I've known writer/performer Dave Awl since the late 1990s, when I used to see him as part of the famed Neo-Futurist ensemble and their long-running Two Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind evening of 30 plays in 60 minutes. I have always appreciated his work, both the plays, monologues, songs, and skits from TMLMTBGB, and printed work from journals and his collection of poetry and prose, What the Sea Means, and was reminded of that fact when I saw he'd been featured recently in the on-line journal Escape Into Life. Dave was kind enough to respond to some questions that occurred to me after reading this lovely batch of work. (I originally typed "lovely bath" of work, which also seems apt--one bathes in his work and emerges warm, refreshed, and clean, ready for the day or the night to startle and begin.)
Lives of the Spiders: Can you talk a bit about your process with the Night Diary poems? Do
you compose drafts late at night while you are already (still) up, or do
these writings stem from those middle of the night "oh crap I woke up
and can't get back to sleep" times?
Dave Awl: I do often find myself
writing poems at two or three a.m -- it's a natural writing time for me,
when my inhibitions and my guard are down and things flow a little more
freely. But it's not a requirement, and I write by day sometimes, too
... I'm pretty sure I scribbled some of my first Night Diaries poems
down in my spiral notebook while riding the bus in broad daylight.
The
main idea behind the Night Diaries poems was that I wanted to try
writing poems that followed the strange logic and surreal thought
processes of dreams -- kind of like dreaming out loud into my notebook
or keyboard while fully awake. I had been studying Jung for years,
taking classes at the Jung Institute in Evanston, and keeping a dream
journal for a while before I wrote the first Night Diaries poems. But
rather than turning my dreams themselves into poems, I wanted to try to
consciously write like the part of my brain that makes up my dreams.
Pretending to be Morpheus, for a few minutes at a time.
LOTS: Do you consider yourself to be a "night person?" What associations or
tendencies do you have with writing at night that might not be true of
writing in the brazen light of day?
DA: Yes, I'm very much a
nocturnal person. I've always found nighttime peaceful and relaxing, and
it's when a lot of the most fun things happen. Night is when all the
fabulous monsters come out. I like that nighttime is less crowded ... my
literary hero and eventual friend Russell Hoban used to say that as an
artist you need empty spaces in which to create, and I think at night
there are more empty spaces to write into. It's easier to be imaginative
at night, too. To steal a line from a performance piece I once did on
this subject, non sequiturs and useful twists of expression breed in the
moonlight.
And I think of this lovely line from Russell Hoban's
novel The Medusa Frequency: "At three o’clock in the morning the moments
patter like rain on the roof of night; the silence is a road to
anywhere."
LOTS: The titles of these works in Escape Into
Life indicate more material--of there's a "Night Diary 82" one would
assume there's a "Night Diary 1" and a "Night Diary 81." Other poems
found on-line, such as "Film Loop #12" for example, would lead one to
consider the existence of other Film Loop poems. Do you have an archive
of Night Diary entries? And if so, can you quote from another of those
entries for the readers of Lives of the Spiders? (Dave's answer, after the break.)
A blog about poetry, the writing and reading thereof, and also about the stuff of the world that goes into making poetry, which is to say, everything
Showing posts with label frank o'hara. Show all posts
Showing posts with label frank o'hara. Show all posts
Sunday, December 15, 2013
Monday, April 22, 2013
"The Unobstructed Silence of the Advocado Dawn"
I'm going slightly crazy with planning events and promoting events and structuring and taking care of events at my job, where I coordinate the things going on in a children's department in an independent bookstore. Yesterday I got to meet director, writer, and producer Chris Columbus--he directed Home Alone, and wrote Gremlins, as well as directing the first two Harry Potter movies. He was at our bookstore promoting his new book House of Secrets. We were lucky enough to have a big crowd, mostly due to the fact that he has a lot of family in the Chicago area.
So I've been crazy busy, and expect to stay that way until mid-May at least. Tonight I reached into my book bag that I carry everywhere with me, and found Lisa Jarnot's new book of selected poems, Joie de Vivre. I'd forgotten that some kind book rep had sent it to me, and that I'd put it in the bag. It's from City Lights books, so it's one of those handsome little volumes like Frank O'Hara's Lunch Poems or Allen Ginsberg's Howl. And man oh man I love Jarnot's work. I love the sound of it, the beauty of the sound, the flow on the page, absurdity into beauty and back to absurd again. She makes me want to dare more, veer more, and sing better in my own work. Here's a section of Sea Lyrics:
I am here inside the freezer where you left me, I am the unobstructed silence of the avocado dawn, I am the neighborhood of foreign things, I am the telemarketer of evening, I have only donuts and the doors are locked, I am as thick as the morning down on Broadway, I am walking near the freeway as it shakes, I am the overpass and shattered in the midst of day, I am the last of the partially submerged vehicles on the waterfront on Sunday buying jam.
See? If you need a prompt, just write "I am..." and begin. Make it new, make it wander, make it leap across a stage, make it sing.
In other news, I am reading at The Book Cellar this Thursday with friends and fellow poets Jen Besemer and Richard Fox. I think I am going to read almost all new works from my book-in-progress of letter poems.
So I've been crazy busy, and expect to stay that way until mid-May at least. Tonight I reached into my book bag that I carry everywhere with me, and found Lisa Jarnot's new book of selected poems, Joie de Vivre. I'd forgotten that some kind book rep had sent it to me, and that I'd put it in the bag. It's from City Lights books, so it's one of those handsome little volumes like Frank O'Hara's Lunch Poems or Allen Ginsberg's Howl. And man oh man I love Jarnot's work. I love the sound of it, the beauty of the sound, the flow on the page, absurdity into beauty and back to absurd again. She makes me want to dare more, veer more, and sing better in my own work. Here's a section of Sea Lyrics:
I am here inside the freezer where you left me, I am the unobstructed silence of the avocado dawn, I am the neighborhood of foreign things, I am the telemarketer of evening, I have only donuts and the doors are locked, I am as thick as the morning down on Broadway, I am walking near the freeway as it shakes, I am the overpass and shattered in the midst of day, I am the last of the partially submerged vehicles on the waterfront on Sunday buying jam.
See? If you need a prompt, just write "I am..." and begin. Make it new, make it wander, make it leap across a stage, make it sing.
In other news, I am reading at The Book Cellar this Thursday with friends and fellow poets Jen Besemer and Richard Fox. I think I am going to read almost all new works from my book-in-progress of letter poems.
Labels:
Allen Ginsberg,
Chris Columbus,
frank o'hara,
Lisa Jarnot,
Poetry prompt,
readings
Monday, February 11, 2013
I Love the Part in Aaron's Smith's New Book of Poetry
I love the part in Aaron Smith's new book Appetites called "I Love the Part," a long list poem indebted to Joe Brainard and David Trinidad, and the spirit of Frank O'Hara. It's an homage to movies, popular culture, to the gods and goddesses of cinema and how much we desire them. I can imagine, years in the future, creative writing instructors all over the country assigning their students to write "I love the part" poems about the movies they love, just as we now assign "I remember" poems based on Joe Brainard's book of that name.
For the record, I just rented "Looper," and I love the part where Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Bruce Willis sit across from each other in an otherwise empty diner. They are each playing the same man--30 years apart. Willis has been sent back to the past to be killed by an assassin, who is in the case himself, the younger version played by Gordon-Levitt. I wanted them to hug or something, but each despises the other, as we often despise our younger or older selves.
Click on this link for another poem from Appetites. And click here for a brief but stirring defense and cheer for the power of personal narrative in poetry from Mr. Smith.
For the record, I just rented "Looper," and I love the part where Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Bruce Willis sit across from each other in an otherwise empty diner. They are each playing the same man--30 years apart. Willis has been sent back to the past to be killed by an assassin, who is in the case himself, the younger version played by Gordon-Levitt. I wanted them to hug or something, but each despises the other, as we often despise our younger or older selves.
Click on this link for another poem from Appetites. And click here for a brief but stirring defense and cheer for the power of personal narrative in poetry from Mr. Smith.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Three Reviews (in the form of plays) of "50 American Plays" by Matthew and Michael Dickman
The Fourth of July
MATTHEW DICKMAN.
Wonder twins--power of absurdity.
MICHAEL DICKMAN.
Wonder twins--power of brevity.
MATTHEW DICKMAN.
Wonder twins-- power of vaguely political leftist polemics.
MICHAEL DICKMAN.
And fun, wonder twin. Don't forget it was fun to write.
MATTHEW DICKMAN.
Activate wonder twin power!
MICHAEL DICKMAN.
Activate wonder twin power!
(They touch power rings and immediately explode into a finale of Fourth of July fireworks)
Castor and Pollux Consider the Moon
CASTOR:
Wasn't there an oil named after me?
POLLUX.
We are boxers, and horsemen. And sailors.
CASTOR.
Do I get to be the immortal one this time?
POLLUX.
We are twins, and so share our immortality.
ERNEST HEMINGWAY.
(Having just arrived from Idaho)
I'll box both of you at once. Greek pussies.
CASTOR.
He thinks he's the immortal one.
POLLUX.
Maybe he is. But we are the divine twins, born of the silver moon!
CASTOR.
That was an egg.
POLLUX.
No, no, I'm sure it was the moon. Our glittery mother!
CASTOR.
Our mother was a princess who was raped by a swan.
ERNEST HEMINGWAY.
Are we going to talk about the past or are we going to drink like men?
(Whispers)
It's like they are going to start making out at any minute.
POLLUX.
You so badly want to see that. But we are talking about our mother.
Isn't there some tradition where people thought she was the moon?
CASTOR.
In at least one tradition Ernest Hemingway is actually Zeus.
POLLUX.
Yes, Hemingway's tradition. Listen, we will box you if you take the form of a swan.
Vignette
(Two men walk in to a bar. Allen Ginsberg and Gertrude Stein are drinking there in silence, companionably.)
MAN #1.
Hey, aren't you Gertrude Stein? What are you doing back in America?
GERTRUDE STEIN.
America is not in America. America is an idea kept under a gentleman's cap. America is a cupful of brass tacks, in a lady's handbag.
(She sips her creme de menthe, and coughs)
America, go touch yourself with your atom bomb.
MAN #2.
Allen Ginsberg--that woman is stealing your line. And she isn't even saying it right!
GINSBERG.
(Taking his head off the pillow of his arms)
That's no woman, that's my wife!
(Frank O'Hara walks briskly across the stage in search of a martini)
MAN #1.
Frank O'Hara in the bar too? What are the chances?
MAN #2.
Frank O'Hara is on stage in all of these plays. Or sometimes behind the scenery, prompting our lines. That reminds me. (He goes over to the jukebox and selects a song)
(When "Chances Are" begins playing, the two men look at Stein and Ginsberg, now deep in quiet conversation. They shrug, and begin to dance with each other.)
MATTHEW DICKMAN.
Wonder twins--power of absurdity.
MICHAEL DICKMAN.
Wonder twins--power of brevity.
MATTHEW DICKMAN.
Wonder twins-- power of vaguely political leftist polemics.
MICHAEL DICKMAN.
And fun, wonder twin. Don't forget it was fun to write.
MATTHEW DICKMAN.
Activate wonder twin power!
MICHAEL DICKMAN.
Activate wonder twin power!
(They touch power rings and immediately explode into a finale of Fourth of July fireworks)
Castor and Pollux Consider the Moon
CASTOR:
Wasn't there an oil named after me?
POLLUX.
We are boxers, and horsemen. And sailors.
CASTOR.
Do I get to be the immortal one this time?
POLLUX.
We are twins, and so share our immortality.
ERNEST HEMINGWAY.
(Having just arrived from Idaho)
I'll box both of you at once. Greek pussies.
CASTOR.
He thinks he's the immortal one.
POLLUX.
Maybe he is. But we are the divine twins, born of the silver moon!
CASTOR.
That was an egg.
POLLUX.
No, no, I'm sure it was the moon. Our glittery mother!
CASTOR.
Our mother was a princess who was raped by a swan.
ERNEST HEMINGWAY.
Are we going to talk about the past or are we going to drink like men?
(Whispers)
It's like they are going to start making out at any minute.
POLLUX.
You so badly want to see that. But we are talking about our mother.
Isn't there some tradition where people thought she was the moon?
CASTOR.
In at least one tradition Ernest Hemingway is actually Zeus.
POLLUX.
Yes, Hemingway's tradition. Listen, we will box you if you take the form of a swan.
Vignette
(Two men walk in to a bar. Allen Ginsberg and Gertrude Stein are drinking there in silence, companionably.)
MAN #1.
Hey, aren't you Gertrude Stein? What are you doing back in America?
GERTRUDE STEIN.
America is not in America. America is an idea kept under a gentleman's cap. America is a cupful of brass tacks, in a lady's handbag.
(She sips her creme de menthe, and coughs)
America, go touch yourself with your atom bomb.
MAN #2.
Allen Ginsberg--that woman is stealing your line. And she isn't even saying it right!
GINSBERG.
(Taking his head off the pillow of his arms)
That's no woman, that's my wife!
(Frank O'Hara walks briskly across the stage in search of a martini)
MAN #1.
Frank O'Hara in the bar too? What are the chances?
MAN #2.
Frank O'Hara is on stage in all of these plays. Or sometimes behind the scenery, prompting our lines. That reminds me. (He goes over to the jukebox and selects a song)
(When "Chances Are" begins playing, the two men look at Stein and Ginsberg, now deep in quiet conversation. They shrug, and begin to dance with each other.)
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Dear Russia,
Frank O'Hara always did love
you best, and one of my
great loves
has been Frank O'Hara,
but why should we
share you? I like snow,
and I like the early darkness,
and I think I could come
to appreciate a skylight
half-open on the top floor
of a six story walk-up, dark
bread, hard cheese, and a bowl
of borscht for supper, and I'd
look up
and hope for a glimpse of a star, but
Russia frankly
your distances frighten me and Russia
I am not fond
of vodka, or tears, oh Russia
Frank O'Hara
is one of the icons, his eyes
smudged with candle smoke,
his laughter a gang of cossacks
on vacation, three sheets
a madras bedspread and an army
blanket to the wind, they attempt to cross
the half-frozen river.
you best, and one of my
great loves
has been Frank O'Hara,
but why should we
share you? I like snow,
and I like the early darkness,
and I think I could come
to appreciate a skylight
half-open on the top floor
of a six story walk-up, dark
bread, hard cheese, and a bowl
of borscht for supper, and I'd
look up
and hope for a glimpse of a star, but
Russia frankly
your distances frighten me and Russia
I am not fond
of vodka, or tears, oh Russia
Frank O'Hara
is one of the icons, his eyes
smudged with candle smoke,
his laughter a gang of cossacks
on vacation, three sheets
a madras bedspread and an army
blanket to the wind, they attempt to cross
the half-frozen river.
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