, screaming, and on fire. I can’t wait till I can sit down and write about what it was like.

In short, I don’t know. Drew Krewer and I are going to work on an essay about it soon when I’m done screaming and being on fire.

It’s kind of good I’m not going to Lithuania. I’d rather be O’Hara than Milosz anyway.

Love,
JL

Review of Shelly Taylor’s Black-Eyed Heifer

The man chooses not to see outside of, says my mood’s this, whisks the eggs. An otherwise performance would be a negation of hands into birdcage from which the rose trees grow & so might I, two feet alliance. Fail there & the aster is red sleeper; asters can be red & all October her laden. Since forever is today & today my horse a bike, I call her person, ‘we’ – we go to visit the Brooklyn Bridge. It is ten miles or so roundtrip & since I’m country I smile at everyone, dust off my wheel hoofs & think winter similar to marriage…  when you sell a horse he will not come back.

from Keylight

Shelly Taylor’s first collection Black-Eyed Heifer (Tarpaulin Sky) inhabits the possibilities of language, indigenous in its diction, but radically unfamiliar in its jagged syntax and extended lines. This is neither an experimental or pastoral poetry, but a fusion of speech and intellect that reflect a poet who is deeply rooted in the earth, its dirt and concrete, its horses and cats, but speaks in a rhythm that explodes into space, taps into the pacing of a 21st century phantasmagoric, recollected, American landscape and self. If you made Robert Creeley write lines the length of Frank Stanford’s The Battlefield Where The Moon says I love you, gave them both the sensibility and precise diction of a contemporary Emily Dickinson riding on a horse fast enough to get from Athens to Brooklyn in 10 minutes, then you’d get something like Taylor’s poems. The pacing is high octane, pyrotechnic, but the discursive function of the content is old school, familiar, and impressively defiant.

Gibraltar, I give you away so easy, shekels, for you are just a baby-/girl I husband myself, still think on. Herein this grand sash/ around her waist, this part of the/ ‘the’: the street kicks, my teeth grit & someone lets out a holler more rebel than get/ yourself on over to my yard sale

From Drowning miss g

Corruption, the loss of innocence, and the perversion of a southern culture and landscape take center stage, but a woman, if she be a poet, rebels against what taints, what comforts, what distills an ideal world into a fallen country. This is no book of nostalgia, but a future battle cry against what was lost and those who remain apathetic.

So I dam up those that need/ a sand-swirling – save the precious – come to change the earth awhile;

And later

And for G,/ whom I know would be wearing a blue bathing suit out on the street pulling hair & kicking as I did, kin of biters, two little broken selves. Blue/ like my first mare Sissy’s eye gone cancerous or blind or worsening like cataracts do, or, a blue for her blindness & mine all the more. Elphin orphan/ child in a honey pot that learnt stir, that against her best learned stay when I said/ it’s time now.

From Drowning miss g

There is a tension and violence to this work between men and women that is paralleled in our relationship to nature. What one discovers in nature is a peace in loneliness. In cityscape, to cultivate that peace, the speaker often alludes to a fantasy spinster version of herself as crazy cat lady, queen of the feline.

damn this man & now that all the street cats have eaten by my hand, I know no more than lonely women who talk the cats up, is how it goes. If I had home enough I’d bring them all in, talk to them Sunday-to-Monday, feed them; self-loathing, you owe the truth.

And later

Men with guns all/sizes, sad now because the city-wide/ordinance, no guns. This is the modernity./ Sons believe I’m a witch done cursed/the field of its deer, by morning/ come home empty-handed. Land voodoo,/ we women love four legs. Tell me now how fine/ mine are.

From For Love

Perhaps what will save us from each other, and from our own ‘self-loathing’ is imagination, is play. Taylor’s greatest gift to us as poet is her ability to revivify words, conjure up a past language and renew our affiliation with it. She uses sound as a way to build intimacy, seduces us by it, and pushes us away just at the right times, just enough to keep us wanting more. In that push & pull we fall in love, and for that this book is a triumph.

keep your flashlight still, this bear / he just might choke me. Anyone can/ save a frog though certain animals are more or less tricky. Along came / a spider & sat down beside ‘er. I engage myself with & as the photographer, / & with & as the photographer I dress my red lips rightly.

From Call the thing til it returns unbothered

-Jake Levine