Limp Lamp of Paris
So sorry to have dropped out of sight, everyone -- what with no computer at home anymore and three classes' worth of students bombing my inbox I've been hard-pressed to
(apply electroshock nodules to my flaming armpit).
Plus the plastic owl flies so fast! I was thinking about beauty and stuff and then jumped back on and found that beauty was yesterday's news. Then all this new stuff piled on and the blog became a colossal pyramid that I was supposed to military-press up over my head somehow. Or not lift. I wish I could, though -- address all the wonderful flying debris of such great people -- this is really my favorite crossfire anywhere, pretty much.
Lauren, you'd asked about the Creeley reading I caught last summer, so here's what I remember: The location was a huge old mansion, now converted into a Latin American cultural center, which hid behind a stone wall on one of the larger West Bank boulevards (St.-Germain, maybe?). Cole at one point mentioned that it was one of the grand houses Proust used to sneak into soirees at, which was funny because I felt like I was doing exactly that: the interior was all bright creams and oranges and chandeliers were sparkling and it all felt unbelievably sumptuous -- meanwhile here I was in my grimy plaid shirt, reeking of pizza, every inch the interloper. I arrived early and sat in the back row by myself, feeling very agitated not knowing whether I should try to befriend French poets as they filed in or something, and so it was strange but nice when Cole arrived -- talk about out of context. The room was very warm, I have to add, and it was right around dinnertime, so by the time Creeley and Clayton Eshleman (did I spell that right?) finally arrived with their translators I was getting pretty sleepy. Creeley was of course wonderful and read mostly early poems/greatest hits, as I remember. His translator would then read the same poem but in French, and then Eshleman and HIS translator would take their turns. After a couple of go-rounds I began to doze off each time Creeley would finish and then I'd snap awake again as soon as he started another one.
As for his reading itself, I wish I had more to say: my lingering impression is just one of a gentle, sincere man reading strange and barbed poems -- I've associated a certain cruelty with Creeley (or at least with his work) ever since we talked about him a while back, but as he read it struck me as being more a really bright candor that was streaming out of the poems.
When the reading was over I stood around awkwardly for some time. There had maybe been 50 people at the reading and now a number of them wanted to speak with the poets or have books signed. Finally I gave up and left the room, but before I'd made it to the street I changed my mind and went back (this might have been at Cole's urging, come to think of it). The last person was just finishing up with Creeley by this time, so I introduced myself, and he was very gracious and curious to hear my impressions of Paris as a first-time visitor; I remember him saying as we walked downstairs that "No other city can transform you as utterly, or as quickly," and there was a wondering quality in his voice. Oh, I also put my foot in my mouth right off the bat when I mentioned that I would have loved to hear him read "The Death of Venus" -- he grew a bit confused because he had read it, only I'd slept through that one completely, a little slumbering babe in the back row. Needless to say, I changed the subject before his befuddlement had completely cleared.
The sad moment for me came as we reached the ground floor: Creeley, Cole, her two friends, and I. Creeley was in mid-sentence when a door in the hallway next to us suddenly opened and people in formal clothing came out. In an instant several of them had shunted Creeley away from our little group, leading him by the arm, and as he disappeared into the dining room there was a split-second of awkwardness (and I'll delude myself that his eyes betrayed a profound regret) as he glanced back at us, everyone in that second knowing full well we couldn't accompany him.
Ah, if only I had more of the Proust in me, to have bullshitted my way in as his handler or gopher or something! And now I regret enormously not at least getting a photo with Creeley while we were upstairs -- my camera was sitting in my backpack the whole time, gathering backpack-dust... The whole encounter took maybe three minutes, if that. But he did convey in person the same distilled blend of courtliness and camaraderie, of edginess and calm, that I detect as the background radiation of his poems. It often seems to happen that way, and I'm glad for it, that the few times I've met poets I've found they make a certain sense.
(apply electroshock nodules to my flaming armpit).
Plus the plastic owl flies so fast! I was thinking about beauty and stuff and then jumped back on and found that beauty was yesterday's news. Then all this new stuff piled on and the blog became a colossal pyramid that I was supposed to military-press up over my head somehow. Or not lift. I wish I could, though -- address all the wonderful flying debris of such great people -- this is really my favorite crossfire anywhere, pretty much.
Lauren, you'd asked about the Creeley reading I caught last summer, so here's what I remember: The location was a huge old mansion, now converted into a Latin American cultural center, which hid behind a stone wall on one of the larger West Bank boulevards (St.-Germain, maybe?). Cole at one point mentioned that it was one of the grand houses Proust used to sneak into soirees at, which was funny because I felt like I was doing exactly that: the interior was all bright creams and oranges and chandeliers were sparkling and it all felt unbelievably sumptuous -- meanwhile here I was in my grimy plaid shirt, reeking of pizza, every inch the interloper. I arrived early and sat in the back row by myself, feeling very agitated not knowing whether I should try to befriend French poets as they filed in or something, and so it was strange but nice when Cole arrived -- talk about out of context. The room was very warm, I have to add, and it was right around dinnertime, so by the time Creeley and Clayton Eshleman (did I spell that right?) finally arrived with their translators I was getting pretty sleepy. Creeley was of course wonderful and read mostly early poems/greatest hits, as I remember. His translator would then read the same poem but in French, and then Eshleman and HIS translator would take their turns. After a couple of go-rounds I began to doze off each time Creeley would finish and then I'd snap awake again as soon as he started another one.
As for his reading itself, I wish I had more to say: my lingering impression is just one of a gentle, sincere man reading strange and barbed poems -- I've associated a certain cruelty with Creeley (or at least with his work) ever since we talked about him a while back, but as he read it struck me as being more a really bright candor that was streaming out of the poems.
When the reading was over I stood around awkwardly for some time. There had maybe been 50 people at the reading and now a number of them wanted to speak with the poets or have books signed. Finally I gave up and left the room, but before I'd made it to the street I changed my mind and went back (this might have been at Cole's urging, come to think of it). The last person was just finishing up with Creeley by this time, so I introduced myself, and he was very gracious and curious to hear my impressions of Paris as a first-time visitor; I remember him saying as we walked downstairs that "No other city can transform you as utterly, or as quickly," and there was a wondering quality in his voice. Oh, I also put my foot in my mouth right off the bat when I mentioned that I would have loved to hear him read "The Death of Venus" -- he grew a bit confused because he had read it, only I'd slept through that one completely, a little slumbering babe in the back row. Needless to say, I changed the subject before his befuddlement had completely cleared.
The sad moment for me came as we reached the ground floor: Creeley, Cole, her two friends, and I. Creeley was in mid-sentence when a door in the hallway next to us suddenly opened and people in formal clothing came out. In an instant several of them had shunted Creeley away from our little group, leading him by the arm, and as he disappeared into the dining room there was a split-second of awkwardness (and I'll delude myself that his eyes betrayed a profound regret) as he glanced back at us, everyone in that second knowing full well we couldn't accompany him.
Ah, if only I had more of the Proust in me, to have bullshitted my way in as his handler or gopher or something! And now I regret enormously not at least getting a photo with Creeley while we were upstairs -- my camera was sitting in my backpack the whole time, gathering backpack-dust... The whole encounter took maybe three minutes, if that. But he did convey in person the same distilled blend of courtliness and camaraderie, of edginess and calm, that I detect as the background radiation of his poems. It often seems to happen that way, and I'm glad for it, that the few times I've met poets I've found they make a certain sense.
posted by Steve Keezely & Liz Bramp | 11:05 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home