I’ve now recorded each day’s segment for Parts I through
III, and am almost to the end of Part IV.
There are two parts after that, which will equal, or almost, the same
number of recordings that I’ve already done. So, recording-wise, I’m about half-way through. And page-wise, as a single document, the
segment I most recently recorded, IV. May 12, is the halfway mark.
Good time, I guess, to take stock of what reading it aloud
for digital recording and playback has shown me. For some odd reason, simply working through
the document, even with its divisions clearly marked, hasn’t managed to impress
much upon me in the way of structure. I
think that’s because when I work through the document I am working, trying to weigh
each line to see if I still accept it. When I get to the stopping points I simply recognize them as the place
to break. This revising mind doesn’t
intrude into the recording because if it did the reading would be
terrible. Whenever it does, I have to do
another take. In other words, I have to
read the words as though they’re someone else’s and I can’t change a
thing. That kind of insistence makes for
an interesting experience, I find.
To say something else about that: to have that experience is
one reason why I’m recording the readings. I mean, I’ve read the poem aloud to
myself plenty of times but there’s still a provisional aspect to such
readings. They don’t have to be “pitch
perfect.” Are the recordings? Well, not quite, but close. Occasionally, listening to the playback, I
feel I’ve botched the enunciation, and I can imagine an official reading in
which I assigned parts to different readers. But that would only work if they were actors; the kind of people who can
be coached and directed. Otherwise, I
would be even less content, I imagine, with how someone else treats the
lines. What I’m listening for in
playback is hard for me to name, exactly, but I’d call it “the right tension.”
That’s all that drives the poem, I’m realizing as I record
it and listen to it. The great discovery
in writing the poem was that that “tension” is potentially endless. It simply
became the quality of my life and mind at the time. And not in any burdened way. I was living alone at the time. To see my wife, I made a couple visits to her
son’s house in PA, where she was convalescing after an accident. Those visits are very clear to me in breaks
in the poem, but they don’t occur till after the semester ends. The poem commences when the semester is
almost over but not quite. The end is in
sight, and, beyond that, I don’t have any immediate plans. That’s what makes the period of composition
so golden. I know I don’t have to do
anything except stay “in character,” so to speak. Except for those visits.
I know the catalyst for the day I began—which is to say Part
I—was reading a volume of Ashbery. But
which one? I’m not sure. In fact, at various points, at least up
through Part III, Ashbery remained a catalyst, and it would be interesting to
me to know if there are traces in what I write that come from the poems I was
reading. It seems certain to me that the
intonation of certain sections does. What I’m borrowing from Ashbery, then, isn’t imagery or voice, it's
tone. But, obviously, that tone gets
distorted when I treat it as “mine.” In
part because I’m not consciously sure what any Ashbery poem is talking
about. So I’m reading them as a direct,
unconscious communication. His poem’s
voice is talking to me, internally, and I respond in kind. Simple. But I have no idea where that tone is going to take me and what it will
make me say. That’s part of the tension
I’m talking about.
Part I is mostly all prologue. It’s taking stock of a situation that makes
writing the poem seem “natural.” Something you could easily do. Like anything else you might do that
day. But it’s in a defeated tone. It’s almost like a defense mechanism: being
as pessimistic as possible so no one can bring you down. It’s not that Ashbery poems ever bring me
down, but one does reach a certain saturation point where one says “well, that’s
easy for YOU to say, pardner.” At that
point you want to shut him up. Just so
you can start talking, maybe. And that’s
all I’m doing. Introducing my state
of mind. Kinda dejected, and if I’m
speaking to anyone it’s probably an old friend, someone for whom the details
aren’t important—we’ve known each other so long, how could they be—but simply
(as Dylan might ask): “how does it feel?” In other words, it’s “confessional” in the sense of revealing how I’m
feeling, but without any details specific to my life or events.
Part II, which goes on for some length, is the “fully empowered”
part. Now I know I can do this, and I
can go wherever I want. That means
bringing in absurdist asides and a variety of voices, to have fun. The provocation of Ashbery here becomes more
definite. I’m thinking of him in a sort
of Proustian way, as this well-to-do aesthete with no end of sophisticated bon
mots to shower us with. I’m trying on
roles to play that game, and so this part is less confessional, in the sense of
my state of mind, because I’m fully engaged by the task at hand. I’m making an open-ended poem with only one
imperative: keep writing till you run out of lines. Or until you get to a “finish.” The day before, April 9, that finish came up
pretty clearly. What can you say after “now
hush”? So, part of the task on Day Two
is to avoid a finish. Just keep
going. What becomes evident is that I’ll
have to cheat. I’ll take breaks—probably
to read more Ashbery—and will have to resume, so this Part will have many
breaks. The first occurs with “Breaking
the reverie” (which is the start of the second recording on the page). The bit about being
air-lifted ends a train of thought but it’s not a big finish. You can follow it after a beat…but with
something completely different.
At that point—once I admit a break into the text, a break
not caused by a new Day—I’m on a path of discovery. What form will this thing take? Why not a series of separate lines? I like the line in a Mekons song “these lines
are all individuals and there’s no such thing as a song.” A poem of lines that could all be beginning
lines or ending lines. Most of them are cliché,
some are a bit esoteric as quotations. The point is only that they come unbidden, immediately to hand. Now the tension is not staying “in character”
but losing character. And that means
other characters will come forward.
I suspect that there’s a reading break right before the part
that starts with “Silence those polite foghorns.” The voice is something out of a Warner Bros.
cartoon—specifically Foghorn Leghorn—and I’m probably thinking of Ashbery’s “Daffy
Duck in Hollywood,” one of my favorite poems in Houseboat Days. It could be I glanced through that volume—I have
it in the Three Books edition. I like
the Three Books volume because those are the books Ashbery published when I was
first becoming “a poet,” age 18 to 25. And “A Wave” is one of my favorite poems, and that volume—Three Books—I associate
with the final year of my time at Princeton because that’s when I first read it. Anyway.
The voices that come in could have gone on for some time, in
any number of small segments divided by asterisks. Because at this point there’s no reason to
stop, except I’m getting tired, and probably hungry. I know that the part “True, I don’t like the
smell of me” comes after a bathroom break. Maybe something about a “transatlantic flight” makes you feel like you
have to piss? Or at least I would
definitely want to make sure I go before I went, if you know what I mean. In any case, I came back, ready to go on, but
then hit a stopping point. The voice
that says “A change is coming” knows that I’ve got to change it up and see if
there’s water of a different flavor in the well.
So Part III begins, on that same day, with a game
change. Now I’m going to write single-page
entries, starting with a letter of the alphabet, in sequence. My only constraint is that the first two
words of the first line and the first word of the second line have to begin
with the letter. This means that every
poem begins with alliteration that “carries
over” after the first enjambment or line ending. Simple. Now let’s go.
In some ways I like Part III best, or, put another way, I
feel that Part III best justifies the entire project. Someone might ask: well, why not treat it as
a stand alone segment? This alphabet
thing clearly departs from the rest and so…why is it still Metro Lace? And that’s where the answer to end all
questions comes in: It is because I say it is. And here’s why: I would not have done these single-page riffs if I didn’t
already know I was in the midst of composing a potentially endless poem. They would seem too arbitrary to me. Like some kind of homework assignment. But they’re not, for the most excellent
reason that they’re part of this whole…a whole that is so formless and
open-ended that it can include anything.
It might be true to say that Metro Lace is a “book of poems”
like any book of poems: a collection of things written around the same
time. And that would be true except for
certain built-in reference points: I maintain the dates to keep the poem in
sequence, and it’s written over a particular period of time. It can be revised, and has been, but it has
to remain in the sequence dictated by that succession of days. That is its
modus operandi. And within that context,
Part III works, for me, like little musical “solos.” If the rest of the poem is the “score”—the context—Part III is where the instrumentalist steps up and shows what he can do for however
many bars he’s got. As analogy it doesn’t
quite work because we don’t move from the solo back to the song. We have a series of 26 solos. And there are some gaps, in terms of days
with no composition, because now I have to be “ready” to write to a certain
letter. Where I stop a Day is still
determined by hitting a “finish” (I like best the finish on the first day…I was
hot on April 10!), but when I resume I’ve got to do the next letter. That made me keep writing but it also started
to irk me because it was too “premeditated.” In some cases, I had to think ahead to what words would meet the
alphabetical requirement, which is why “x” is “‘xylophone, x-ray of,’ of
course.” Because what else could it be? I should mention here that one of my favorite books in grade school—we didn’t
have a copy, so I always had to take it out of the library when I needed it—was
Dr. Seuss’s On Beyond Zebra. I guess you
could say I’ve always had an antagonistic relationship to the alphabet.
When I composed the sentences at the end of “z”—the
abcedarian sentences—as prose, I thought that maybe I would switch to prose
poems for the next Part. I was
consciously at the point of “big finish” and “recommence”—as I’m sure I chose
to end Part III on Walpurgis (April 30) and commence the next part on May
Day. But May Day is its own poem in a
way. It’s not part of any Part. It’s a Side A and a Side B, that I’m pretty
sure was written after reading some of the Ashbery books that I had never read
before—the three I read during this project that fit that bill are And the
Stars Were Shining, Wakefulness, and Your Name Here. I think of Wakefulness as being the one that
stimulated me most, but I haven’t gone back to look.
Side A is deliberately of its moment. Already some of that was beginning to happen
in Part III, where discrete glimpses of something “real” (something not just in
my own mind) was finding its way onto the page—like references to the
Housatonic and the bridge over it, or to streets in New Haven—but mostly things
are given a distortion that kept “me” out of it. With Side A and Side B, that changes. Having passed through the alphabet, I was now
“closer to home,” so to speak. Which is
a way of saying that memory would start to be involved more directly. In Side A, there’s a memory of Dublin, and of the Highline in New York (a later addition, I think), and a reference, current in first composition, to watching shows in the Iseman Theatre at Yale, and in Side B, there’s a memory of being in
Chicago in 2008. Memory is its own context, we
can say, and that means the poem (the “reverie”) is being violated by actual
events and places. It’s been happening
all along—the close of Part I recalls a specific theatrical event I attended
(but I think that came-in as a revision, once such things became admissible in
the later going)—but now I have the sense that I might be using the poem for—to
use David Byrne’s phrase—“catching up with myself.”
Parts IV, V, and VI will constitute the kind of catching up that has been led to by Parts I, II, and III.
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