I am eager to post!

Fits of Dawn - Joseph Ceravalo

I'd like to start by saying a few things:

1) I only read this book once upon writing this.

2) My taste in poetry tends to lean toward the heavy narrative, accessible - think Bukowski, Hoagland (Here is where Bill might say, "leave your personal bias out of this".

3) I am really trying to write/read out of my comfort zone- so this might have been the best book for me to read to get into that zone.

While reading this book my body ran the gamut of emotions.  I was first confused trying very hard to pluck out a connective thread - to the point of almost giving myself a headache.  I became relieved as (it seems to me) things became a little more fluid as the book went on.  I started to wonder, is this book making more sense, or is my brain adaptively embracing the language of Ceravalo?  Is it safe to assume that as the book aged (Part I, Part II, Part III) that it also evolved... as a Bushman evolves into modern day human?  Are humans writing the same poems over and over again, the general feeling is the same- but the words, phrasing and languages differ?

Here are my thoughts:  

Any book that makes one think so much about language has value.  There is no doubt in my mind that this man has lots of talent, it was just lost on me.  I was forced out of my box because he was constantly switching language, ideas, and making up his own words.  This does two things for reader Katie Radd, 1) confuses the hell out of me and makes me angry.  2) makes me rethink the way I'm reading and take each word as it is.  Eventually I had to surrender (I assume this is the best way to read this) and just allow myself to listen to the words, the very apparent rhythm and allow myself to enjoy the ride.  It's a lesson one learns when doing shrooms the first time- the more you fight it... the harder it is on you.   There were even a line I really liked.  May I?

"Forgot myself and then you could become"

I may be way off on this bushman thing- but its just what kept popping in my head.  Is anyone else with me on this??  I'd like to discuss more.  

Joseph Ceravolo's "Fits of Dawn"

Well, I figured I should start off the blog conversation with some very cursory thoughts about Kelly’s choice, “Fits of Dawn” by Joseph Ceravolo (thanks for providing the PDF, Kelly!). I’m excited for these discussions to start! Whoop whoop.

To me, part of the appeal of “Fits of Dawn” is its esoteric nature, particularly but certainly not limited to the first half of the book. This collection makes no bones about being obscure or elusive; in a way, it reminds me of some of the poets from the Vienna Group (for example, H.C. Artmann or Ernst Jandl—I’ll try to provide links to the poems I’m thinking of as soon as I get the chance). Or maybe even some sort of Tourettes syndrome. To me, this is the book Merwin would write in the mid-1960s if he made up words, which I intend as one of the greatest compliments I can give someone. These poems resist didacticism, which I find extremely enjoyable; I’ve read this book twice and I had an initial “WTF” reaction. But the second time, there seems to be something at work here, although I can’t quite place my finger on it. And there also appears to be a very organic and germane congruence to these poems, tonally. The poet appears to have been in a very particular, almost irreproducible, state of mind when these were written. This is to say, in a way, that it appears that the poet almost shunned revision (again, this reading is very cursory), for the sake of maintaining that sort of tonal and psychological cohesion. These extremely daring aspects of the book have me smitten and charmed with this guy, who I'd never heard of before.

Does anyone else feel that this collection serves as sort of a modernist/post-modernist rebellion against the poetic canon, in a sense? Revolt against "Poetry with a capital 'P'"? A big "fuck you" to early Robert Lowell? Etc.

Yet part of its appeal to me also serves as a sort of downfall, in a way. For me, its esotericism also is manifested as sort of a middle-finger to the reader—“Hey, look what I can do and I don’t care if you understand it or not.” This isn’t to say that the reader has to be given bread crumbs to follow every collection through to the end and be a “meaning-maker,” but this sort of poetic isolationism, for lack of a better phrase, sort of distracted me from all the wonderful things the book was doing, particularly with regards to language and leaps.

Sorry if this is way too long. I figured I would get all my preliminary/premature thoughts down before I forgot them.

AHOY

PEE-OMES OVER DA SUMMA, LIKE WHOA.