For Kim Moore
If you were a pair of socks Martine, would you display yourself in dirty little piles about this room, sitting about with other dirty socks failing to reach the wash basket in such a demonstration of filthy deeds? How long would you hang about with such vagrant items, itching and holing around, the muck of you an irritant to those who love and care for your well-being, those who share your foul spaces, cluttered moments, inconsiderate escapades of slattery? If you were a pair of socks would this behaviour continue, or would you strumpet and slurf your dirty way to the wash basket with a face like Desdemona in her final moments, waiting for Othello to forgive her in that last leap to the basket, the denial of your love for other dirty socks. O Martine! I can not walk by. This makes men mad, it is the very error of the moon.
O Frances, a guiltless death I die.
#slaternsunite
WHO IS A SURREALIST AND WHO IS NOT? AND WHO CARES? Penelope Rosemont
"Knock hard. Life is deaf." —Mimi Parent
For a long time I've been drawn to the surrealists and this month I decided to get to grips with what it really means to be a 'Surrealist'. I am interested in this subject because the word 'surreal' is often attributed to the work I write. But am I a surrealist? And who cares?
This week, I ordered David Gascoyne's book of 1935 and now published by Enitharnon, A Short Survey of Surrealism. David Gascoyne was a translator of the 'leading' French Surrealists: Dali, Ernst, Breton, Eluard and others. I was struck by the lack of women. Surely there were women.
"Certain critics and curators have attempted to isolate women surrealists from the Surrealist Movement as a whole, not only by reducing their work to the traditional aesthetic frameworks that surrealists have always resisted but worse yet by relegating them to a subbasement of the art world known as “Women’s Art.” Ironically, the old (mostly male) critics who ignored or minimized women in their studies of surrealism are not that different from these newer (often female) critics who ignore or minimize surrealism itself in their studies of women who took part in it. Each of these one-sided and erroneous views reinforces the other, and both prop up the insidious fiction that surrealism is yet another “Men Only” movement." Penelope Rosemont, Surrealist Women (Surrealist Revolution) University of Texas Press.
Some of them have been reduced to shadows of the more famous men. Take Lise Deharme: "In recent years, historians such as Marie-Claire Barnet, Mary Ann Caws, Renée Riese Hubert, Andréa Oberhuber, and Penelope Rosemont, have begun to un-do the "reducing" of Deharme to "a failed love story." These scholars have set out to establish a more dynamic conception of Deharme's reputation."
I searched 'women surrealists' and found a list on Wiki. This is where you fall down a fantastic rabbit hole. Don't follow me, you might never get out! I'll make a list of women whose poetry I can make a link to and then a further list of Surrealist writers.
SURREALIST POETS:
Aase Berg (born 1967) is a Swedish poet and critic, among the founding members of the Stockholm Surrealist Group in 1986. EIGHT POEMS
Joyce Mansour (1928-1986) was an Egyptian-French poet. She first encountered Surrealism in Cairo, but moved to Paris in 1953. FIVE POEMS
Olga Orozco (1920-1999) was an Argentine poet of the Surrealistic 'Tercera Vanguardia' generation. THREE POEMS
Alejandra Pizarnik (1936-1972) was an Argentine poet heavily influenced by Surrealism. SIX POEMS
Gisèle Prassinos (1920-2015) was a French writer of Greek heritage, associated with Surrealism since her first publication at the age of 14. ONE POEM
Penelope Rosemont (born 1942) is an American writer, painter, photographer, collagist and cofounder of the Chicago Surrealist Group. Her edited anthology Surrealist Women demonstrated the breadth of women's contribution to surrealism. MY TRIP TO RUSSIA also editor of Surrealist Women: An International Anthology (Surrealist Revolution Series)
Blanca Varela (1926-2009) was a Peruvian poet. Octavio Paz characterized her poetry as in the "spiritual lineage" of surrealism. THREE POEMS
Unica Zürn (1916-1970) was a German writer and artist. She wrote anagram poetry, exhibited automatic drawing and collaborated with Hans Bellmer as his photographic model. Nine Anagrammatic Poems
Dorothea Tanning (1910–2012) was an American painter, sculptor, printmaker, writer, and poet, whose early work was influenced by Surrealism. She became part of the circle of Surrealists in New York in the 1940s, and was married to fellow Surrealist Max Ernst for 30 years. FIVE POEMS
Leonora Carrington (1917–2011) was a British-born Mexican Surrealist painter. She met the Surrealist Max Ernst in 1937, and had a painful and complicated relationship with him. Much of her work is autobiographical. ONE POEM
OTHER WRITERS AND POETS WHERE NO WORK CAN BE FOUND ONLINE:
Lise Deharme (1898-1980) was a French writer associated with the Surrealist movement. WIKI PAGE
Valentine Penrose (1898-1978) was a French surrealist poet, author and collagist.
Guia Risari (born 1971) is an Italian writer, novelist, essayist, translator.
Ginka Steinwachs (born 1942) is a German scholar and writer. Her doctoral thesis on André Breton was published as Mythologie des Surrealismus.
Haifa Zangana (born 1950) is an Iraqi writer active in surrealist activity in London.
⇻
Penelope Rosemont asks in Surrealist Women (Surrealist Revolution) University of Texas Press,
"WHO IS A SURREALIST AND WHO IS NOT? AND WHO CARES?"
"Neither silly nor simple, these questions are vital for anyone who wants to know the truth about surrealism. Critics who attempt to define the movement in aesthetic or literary terms, as a “style” or a “school,” overlook the crucial fact that surrealism is above all “a community of ethical views,” as Toyen put it in a statement included in this collection."
"Many are the writers who at some point in the course of their careers have expressed themselves in a surrealist voice—"
All the women included here have been co-thinkers and co-dreamers in surrealisms revolutionary project. More precisely, for the purposes of this collection, I define a surrealist as one who
(1) considers herself/himself a surrealist and/or
(2) is recognized as surrealist by surrealists and accepts being so designated, and
(3) takes part in surrealist activity by:
(a) producing work recognized by surrealists as a contribution to surrealism;
(b) collaborating on surrealist penodicals;
(c) participating in surrealist exhibitions;
(d) publishing under the movement’s “Surrealist Editions” imprint;
(e) cosiging surrealist tracts;
(f) taking part in Surrealist Group meetings, games, demonstrations, or other activities; and/or
(g) otherwise publicly identifying herself/himself with the aims, principles, and activity of the Surrealist Movement.
FINAL WORDS
If you are interested in participating
in the activities of
the Surrealist Movement,
please write us at Black Swan Press
c/o Charles H. Kerr Company
1740 West Greenleaf Av
Chicago, Il 60626
For orders phone 773-465-7774
Let us know, in as much detail as possible:
1) your views regarding contemporary revolutionary thought and action;
2) your orientation toward surrealism and its project here and now; and
3) what contribution(s) you believe you can make to surrealist revolution today.
The God Baby
My new chapbook, The God Baby, is a collaboration with artist Jill Carter and includes stunning prints: website HERE
Limited copies are available to buy in the UK
Sheehan’s is a unique voice, a hallucinogenic mix of colour-clashing syntax and formal innovation. Every time you think you know what to expect, Sheehan’s poetry charabanc swerves onto a track you never knew existed, leaving you breathless and exhilarated. Supported by Carter’s anarchic illustrations, these poems surprise and amaze by turns, ambushing the reader with tenderness, humour and political rage. A truly unmissable ride. - Jacqueline Saphra (latest book, All My Mad Mothers, Nine Arches Press)
"I was instantly hooked – the surreal yet grounded storylines, the sentences crackling with nervous electricity, the subtle interweaving of the political with the personal, and the innovative yet tempered and often lyrical use of language." Ian Seed: Stride Magazine
"Sheehan has a way of putting things that sound logically impossible but are metaphysically very real. An impressive, funny, and entertaining surrealism one can believe in." Robert Vas Dias
"The artwork and the poetry blend perfectly to present a very special, damaged account of parenthood, and childhood – in lots of ways the two are intertwined. Hilda uses her fantastic surreal style to bring humour and surprise to the poetry, but it is never far from feeling very real and painful. This pamphlet carries greater weight than many collections I have read this year and I recommend everyone read Hilda’s poetry, she is truly unique and wonderful, making the world a better place through her askew poetry!" Stephen Daniels, http://vpresspoetry.blogspot.co.uk/p/tell-mistakes-i-love-them.html
Jill Carter is a multi-media artist based in the UK. Her diverse performative practice explores narratives of identity, creating dark, quirky and engaging off artworks and collections. She enjoys drawing, printing and transforming findings and offerings into stitched and bound talismanic objects. Passionate about journaling, her one off books are badly behaved and full of curious observations and musings.
Limited copies are available to buy in the UK
Sheehan’s is a unique voice, a hallucinogenic mix of colour-clashing syntax and formal innovation. Every time you think you know what to expect, Sheehan’s poetry charabanc swerves onto a track you never knew existed, leaving you breathless and exhilarated. Supported by Carter’s anarchic illustrations, these poems surprise and amaze by turns, ambushing the reader with tenderness, humour and political rage. A truly unmissable ride. - Jacqueline Saphra (latest book, All My Mad Mothers, Nine Arches Press)
"I was instantly hooked – the surreal yet grounded storylines, the sentences crackling with nervous electricity, the subtle interweaving of the political with the personal, and the innovative yet tempered and often lyrical use of language." Ian Seed: Stride Magazine
"Sheehan has a way of putting things that sound logically impossible but are metaphysically very real. An impressive, funny, and entertaining surrealism one can believe in." Robert Vas Dias
Jill Carter is a multi-media artist based in the UK. Her diverse performative practice explores narratives of identity, creating dark, quirky and engaging off artworks and collections. She enjoys drawing, printing and transforming findings and offerings into stitched and bound talismanic objects. Passionate about journaling, her one off books are badly behaved and full of curious observations and musings.
The God Baby
A god came out of a woman
and took over her house.
‘I am a god!’ he screamed
from his baby mouth
and in no language.
This god was massive: 25lb in her arms!
And her opening, from out he came
was a secret cave where light beamed
through at certain times
of the day – and out
had come this god
looking nothing like his father.
and took over her house.
‘I am a god!’ he screamed
from his baby mouth
and in no language.
This god was massive: 25lb in her arms!
And her opening, from out he came
was a secret cave where light beamed
through at certain times
of the day – and out
had come this god
looking nothing like his father.
March 2017: Surrealism (1)
I like to turn to the surrealists for inspiration. The poems I write may not always eventually be surreal, but reading the surrealists and using surreal techniques can lead the way towards writing something true and fresh.
“The word
``surrealism'' having thereupon become descriptive of the generalizable
undertaking to which we had devoted ourselves, I thought it indispensable, in
1924, to define this word once and for all: SURREALISM, n. Pure
psychic automatism, by which it is intended to express, verbally, in writing,
or by other means, the real process of thought. Thought's dictation, in the
absence of all control exercised by the reason and outside all aesthetic or
moral preoccupations.” Andre
Breton.
Some favourites of mine below and suggested reading:
Short Stories
I've spent the last week reading short stories. Mainly because I have a unit to teach at New College, and each time I teach it I have grown myself as a writer and teacher, so I end up rewriting the whole unit! The pleasure of reading and discovering new stories can take you to new imaginations. I started with Best (British) Short Stories 2016 (Salt) I wanted to read what writers are writing and publishing now. There is a lively introduction by Nicholas Royle and he reminded me to read some of the excellent journals that publish short stories, in particular, Brittle Star, Lighthouse, and Ambit.
I've also been reading, That Glimpse of Truth: 100 of the finest short stories ever written. Selected by David Miller.
'Any anthology is a weird wonky wonder ...' he writes.
And it is a wonky wonder. I have loved revisiting The Red Shoes by Hans Christian Anderson, The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe, and How to Write a Short Story by Sean O'Faolain.
It's hard to teach people to write, and giving structures and science can help a great deal. I was reading these stories with structure in mind, I wondered how they fit into Nigel Watts’ eight points, from Writing A Novel and Getting Published. Here's my conclusion from The Red Shoes.
•Stasis
ONCE upon a time there was little girl, pretty and dainty. But in summer time she was obliged to go barefooted because she was poor, and in winter she had to wear large wooden shoes, so that her little instep grew quite red.
•Trigger
In the middle of the village lived an old shoemaker’s wife; she sat down and made, as well as she could, a pair of little shoes out of some old pieces of red cloth. They were clumsy, but she meant well, for they were intended for the little girl, whose name was Karen.
Karen received the shoes and wore them for the first time on the day of her mother’s funeral. They were certainly not suitable for mourning; but she had no others, and so she put her bare feet into them and walked behind the humble coffin.
•The quest
Just then a large old carriage came by, and in it sat an old lady; she looked at the little girl, and taking pity on her, said to the clergyman, “Look here, if you will give me the little girl, I will take care of her.”
Karen believed that this was all on account of the red shoes, but the old lady thought them hideous, and so they were burnt. Karen herself was dressed very neatly and cleanly; she was taught to read and to sew, and people said that she was pretty. But the mirror told her, “You are more than pretty—you are beautiful.”
•Surprise
Meeting the soldier: Now every one came out of church, and the old lady stepped into her carriage. But just as Karen was lifting up her foot to get in too, the old soldier said: “Dear me, what pretty dancing shoes!” and Karen could not help it, she was obliged to dance a few steps; and when she had once begun, her legs continued to dance. It seemed as if the shoes had got power over them. She danced round the church corner, for she could not stop; the coachman had to run after her and seize her. He lifted her into the carriage, but her feet continued to dance, so that she kicked the good old lady violently. At last they took off her shoes, and her legs were at rest.
•Critical choice
At home the shoes were put into the cupboard, but Karen could not help looking at them.
Now the old lady fell ill, and it was said that she would not rise from her bed again. She had to be nursed and waited upon, and this was no one’s duty more than Karen’s. But there was a grand ball in the town, and Karen was invited. She looked at the red shoes, saying to herself that there was no sin in doing that; she put the red shoes on, thinking there was no harm in that either; and then she went to the ball; and commenced to dance.
•Climax
She danced, and was obliged to go on dancing through the dark night. The shoes bore her away over thorns and stumps till she was all torn and bleeding; she danced away over the heath to a lonely little house. Here, she knew, lived the executioner; and she tapped with her finger at the window and said:
“Come out, come out! I cannot come in, for I must dance.”
And the executioner said: “I don’t suppose you know who I am. I strike off the heads of the wicked, and I notice that my axe is tingling to do so.”
“Don’t cut off my head!” said Karen, “for then I could not repent of my sin. But cut off my feet with the red shoes.”
And then she confessed all her sin, and the executioner struck off her feet with the red shoes; but the shoes danced away with the little feet across the field into the deep forest.
•Reversal
On the following Sunday they all went to church, and she was asked whether she wished to go too; but, with tears in her eyes, she looked sadly at her crutches. And then the others went to hear God’s Word, but she went alone into her little room; this was only large enough to hold the bed and a chair. Here she sat down with her hymn-book, and as she was reading it with a pious mind, the wind carried the notes of the organ over to her from the church, and in tears she lifted up her face and said: “O God! help me!”
•Resolution
Then the sun shone so brightly, and right before her stood an angel of God in white robes; it was the same one whom she had seen that night at the church-door. He no longer carried the sharp sword, but a beautiful green branch, full of roses; with this he touched the ceiling, which rose up very high, and where he had touched it there shone a golden star. He touched the walls, which opened wide apart, and she saw the organ which was pealing forth; she saw the pictures of the old pastors and their wives, and the congregation sitting in the polished chairs and singing from their hymn-books. The church itself had come to the poor girl in her narrow room, or the room had gone to the church. She sat in the pew with the rest of the pastor’s household, and when they had finished the hymn and looked up, they nodded and said, “It was right of you to come, Karen.”
“It was mercy,” said she.
This might help you understand plot structure:
I've also been reading, That Glimpse of Truth: 100 of the finest short stories ever written. Selected by David Miller.
'Any anthology is a weird wonky wonder ...' he writes.
And it is a wonky wonder. I have loved revisiting The Red Shoes by Hans Christian Anderson, The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe, and How to Write a Short Story by Sean O'Faolain.
It's hard to teach people to write, and giving structures and science can help a great deal. I was reading these stories with structure in mind, I wondered how they fit into Nigel Watts’ eight points, from Writing A Novel and Getting Published. Here's my conclusion from The Red Shoes.
•Stasis
ONCE upon a time there was little girl, pretty and dainty. But in summer time she was obliged to go barefooted because she was poor, and in winter she had to wear large wooden shoes, so that her little instep grew quite red.
In the middle of the village lived an old shoemaker’s wife; she sat down and made, as well as she could, a pair of little shoes out of some old pieces of red cloth. They were clumsy, but she meant well, for they were intended for the little girl, whose name was Karen.
Karen received the shoes and wore them for the first time on the day of her mother’s funeral. They were certainly not suitable for mourning; but she had no others, and so she put her bare feet into them and walked behind the humble coffin.
Just then a large old carriage came by, and in it sat an old lady; she looked at the little girl, and taking pity on her, said to the clergyman, “Look here, if you will give me the little girl, I will take care of her.”
Karen believed that this was all on account of the red shoes, but the old lady thought them hideous, and so they were burnt. Karen herself was dressed very neatly and cleanly; she was taught to read and to sew, and people said that she was pretty. But the mirror told her, “You are more than pretty—you are beautiful.”
Meeting the soldier: Now every one came out of church, and the old lady stepped into her carriage. But just as Karen was lifting up her foot to get in too, the old soldier said: “Dear me, what pretty dancing shoes!” and Karen could not help it, she was obliged to dance a few steps; and when she had once begun, her legs continued to dance. It seemed as if the shoes had got power over them. She danced round the church corner, for she could not stop; the coachman had to run after her and seize her. He lifted her into the carriage, but her feet continued to dance, so that she kicked the good old lady violently. At last they took off her shoes, and her legs were at rest.
At home the shoes were put into the cupboard, but Karen could not help looking at them.
Now the old lady fell ill, and it was said that she would not rise from her bed again. She had to be nursed and waited upon, and this was no one’s duty more than Karen’s. But there was a grand ball in the town, and Karen was invited. She looked at the red shoes, saying to herself that there was no sin in doing that; she put the red shoes on, thinking there was no harm in that either; and then she went to the ball; and commenced to dance.
She danced, and was obliged to go on dancing through the dark night. The shoes bore her away over thorns and stumps till she was all torn and bleeding; she danced away over the heath to a lonely little house. Here, she knew, lived the executioner; and she tapped with her finger at the window and said:
“Come out, come out! I cannot come in, for I must dance.”
And the executioner said: “I don’t suppose you know who I am. I strike off the heads of the wicked, and I notice that my axe is tingling to do so.”
“Don’t cut off my head!” said Karen, “for then I could not repent of my sin. But cut off my feet with the red shoes.”
And then she confessed all her sin, and the executioner struck off her feet with the red shoes; but the shoes danced away with the little feet across the field into the deep forest.
On the following Sunday they all went to church, and she was asked whether she wished to go too; but, with tears in her eyes, she looked sadly at her crutches. And then the others went to hear God’s Word, but she went alone into her little room; this was only large enough to hold the bed and a chair. Here she sat down with her hymn-book, and as she was reading it with a pious mind, the wind carried the notes of the organ over to her from the church, and in tears she lifted up her face and said: “O God! help me!”
•Resolution
Then the sun shone so brightly, and right before her stood an angel of God in white robes; it was the same one whom she had seen that night at the church-door. He no longer carried the sharp sword, but a beautiful green branch, full of roses; with this he touched the ceiling, which rose up very high, and where he had touched it there shone a golden star. He touched the walls, which opened wide apart, and she saw the organ which was pealing forth; she saw the pictures of the old pastors and their wives, and the congregation sitting in the polished chairs and singing from their hymn-books. The church itself had come to the poor girl in her narrow room, or the room had gone to the church. She sat in the pew with the rest of the pastor’s household, and when they had finished the hymn and looked up, they nodded and said, “It was right of you to come, Karen.”
“It was mercy,” said she.
This might help you understand plot structure:
Flarf
Flarf is not easy to get right. It does make me laugh, and think, and wince.
Steven Waling reminded me of this process on his visit to Swindon in February. In the poem below I googled Syria and Rainbows, then cut and pasted the text in the search lines. I then sculpted it into something.
You can read better Flarf here as I'm not entirely sure I have made one. Can you make a Flarf? I'm not sure Flarf cares.
https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/text/brief-guide-flarf-poetry
rainbow of the famous rainbow
massacre has a double car
with the jihadist
I think they will agree to temporary f
amous Rainbows (at least 46)
via stop
to take a bite
in the Bay of Auckland
near Syria the community
early Tuesday (opening a new front)
with the jihadist warrior
we are going to bomb rainbows, it is obvious -
Steven Waling reminded me of this process on his visit to Swindon in February. In the poem below I googled Syria and Rainbows, then cut and pasted the text in the search lines. I then sculpted it into something.
You can read better Flarf here as I'm not entirely sure I have made one. Can you make a Flarf? I'm not sure Flarf cares.
https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/text/brief-guide-flarf-poetry
rainbow of the famous rainbow
massacre has a double car
with the jihadist
I think they will agree to temporary f
amous Rainbows (at least 46)
via stop
to take a bite
in the Bay of Auckland
near Syria the community
early Tuesday (opening a new front)
with the jihadist warrior
we are going to bomb rainbows, it is obvious -
A lot to say
I love stories told mainly in dialogue. It's a great way to explore subtext: what's said/held back/inferred. In 'Beginners' by Raymond Carver, we have a story told almost entirely in dialogue. Carver is a master at this, and of handling subtext.
Have a read and try short story using mostly dialogue. What can you show in the relationships between your characters and the stories they tell? Can you handle this in poetry? Try a Dramatic Monologue:
BEGINNERS by RAYMOND CARVER in THE WALL STREET JOURNAL
Have a read and try short story using mostly dialogue. What can you show in the relationships between your characters and the stories they tell? Can you handle this in poetry? Try a Dramatic Monologue:
BEGINNERS by RAYMOND CARVER in THE WALL STREET JOURNAL
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