On Form

In a recent interview (found here) Kalamu ya Salaam asked Amiri Baraka a few questions about form. An excerpt follows;

BARAKA:What became clear to me is that if you adopt a certain form that form is going to push you into certain content because the form is not just the form, the form itself is content. There is content in form and in your choice of form.

SALAAM: Is there content or is there the shaping of content?
BARAKA: No, I'm saying this: the shaping itself is a choice and that choice is ideological. In other words, it's not just form. The form itself carries...


SALAAM: If you choose a certain form, then the question is why did you choose that form.


BARAKA: Exactly--Why did you choose that form?--that's what I'm saying. That's the ideological portent, or the ideological coloring of form. Why did you choose that? Why does that appeal to you? Why this one and not that one.

I was surprised at Baraka's answer, but I was equally surprised that Kalamu didn't challenge his response. Baraka is of course a legendary writer in multiple genres, but that doesn't make him right about everything. There are several aspects of his response that I want to question;

The idea that form IS content

The idea that form is content is an empirical statement that is relatively easy to confirm or refute. If this statement is true, then once one knows what form a poem is, then one knows the content. So if I tell you that my new poem is a Pantoum, what is the content? What if it's a Haiku, or sonnet, or even more interesting what if it isn't a traditional received form, but rather an orignal one that I created? The answer is obvious, knowing that a poem is a Pantoum tells you nothing at all about the content of the poem, except how it is organized. Knowing a poem is a Haiku lets you know that nature images will be involved in the poem, but still tell you nothing at all about the poem's actual themes, is it about solitude or amazement, for example? Even a form like the sonnet which was traditionally about love, stills only allows one to make an educated guess about the poem's actual content. Unless one is prepared to interpret Baraka's response in some figurative or metaphorical way, it must be considered demonstrably false.
The idea that form has an ideological coloring.

This is actually the more interesting of the two statements, the idea that form or choice of form has an ideological coloring. And while I agree with Baraka on this, I don't think that this is as simplistic as it seems. One can argue that if a poet chooses to write in a traditional form with content that is standard for that form, that the poet is conforming to the Status Quo. But it is also true that a poet can write in a form in a manner that is not traditional, for example Claude McKay's use of the sonnet for "If We Must Die" or Gwendolyn Brooks re-imagining of the sonnet in "First Fiddle, Then Fight." There is also the question of more subtle inversions like for example William Shakespeare's use of imagery traditionally used to describe women that he employs to honor a pretty young boy in his sonnets. Shakespeare pulls this off so well that many readers even now still don't notice that he is addressing a boy and not a woman. Is this a subtle stab at the heteronormativity that ruled in his day? If so, his choice of form is indeed ideological, but not in the way that one might suspect. We also must ask what is the ideological coloring of a form the poet themself has created? Is this a push back against the Status Quo? Or is the poet conforming by writing in any form at all. We should keep in mind that Free Verse is itself a type of form, give that it has certain strictures it must follow; no meter, no consistent rhyme scheme, to name just a couple. Until next we meet, may all your potatoes
be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon)

Bonbons and tiny Truffles

HOW TO READ A HAIKU (and get drunk)

Butterfly floating

over an orchid-

perfuming its wings

You ever been at a poetry reading where the poet reads a haiku and everyone else goes “Hmmm” and you’re sitting there with three Question Marks floating over your head? Or (more likely) ever read a haiku in a book or magazine and went “Huh”? wondering where the rest of the poem was, or why you didn’t get it? Well. Me too! (Granted, I was three years old and just learning to read, but still.) How come come haiku are these strange little treats that some people really seem to enjoy, but that whiz by too fast or seem to not really have much filling for you? Well, the Right Reverend DJ Renegade is here to help you with that.

First, crack the shell and separate it into two parts. Then place it softly on the tongue, close your eyes, rub the juice of it across your gums and let the moment marinate. Hold your breath to fully savor the aroma. Then slowly, swallow and exhale.

But seriously, since haiku are poems, the first rule of reading a haiku is the first rule of reading any poem: if you come to the poem like you come to any other kind of writing (a story, an essay, a text message, this article) to find out what the words mean, then guess what? YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG! Because unlike other forms of writing, the meaning isn’t the central purpose of a poem, which is not to say that it is of no importance, just that there are other things; rhythm, sound, and alternate meanings, that are just as important. So if you don’t come to a poem to find out what the words mean, why are you there? To find out what the words do. How do they feel in your mouth, roll off your tongue, shimmer in the air? What kinds of things do they make you see, hear, smell, feel, recall? And last, but not least what possible meanings do they convey, not meaning in the singular, but meanings (you don’t have to choose between them). What do the words do, in all the ways that they do them?

So what do haiku do? Or at least, what are they trying to do? Before we can answer that question, let’s start with what they are (or aren’t). Your Sixth Grade English teacher told you that haiku are seventeen syllable Japanese poems about nature, written on three lines in a 5-7-5 syllabic format. And she (or he) was wrong. Well, the Japanese part is true of their origins at least. Actually, everything except the three line part and ‘the about nature’ part, are mostly true of haiku in Japanese. But we aint reading and writing in Japanese, so that doesn’t really help butter our biscuits. So forget 17 syllables, forget 5-7-5. forget three lines. Most of the poems you will encounter in English that are written in this format aren’t actually haiku. They might be funny, they might be insightful, they might be really well written poems, but they aren’t haiku. What are they then? They’re really, really short skirts. I mean skits, I mean, (wait what?) They’re epigrams actually. 5-7-5 epigrams, which are sort of like telegrams, (except they’re better written and cheaper to send). 

So what do real haiku do? (And why is this longwinded bastard with the big feet and the powdered sugar all over his shirt taking so long to make his point?) The first thing you need to know is that haiku recreate a specific moment in time, a moment that the poet experienced (or imagined) and is trying to recreate. A haiku is about a specific instant and your job as a reader is to relive (or imagine) that particular instant in time. What happened in that instant? I’m glad you asked, what happened is that the poet saw (or imagined) two images, two real concrete things that they then experienced as a contrast or comparison or as being associated in some way. And yes, at least one of those images must come from Nature (a ‘kigo’ or ‘season word) for the poem to be a haiku. Which is very different from the poem being about Nature, but we digress . . . Your main job as the reader of a haiku is to hold up those two images and see, hear, taste, feel them in one moment of time. To reconstruct the “Aha!” moment the poet had. In order to do this, you must be able to separate the poem into its two parts. Haiku in Japanese have something called a “Kureji”, a cutting word, that signifies a break in the poem. But we’re reading in English where there is no such thing, so haiku poets in English often use a dash (-) or multiple spaces to signify the break. Once you know where the break is, you know what the two parts of the poem are, in a three line haiku, (one part is usually two lines and the other is a single line, but either section can come first). And once you know what the two parts are, you know what you’re supposed to be comparing or contrasting or associating. Often times the contrast is in what you expect and what you get. For example;

into the sunken hearth
they're swept-
red leaves

translated by David Lanoue

One expects maybe dust or ashes or trash to be swept into a hearth, but not leaves. Leaves we expect to be swept into piles and sometimes burned, but not in that particular place. One expects the red in the hearth to be flames, not leaves. And of course the red of the leaves will some feed red flames. The poem is also a comment on the passing of time and the impermanence of all things.

So you do it, and then you too can go “Aha” or “Hmmm” or “Ooooh!” and be intoxicated with a moment by being filled with whatever emotion; joy, sadness, loneliness, surprise, amazement, gratitude, sense of solitude, frustration, or wonder that the poem was trying to convey. And while it’s true that haiku by rule can’t contain simile or metaphor, that every image be real and concrete, that doesn’t mean that one or both of those concrete images can’t also function as a metaphor or symbol beyond their literal meaning. And so what a haiku is “about” is sometimes very different than what one might expect from the images involved. Sometimes the images can even function like a Zen koan or riddle which illustrates a larger philosophical point. The most famous koan is probably “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” And since one hand can’t clap, the answer is- Silence. So don’t worry if you don’t necessarily “get it” right away, just enjoy the moment, it may come to you at some later point. Let’s take a look at a few haiku to put our new knowledge into practice.

Awake at night--
the sound of the water jar
cracking in the cold.

-Translation by Robert Hass


Ever notice how when you can't get to sleep it seems like every sound is magnified? Here the water in the jar is freezing which expands and causes the jar to crack, what breaks the jar breaks the silence too.

Moon at twilight- a cluster of petals falling from the cherry tree

Shiki

Here we have the moon rising as the cherry petals fall. Next up;

Navajo moon
the coyote call
not a coyote

Garry Gay

Here we have a seemingly idyllic scene until we realize there is a human (most likely a hunter) present. What other emotion does this create for you, dread? Excitement?

What haiku do is create a pool of words for the poet’s thoughts to be reflected in. And currently in English, serious haiku poets don’t worry too much if those words have exactly 17 syllables total, (although they don’t exceed that number) 15 is fine, as is 12, or 10. They also don’t worry about the 5-7-5, they just make sure that if it’s written in three lines that the middle line is longer. But one line or two lines is perfectly fine. There are a ton of haiku available on the Web, also check out the Norton Anthology of Haiku. And in case you were wondering (I know you weren't, but it's a pet peeve of mine) the plural of "haiku", is "haiku."  One more before we go;


staggering
out of a peony-
a bee


Basho

So, now there’s one more thing for you to ponder and one less thing for you to not understand. And, until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon).

Be (Real) Good (Hands)

With his first (Grammy nominated) album 'Water,' Gregory Porter (no relation) served notice that he was an force to be reckoned with on the Jazz horizon. Not only with his genre defying, emotionally charged voice, but with his lyric writing as well. On the title track 'Water' Porter penned;

"Water pouring down the sidewalks/
cleaning windows clear to see/
washing gumdrops downside gutters/
resting chains and saving me/
greening gardens, drowning ants/
changing rhythms, bruising plants/
graying vistas soulfully . . . "

A lovely catalogue of images so perceptively captured is much more likely to be found in a poem than a song these days. So with the arrival of his Kamau Kenyatta produced sophomore effort "Be Good" a great deal was expected of Mr. Porter. And he has not disappointed, accompanied by his long-time bandmates Chip Crawford (piano), Emanuel Harrold (drums), Tivon Pennicott (tenor saxophone), and Aaron James (bass), Porter serves up one of the most organic, earthy and spectacular albums of the year thus far. If you haven't heard him, his voice can travel to all the rooms of the musical house; Jazzy stylings in the foyer; Blues in the cellar; Soul in the kitchen; Gospel in the attic; he's got grit and silk, brassy belts and velvety baritone rumbles. Three of the project's twelve cuts are Standards; "God Bless the Child" here delivered a capella is a testament to his ability to invest a lyric with his personal style and trademark emotional sincerity; on "Work Song" he carries the rhythm as he swings his hammer of a voice into the steel spikes of the song's notes; "Imitation of Life" is perhaps the only tune where his reading can be considered derivative, hewing closely to Earl Grant's original (Nat King Cole influenced) performance, albeit in a lower register. Although all three are superbly done, it's on the nine original tunes that Porter's supernova talent truly explodes. These include the plaintive "Painted On Canvas"; the uptempo playful romp of "On My Way To Harlem"; the soulful ballad "Real Good Hands"; the Donny Hathaway inducing "The Way You Want To Live"; the beautiful reminiscing of "When Did You Learn"; the earthy earnestness of Mother's Song; and the Bebop stomp of "Bling Bling". All of these songs are impeccably attired in the tasteful artistry of a combo that is tighter than three linebackers in the back seat of a Cooper Mini and committed to bringing out the very best in each tune. But two of the compositions really stand out for me. Opening with solo piano, "Our Love" is a song worthy of the Bill Withers' canon with its deceptively simple lyrical structure;

"They think we're weak, you're the reflection of my love/
We're incomplete, but you're the direction of my love/
Vultures are flying round the ramparts of, the towers of our love/
Don't it sound sweet, Our Love."

The second verse builds on the riff until a sort of emotional narrative emerges, Porter's voice may be the steak glistening in the center of the plate, but Chip Crawford's piano work forms the salt crystals that contrast with the black pepper flakes of Aaron's James bass and Emanuel Harrold's rhythmic garnish. Too much sauce would drown the subtle flavors of a great cut of beef and the ensemble clearly understands this, embellishing where needed, but otherwise showing perfect artistic discipline and allowing the tune itself to be savored. Porter doesn't sing notes, he breathes music in a way that only true artists can. His pitch or breath control are never in question, his vocal technique flawless. But by far the most impressive part of his singing is his ability to make you believe every eighth note, every syllable. He sings with an emotional gravity that must be heard to be truly understood. While his baritone has impressive range and multiple timbres, he employs it so subtly that one can be excused for not noticing how many octaves he has traversed or how many textures employed. There are many expertly painted eggs in this Easter basket of an album, but the one that most bears the imprimatur of Picasso is undoubtably the title track "Be Good (Lion's Song)." From the multiple facets of the lyric to the pure carats of the instrumental backing to the sheer sparkling addictiveness of the melody, this stone is the star of the setting. If such a thing as a blues waltz didn't exist before, it does once the bass line begins its acoustic saunter down the steps of the song's marble staircase three at a time. Skirting the surreal, the words tell a tale as old as the human heart-unrequited desire. The lyric is simply amazing, free of cliche, advancing by turning on itself and spiraling into a tale of heartbreak. When Porter pleads "Does she know what does, when she dances around my cage?" The question both is and isn't rhetorical, and the ache in his voice is enough to lubricate even the driest of eyes. This is a song for the ages, an instant standard, a contemporary classic. One wonders what Cassandra Wilson or Dianne Reeves or Al Jarreau could do with it, not to mention Ahmad Jamal, Sonny Rollins, or Wynton Marsalis. But for now this is Gregory Porter's masterpiece, bearing his signature alone. If there is any justice at all in this world this song will somehow find a place in the rotation of radio stations and thus the wide audience it so richly deserves.

Crawford's piano and Pennicott's sax both deserve extra mention for how they manage to shine both in support of Porter's voices and in their own brilliant solo moments. The album sounds as though every song was recorded with the entire ensemble present, as opposed to being laid down track by track. Producer Kamau Kenyatta can feel free to take as many bows as he wishes for a job extraordinarily well done.

Listen, go to the store right now and buy a pound of (Porter's) love. I believe it's on sale.

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon).

The Right Reverend Renegade Remix

What?!? 

Who changed the title of the Blog??

*gets radio transmission through dental fillings*

If you're a regular reader of this space (pause for laughter) or even if you're a weird reader, you know I infrequently post poems and the random essay (usually related to poetry) or review of a book or concert or album or movie or box of powdered mini doughnuts (Wait, what?).

Well, I've decided to shake thangs up a bit and give regular blogging a try. This change is sparked in part by the realization that by far the most read posts here are prose. Three times as many people read my review of last summer's Sade concert than have read all but one of the poems I posted. It should have been a clear sign when my mother asked me the other day if I was still writing poems. If your Mama aint reading your blog, then . . . 

I'm slow, but eventually even my dusty three-legged pony gets there, so we'll give the peoples what they want. European Lesbian Porn!! (OK, maybe not)

Starting today we're going to try a new concept, blogging twice a week (Tuesdays and Fridays), fifty weeks out of the year (just because I aint got no job, don't mean I don't need no vacation) on whatever subject catches my fancy. Every post will be at least three hundred words and will feature a song that I find thematic or apropos, they will include book reviews, movie reviews, the occasional rant and ruminations on current goings on, and of course essays on individual poems and aspects of poetry. I'll still post my poems (so yall can continue to not read them), especially the NaPoMo Haiku / Senryu which folk seem to actually read. Every post will include some Steel-cut Oatmeal, a Dealer button and a gray velour Apple Hat. Or not. But quirky humor will be present, I promise. To quote a poet (John Ashbery) whose poems I don't actually like;

No one really knows
Or cares whether this is the whole of which parts
Were vouchsafed--once--but to be ambling on's
The tradition more than the safekeeping of it. This mulch for
Play keeps them interested and busy while the big,
Vaguer stuff can decide what it wants--what maps, what
Model cities, how much waste space. Life, our
Life anyway, is between.

And if that don't float your boat, then feel free to fill your tub with Ripple. Until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon).

A Lion's Song

I'm so feeling this song right now. Gregory Porter is an amazing talent and I highly recommend his new album "Be Good", it's maybe the best album by a Jazz singer since Cassandra Wilson's "New Moon Daughter." An instant classic; lyrics, music, arrangements, the whole kit and kaboodle. Check out Cave Canem's own Holly Bass dancing through this video, which was shot in DC at the Hirschorn.

Halfway in the day-
marsh reeds pushing up
through asphalt

Her eyes as
I tell her Pushkin was Black-
Russian Blue

Mother's Day-
slicing a hot biscuit
with her tongue

DJ Renegade On the Ones and Twos

NaPoMo is over and with it went one of the most tumultuous months I've ever experienced. Overall there was much more good than bad, and it ended on an upswing, even if I couldn't see that then. The last couple of Aprils have sparked nice creative surges for me, let's hope that continues. In other news, I'm taking applications for a new Muse, the job pays well, but it pays in poems. Woke up this morning happier than I've been in a long time. Good food will do that. Well, good food and good . . .

Swooping seagull-
scanning the bare beach
for a muse

Her eyes-
green pistachios
half open







WAVE
(for Oscar Peterson)

Here what ten
fingers can spindle
from an ivory spine,

a bubbling
bathing ears
until a chartreuse sea
lacing white on the beach
becomes a curling
breeze rising
to kiss sandy lips

Listen to the terns
these riffs attempt
in a steel strung key
on a heavily knuckled board,
how softly the notion can
hammer a man

not the notes on paper,
though those, too -
but the way the A
tears through "paper"

not so much the tune
as being tuned
to the chord that
curls itself
across the hands,
not the joints,
but what jukes
between goodbye
and gone.

To Whom it May Concern

This is not a poem,
although it may be a bouquet of digital roses,
or perhaps a Shamrock Shake hand carried in a cooler.
When I said I was happy for you,
I meant it.
I still do.
I am not angry with you
and hope the same
is true for you of me.
I wish you and yours nothing but the best.
The last three years have been a time of tremendous personal (and professional with respect to writing) growth for me.
Whatever interactions we have had have been a major part of that and I am tremendously grateful for that.
A flock of Thank Yous thick as a thousand starlings isn't large enough.
But.
We appear to have differing ideas of friendship. Mine doesn't include the kinds of limitations or restrictions that yours evidently does. (My point here is not to judge you, simply to make a factual statement.) Thus we cannot, at this time, be friends. I hope you can understand this.
Going forward, I wish to sail on the calmest seas possible,
free of the drama of high waves or the thunder of sudden squalls.
Some ships pass and exchange semaphore, others sail by silently.
I will respect whatever mode of passing you prefer.

As a purple clad cat from Minneapolis once said;
"I never meant to cause you any sorrow, I never meant to cause you any pain, I only wanted one time to see you laughing . . ."

Politics, Poetry, Privilege

One slight source of chagrin for me is the fact that despite my posting of hundreds of poems here, 4 of the 5 most read posts are essays. The 2nd most read post is a poem (I'm not telling which one) but mostly folks seem to read the essays about poetry. This week I was asked to guest blog over at About a Word. Despite my perpetual procrastination I managed to get something out. Thanks to Ruth Ellen Kocher for including me in such bright company. You can find it here.  Check it out, you may find something interesting . . .