Category Archives: Interdisciplinarity

Ballad Laid Bare by Its Devices (Even) A Bachelor Machine for MLA

Somethin’ ’bout sound

Repeatin’ in degree

A voice not mine

Singin’ as a we.

 

You call it boundry conditions

But don’t put your bounds on me.

 

Is there more to a ballad

Than weave and dodge and stall?

Some folks say it’s a cokehead’s ball

Some say a cure for all.

 

We’ve heard it from a nutbrown maid

And from a fellow who every day

Takes the blues from Ghent to Aix.

 

Some say ballad’s a slow romantic croon

Others an unsophisticated, moralizin’ folk tune

Neither epic nor lyric

A singable narrative atmospheric

Riddled with discontinuity

Usually endin’ in catastrophe.

 

Bullets have been dancin’ farther back than we can see.

Greeks first cast ballots in 423 BCE.

English ballads been ’round since 13th century.

 

Blatant rhythm alleges its decree

Fluid dynamics

If you want a God damn creed.

 

You call it boundary conditions

But don’t put no shame on me.

 

Fuck your lyric framin’

Fuck your depth of feel

If you’re not willin’ to sing along

Your messin’ with the deal.

 

Is this just an excuse for doggerel?

Resurrectin’ a long-outdated mode?

Solidarity is a lonely road

That begins at the inaugural.

 

Don’t call it boundary conditions

When you put your pain on me.

 

A little bit south of here, in Washington, D.C.

Next week’s gonna get a whiff of Armageddon

Billionaire racist takin’ over

1600 Pennsylvania Avenue

Not to mention the Pentagon too.

Wait and see, he’s gonna make the earth

His own private barbeque.

 

Winner of unpopular vote, FBI’s man

Armed and dangerous with his clan

Got the nuclear codes in his hands

(Nuclear codes in his hands.)

 

This ballad cannot fix or change

The course of our collective pain

Even makin’ the lyrics strange

Is no guarantee of liberty.

 

But closer to here than Washington

Is Camden, New Jersey

Home of Walt Whitman

Molderin’ in his grave, you bet

Lilacs wiltin’ on the dooryard

Of these Benighted States.

 

We raised ourselves on the left

Only to get socked by the right

It’s not rocket mechanics

What we’ve got to do is fight.

I used to have a boarder

Till I kicked that boarder out.

 

I came down to Philadelph-i-a

On an Amtrak train

When I finish with this job

Goin’ straight back to Brook-o-lyn.

 

The 2016 ballot was stolen

With mirrors and smoke.

The mediocracy, virally swollen

Couldn’t resist a con man’s joke.

 

Watch as castles made of sand

Become law of the land.

 

We all know about voter suppression

Twitterin’ lies in endless succession.

The ballot’s in danger, that’s the dope.

But, say?, did you even vote?

 

The danger that we face

Is not capitalism versus race

But race as capitalism’s sword

To vanquish our fight for all.

 

What’s to be done?

What’s to be undone?

The ying’s not in the yang.

The pang has lost its ping.

 

Turns out the ballad’s no place to be

For a self-respectin’ poet like me.

 

At this MLA convention

The crisis of greatest dimension

Is our jobs goin’ down the tubes

Like we are just a bunch of rubes.

 

We old-time full timers gettin’ replaced

With terrific young scholars

Doin’ the same work for half the dollars

Teachin’ students crippled by debts

In the clutches of banker’s threats

 

Regardless of our attitudes to Palestinian or Jew

Enrollments are divin’ like flies into glue.

 

Call it border conditions

But when he stiffed us on the rent

We booted the boundary out.

 

Neo-illiberalism’s on the rise

Provokin’ all to despise

Scorn, resist, chastise.

But a word to the wise ––

Illiberality comes in every guise.

 

Free speech may be a barrel of bare-knuckle lies

Mixed with a soupcon of truths gonna die.

But bein’ trigger happy about what can be taught

Will never liberate thought.

 

To offend or not is not the question.

Neither is transgression, repression, nor discretion.

(Though never underestimate digression.)

 

These days I keep thinkin’

We ought to boycott ourselves.

 

This isn’t a poem about politics

About which I don’t have a clue.

It’s a poem about a form

That sputters and cranks, is mortally torn.

 

Between here and there’s a boundary

I almost found it yesterday

One day I hope to cross it

If history don’t get in my way.

 

Is there more to a ballad

Than formula and rhyme?

A whiff of a story

Told with in the nick of time?

 

If there’s more to it than that, my friends

I sure as hell can’t say.

You call it boundary conditions

But I’m not in the mood to stay.

 

There is no freedom without constraint.

No border that’s not a wall.

Good fences sell for 99.99.

Even cheaper on Amazon.

 

There once was a little ballad

That didn’t know its name

Didn’t know it’s pedigree

Didn’t know its taint.

 

This ballad got mixed up in a robbery

And though it wasn’t in the plans

Ended up with blood on its metaphorical hands.

 

The verdict came down swift as a slap:

100 years for stupefaction

150 for personification.

But with parole it will only be

A matter of time before we see

Langue and all that rigmarole

Back on the streets

Purveyin’ an aesthetic trap.

 

There is no moral to this ballad

But, hey!, don’t forget:

Our jobs goin’ down the tubes

Quicker than an Xpress Lube.

 

We old-timers gettin’ replaced

With super young scholars

Doin’ same work for half the dollars

Teachin’ students with loans to pay

Turn ‘em into big banks’ prey.

 

Graduate students: unionize!

Don’t let yourselves be patronized!

Let’s turn over half of bloated university president wages

To tenure-track jobs to counter adjunct rages.

 

Call it border conditions if you like.

Or call it a struggle for a better life.

 

Dylan’ got one of those Nobel Prizes

Unsung poets put on more disguises.

Nobels to superstars and pamphleteers!

Not for impecunious balladeers!

 

If songwriters are poets, poets write songs

A Grammy for Baraka woulda righted many wrongs.

For next year’s Nobel we expect to see

(Havin’ shown class strife as metonymy)

Jean-Luc Goddard tapped for economy ––

The Rollin’ Stones for biology.

As for the Peace Prize, which Norway grants

How ’bout Lillyhammer’s Steven Van Zandt?

 

A ballot says, this is what we want.

A bullet does that too.

A ballad’s just lousy fantasy

Goin’ out from an us to a youse.

 

I ha been to the wild wood; mak my bed soon;

I’m wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie doun.

Oh, yes, I am poisoned; mak my bed soon

I’m sick at the heart, and fain wad lie doun.

 

Now at end

Of what to tell

Hailin’ you, friend!

Between us dwell!

 

I came down to Philadelph-i-a

On the Amtrak train

When I finish with this job

Goin’ straight back to Brook-o-lyn.

 

A ballet’s not a bullet.

A ballot’s no balloon.

But when you add up all we’ve lost

You’ll soon be sighin’ this rune.

 

Call it boundary conditions if you like

Or call it a struggle for a better life.

 

Charles Bernstein

bernstein

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

First presented at “Boundary Conditions of the Ballad,” at the MLA Annual Convention, Philadelphia, January 6, 2017. (“Boundary conditions” was the theme of the convention).

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Filed under Criticsm, Humanities, Interdisciplinarity, Palestinian protest, Uncategorized

In Memoriam David Antin (1932–2016)

Marjorie Perloff

            Summer 1975: I was attending the first annual Ezra Pound conference in Orono, Maine. Among such prominent conference speakers as Hugh Kenner and Donald Davie was a former Davie PhD student from Stanford, now teaching at Indiana University at Bloomington, named Barry Alpert. Barry was a true radical—so radical that he was soon dismissed from Bloomington and has led a peripatetic life as free-lance poet, critic, and book dealer; for a time he owned a bookshop in Washington D. C. that burned to the ground one dark night. But in the 1970s, he was editing and publishing an important literary journal called VORT, which had just brought out the Jerome Rothenberg and David Antin issue. Barry gave me a copy, which I read cover to cover, ordered earlier issues (there was one on Jackson Mac Low, another on Guy Davenport), and began studying David’s provocative ideas about the “new American poetry,” as well as his curious “talk poems”—transcribed oral performances, avoiding all punctuation and capital letters and leaving plenty of white space between phrases so as to simulate actual talk. I was hooked and was soon reviewing Talking at the Boundaries for the New Republic (1978).  Ironically, then, it was via Ezra Pound that I came to Antin. My 1981 book The Poetics of Indeterminacy contains chapters on both.

When I moved to Los Angeles in 1978 to take up a position at the University of Sothern Claifornia, I introduced myself to David, then already living in Del Mar; both he and his wife, Eleanor, soon to be a famous artist, were professors at UC San Diego. Soon we began to pay visits back and forth—in those days, one could drive from Del Mar to LA in about one and a half hours, whereas today it can be three or four—and we also had countless long phone conversations, during which David would educate me on issues like Wittgenstein’s numbering system, Diderot’s dialogism in Rameau’s Nephew (one of his favorite books and a model for his own monologues), the use of narrative in Sigmund Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams, and Gertrude Stein’s syntax. Once he was on track, David could talk on and on, and I wish I had recorded what in retrospect were quasi-talk poems. I also remember the excitement of going to conferences with David. One time in 1978, he and I and Charles Altieri (another great talker) were at a conference on postmodernism held at Stanford. In the afternoon, I went up to my room for a nap; when I woke an hour later I could hear, below my window in the motel courtyard, David and Charlie still going on and on about the meaning or (nonmeaning) of the term postmodernism. The conversation never let up for an instant!

I shall forever be in David’s debt for these conversations, which taught me how to think about American poetry in the larger context of European modernism as well as the Platonic dialogue. It was David who first made clear to me that, at a time when Pound was still writing rather romantic stylized dramatic monologues of Personae, Blaise Cendrars (for whom David’s son Blaise is named) was already completing “La Prose du Transsibérien,” with its artful simulation of actual speech and its colloquial free verse. And it was David who introduced me to the collage texts and paintings of Kurt Schwitters.

David’s talk poems, written in the short phrasal units of what Northop Frye defined as the “associative rhythm,” use repetition and metonymy to produce complex meditations that look nothing if not “natural” but are in fact carefully constructed and shaped. In their emphasis on the actual thought processes that lead to certain conclusions, they look ahead to the conceptual poetics of our own moment. But David was also a leading literary and art critic, and in 2016 it may be useful to remind younger readers of what a difference that criticism made to those of us who came of (literary) age in the 1970s.

In his two essays on modernism and postmodernism—the first for the inaugural issue of boundary 2 in 1972, the second in Occident 1974, and both reprinted in the Chicago volume Radical Coherency (2011), David stages a stinging attack against what he took to be the neomodernist symbolist poetry of the post-World War II period. It was a time when W. D.

Snodgrass was considered a major new voice. Antin takes as a specimen the lines:

The green catalpa tree has turned

All white; the cherry blooms once more.

In one whole year I haven’t learned

A blessed thing they pay you for.

Of which David remarks: “The comparison between this updated version of A Shropshire Lad . . . and the poetry of the Cantos or The Waste Land seems so aberrant as to verge on the pathological.” Here, as in the case of Delmore Schwartz, or Allen Tate, or early Robert Lowell, Antin insisted, the “originating styles” of modernism seemed to have lost all their energy. We were witnessing, in establishment poetry, a giant step backwards, even as the poets Donald Allen had introduced in his New American Poetry, beginning with Charles Olson, were doing exciting new work. And, anyway, David argued, none of these poets, whether “raw” (Allen Ginsberg) or “cooked (Lowell), were as brilliant as such Europeans as Schwitters and Cendrars, not to mention that unique expatriate Stein, who was the most innovative of them all.

Antin could be excessively dismissive and arrogant about his likes and dislikes, but the fact is that his boundary 2 article and its postscript in Occident changed the map of postwar twentieth-century poetry, as it was being studied and understood in American universities. Students had to ask themselves whether the metaphoric mode of, say, Richard Wilbur really was a valuable successor to the modernists or why the “history collage” of Lowell’s Lord Weary’s Castle often seemed merely tepid vis-à-vis Pound’s “history” Cantos.  Meanwhile, his bon mots like “From the modernism that you want, you get the postmodernism you deserve,” and “Anthologies are to poets as the zoo is to animals,” were widely cited and repeated by a growing circle of disciples.

Part of David’s appeal was what T. S. Eliot, talking of Andrew Marvell, called “the tough reasonableness behind the slight lyric grace.”   Writing of avant-garde poets and artists, David always began reasonably with the literal. In “Duchamp: the Meal and the Remainder,” David’s focus was on Duchamp’s use of language, on the erotic puns and double entendres that made the work what it is as well as of the significance of calling The Bride Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Even” a “delay” in glass. Again, David wrote what is still considered the best essay on the all-black paintings of the Rothko Chapel in Houston—on the power of this “uncompromising difficult and secular work” to produce in the observer “a sense of your human fallibility,” by evoking such things as the early promise of nuclear energy as a “kind of glowing in the dark that’s still part of the metaphoric system we have to engage in.”

In this essay—“The Existential Allegory of the Rothko Chapel,”—framed not as a conventional essay, but as a talk piece, micronarrative intrudes so as to “thicken the plot,” to use Cage’s term. There are shaggy dog stories, speculations about remembering faces like the poet’s father’s, who died when David was two, conversations with other art critics, and so on. But the seeming diversions and parenthetical stories are all related: in the end an Antin talk poem has a curious way of coming full circle and tying up the loose knots. Only when the poet stops talking (or in the transcribed version, writing) do we see that the threads that have come together were there all along.

Many of David’s talk poems and art essays, now in the J. Paul Getty Trust archive, have yet to be transcribed; one of my favorites is called “The Poetry of Ideas and the Idea of Poetry,” and compares Ludwig Wittgenstein’s writing to Bertolt Brecht’s verse version of Karl Marx’s Communist Manifesto, arguing that Wittgenstein’s “prose” is, finally, much more poetic than Brecht’s hexameter version of Marx. David performed this piece at a conference on poetry and philosophy at Berkeley, and it was not well received by many of the academic philosophers, who found its treatment of “serious” ideas frivolous. But I predict that, as generic boundaries become less important, the Wittgenstein piece will be recognized for its profundity, its understanding of what poetry is and can be and where poetry and philosophy meet.

Most great critics have their blind spots; think of Samuel Johnson dismissing John Milton’s Lycidas or Virginia Woolf deploring the scatological language of James Joyce’s Ulysses. David had little interest in the novel—I never heard him say anything interesting—indeed, anything at all— on Leo Tolstoy or Marcel Proust or William Faulkner. He paid little attention to the work of younger poets, although he was, of course, an early proponent of feminist performance art, of which Eleanor was a key exemplar. He admired theorists like Michel de Certeau, whose work on the everyday was backed by thorough scholarship, but had little use for Jacques Derrida or Jacques Lacan, or even Theodor Adorno, whom he regarded with bemused skepticism. Despite his love of French and Russian avant-garde poetry—Maria Tsvetaeva was a great favorite—when it came to theory and criticism, he was an American pragmatist. Does it work? Is it useful? What can you do with it? These are the questions that interested him. But perhaps because he was so unabashedly American—with a Brooklyn accent to boot—it was in the France whose theorists he dismissed that he was especially popular. Most of his books have been translated into French and the Oulipo poet Jacques Roubaud was an early kindred spirit.

In the decades to come, I am convinced, David will be recognized for the transformative critic and poetician he was. Close to so many of the artists and poets of his day, beginning with his best friend and fellow innovator Jerome Rothenberg, whom he had first met in his undergraduate years at City College, he was, finally, entirely his own person—a bracing, provocative, and entirely original voice in the wilderness of what is considered the poetry scene.

Here an anecdote may be apposite. In 1980 or so, I invited David to give a poetry reading—that is, a talk—at USC. The auditorium was reassuringly full. But about ten minutes into the piece—I think it was “Who’s Listening Out There?”—David was interrupted by a woman’s voice from the audience. “When,” she asked impatiently, “does the poetry reading begin?” Everyone laughed. “You’re not going to hear anything you’re not hearing now,” David responded calmly, “so feel free to leave. There is nothing else coming.” She stayed.

 

[Visit the CI website to read some of David Antin’s work—Ed.]

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IAN BOURLAND’S “Protest 2.0—KONY 2012”

Ian Bourland

17 April 2012

“Protest 2.0—KONY 2012”

In this long season of occupation and in the wake of the fallout of Tahrir Square and the failures of the global community thus far in the ongoing Syrian uprising, there has emerged an unexpectedly potent campaign that takes its cues from the global occupy movements but diverges in a few marked—and potentially instructive—ways.

The first image is a snapshot of the kony2012 website.

On the fifth of March, the San Diego-based NGO Invisible Children released a thirty minute video piece, KONY 2012, that rapidly set the record for “most viral video,” racking up some 100  million views as it coursed through the internet, accelerated by Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, and alternating barrages of fascination and snark on news aggregation blogs such as Gawker.  The premise of the video was straightforward:  draw attention to Joseph Kony, the leader of the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA), an Acholi nationalist group formerly based in Uganda that has, over the past two and a half decades, killed tens of thousands of people and displaced hundreds of thousands more.  The LRA is noted among central African rebel groups for its consistent use of the most heinous of tactics: rape, sexual slavery, mass murder, mutilations, and the abduction and impressment of at least 30,000 child soldiers.  Like the Rwandan genocide of 1994, and the ongoing multi-partite conflict in the Democratic Republic of Congo, the LRA’s trans-state crimes against humanity have remained one of those seemingly intractable problems, just beyond the reach of NATO security interests and military capabilities.[1]

Enter Invisible Children, a production company in the guise of a charity, which has organized what is, by all accounts, a truly international community under the premise that an aggregation of young people can give voice to the “invisible” children of northern Uganda.  Until late 2011, the group relied on letter writing campaigns, meetings with congressional delegations, and choreographed rallies (all assiduously documented) in order to pressure western governments to send military advisers and materiel to the Ugandan army, in order to rout the LRA forces once and for all.  The organization also creates full-on documentary work during their visits to central Africa, interviewing children, community leaders, and sympathetic politicians, and it claims to funnel resources for development projects, such as schools, directly to localities.  In effect, Invisible Children aims to pressure conventional state agencies, and also to bypass them.

The 5 March KONY 2012 video was something of a study in narrative tension.  It introduces the audience to the LRA and to Invisible Children by way of two real “characters.”  One is a young Ugandan boy named Jacob, who escaped the LRA, but whose brother was murdered and who subsequently met Invisible Children founder Jason Russell.  The other is Russell’s own son, an angelic toddler who conveniently serves as both a telegenic western youth, and a proxy for the audience itself, which is collectively (but through no fault of its own!) unaware of Kony’s atrocities.  In a remarkably telling bit of cinema verité, Russell shows his son a picture of Kony, and explains that not only is he a warlord, but has also hurt Jacob, beloved of the Russell family.  The moral imperative laid out here is not complex: to know Kony is to know evil, and now that we know Kony, he must be stopped.  Even a child can see that.

 

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Welcome to the CI Blog

Critical Inquiry has gone digital.

For more than thirty-five years, CI has been at the forefront of critical thought in the Humanities. Associated with no single school of thought, tied to no single discipline, it has provided a forum for cutting-edge work in the humanities, arts and social sciences—recognized as  “One of the best known and most influential journals in the world” (Chicago Tribune), and “Academe’s most prestigious theory journal” (New York Times).

None of that will change.  Critical Inquiry will continue to appear as a quarterly print journal.  JSTOR subscribers—and people affiliated with institutions that subscribe—will still be able to access the contents of every issue as soon as it appears in print.  We will continue to challenge and provoke, enlighten and enrage.

Everything else, however, will be different.

Of course, CI has had a web presence for years.  But on our new site you will find web-exclusive content, including advance copies of articles that have not yet appeared in the print edition.  You will be able to watch CI-sponsored lectures and events, including the presentations of our distinguished Critical Inquiry professors (in 2011-12, Leo Bersani).  You will find readers’ responses to controversial articles—no more waiting for months to watch a conversation play out.  You will see multimedia become a feature of our essays (for instance, studies of film illustrated with clips instead of stills), along with a broader range of materials including original art.  You will find dossiers selected from our vast archive, classic articles selected for topical relevance and made available free of charge for a limited time.  Last but not least, you will find In the Moment—our blog, featuring postings from CI’s broad network of distinguished authors and advisors on matters of pressing interest.  With the world in crisis and the humanities under siege, informed and truly critical inquiry has never been more urgent—and CI has never been more timely.

We are still a peer-reviewed print journal.  But we are now much more than that.  On behalf CI’s editors, advisors and authors, we bid you welcome.  We invite you to explore the site, and to join our mailing list for bulletins and updates.

(Critical Inquiry would like to thank Everett Connor of the University of Chicago Press’ Journals Division for warmly supporting this initiative, and Andre Marques and Ben Koditschek of NSIT at the University of Chicago for designing the site.)

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