Sound Poetry

There is a form of poetry that happens in performance and is separate from "spoken word," a poetry that basically stresses sound as sound and not as words delivering meaning, etc. Even though I don't write (formulate?) material to be presented in such a manner, I do emphasize the role of sound in poetry and its presentation. The use of repetitive sounds - rhyme, alliteration, assonance and consonance - have always been a staple in poetry. In "sound poetry" the main emphasis is on vocal sound and how it works, much like music in a way.
I had the good fortune recently to share a stage with bill bissett, Canada's foremost practitioner of the style and probably one of the best in the world. Often his work consists of familiar vocal sounds and the changes that can be worked through and from them.

Sometimes, especially when used with ambient background music or an accompanying voice, the performance begins to feel like a jazz concert with structured improvisations. At other times, especially when he uses rattles or other small percussion instruments, it has the feeling of a tribal chant. And sometimes he makes you wonder if he isn't using a structured language, but one about which you have no knowledge, have never heard or experienced before.

To see the work printed on a page and deal with it like that is more than a challenge. Only with his voice still in your head do the sounds represented by words, scraps of words, approximations of sounds, etc. begin to make any kind of sense.

With bissett, with all sound poetry, the meaning is that mixture of dream and emotion and instinct that resonates with the listener. There is nothing grander than when, in this manner, the poet and audience become one.

Breaking Out

I want to borrow a conceit from an old Rodney Dangerfield joke. He used to proclaim that he "went to the fights and a hockey game broke out." Well, I'm a man of words and letters, so I was surprised the other evening when I went to an opening at an art gallery and a poetry reading broke out.

Now there's nothing new about holding poetry readings in art galleries. It's a good use of dormant space, a means of drawing in customers who might usually not enter the place. Advertise a poetry reading and you attract people not usually drawn in by the visual.

The venue is new. The name perhaps explains its purpose. The Artword Artbar is trying for all it says: a bar/hangout for artists with gallery space and performance space for musicians and writers to showcase; a video component is in development, theatrical pieces are more than welcome.

That's why my visit the other evening was such a joy. The main draw was the opening of a show at the gallery in conjunction with a number of other gallery openings. (The famous 'James North Art Crawl.') Some galleries provide music; here a blues band was playing. When the band took a break, the other activities began. First came an interpretive dancer with violin accompaniment and a video backing. Then the artist whose work was on display and who is also a poet, read from his work. An attempt was made to show an eleven minute "video poem" by the artist/poet but that ran into technical difficulties. And then the band was ready to return.

So, in one evening a conglomerate of the arts. Paintings/sculpture in the gallery. On stage, music and dance, together and separate. An attempt to project videography. And in the midst of it all, poetry - poetry where it belongs, in there with and equal to all the other arts.

I wish the Artword Artbar well. We need more multi-use spaces in the arts/culture community.

(P.S. I'm reading there on Sun. October 18 as part of the launch of an anthology in memory of Al Purdy, And Left A Place To Stand On. Come down and inspect the venue, talk to the owners and the writers, buy a book or two.)

A Sense of Community

Last Thursday I attended a book launch that became something other than simply that. Let me explain.

Brian Prince, Bookseller hosted an event introducing the publications of two local writers. Because the book store is also commemorating twenty years of service to the community, the event became a celebration of that community and the store as its focus.

Aside from the obvious literary connections to a bookstore, there were artists from other disciplines involved. The venue was a private art gallery with all the plastic arts represented. As well as the authors reading - one poetry, the other creative non-fiction - there was a presentation by a singer/songwriter. And the audience gathered seemed a good cross-section from different arts groups and backgrounds.

Gathered together at that event in that place and for that purpose, it was evident how vigorous the local arts community is. Truly something to celebrate, and to take note of the many diverse venues, organisations, etc. that serve as a temporary or more permanent focal point.

Satisfaction

I want to get a little personal today; bear with me.

Saturday had all the makings for a disheartening, self-pitying, miserable day. It rained hard and constantly before, during, and after sunrise. I didn't want to get groceries but could put it off no longer. And I had obligations to fulfill.

At four in the afternoon I was supposed to be in Cambridge, attending the launch of a volume of poetry by a friend. I had promised a ride to two local friends so I couldn't honestly excuse myself. We went. The reading, surprisingly enough, was warm and moving. Hmmm.

After dropping off one of us at home, my other friend and I continued on to join Hamilton Blues Lovers at a series of acts at the Burlington Sound of Music Festival, blues at the OLG stage. I didn't want to put up with loud music, crowds, wet grounds and more rain butI had chosen the event for the HBL and therefore again felt some obligation.

The music did its magic. It lifted me up out of my funk. By the end of the evening I was rocking and bopping in my shoes. Driving home I was filled with a sense of satisfaction I had no reason to expect.

It reminded me of a poem I wrote some years ago about the tedium of daily living. I ended with:

All I really need

is a course of Oscar Peterson's piano,

with Odetta's contralto on the side,

and a helping of (your) poems

for desert.

It still works. The combination of words and music takes me out of myself into an existence I can reach no other way. Words and music. Poetry and the blues. Oh yeah.

In the Neighbourhood

This past Wednesday was the last one in National Poetry Month and our local Community Council (Strathcona) decided to observe it. To present nationally recognized poets who are a part of this neighbourhood, they hosted a celebration that evening at the Tapestry Bistro, the one replacing the Staircase's cafe.

When I was first approached, I was enthusiastic until I found it was to be held on a Wednesday when the Tapestry would be available. (The SCC usually holds its community events on Tuesdays.) On Wednesday evenings I have a commitment to be elsewhere. However, with a few suggestions, including one to get a musician to perform some music between sets and so fill out the program, I found that I would be able to get there toward the end and then perform. Two days beforehand, I discovered that the musician who was scheduled to perform was an old friend; he and I had shared a stage before but there wasn't enough time to make any formal arrangements. Perhaps we could improvise something.When I arrive just about intermission time, I was astonished! The place was full of people, attentive while a performer was at the mike and buzzing with fellowship when the opportunity arose. The staff was kept so busy they had difficulty satisfying everybody.

When my musician friend took to the stage to play his guitar during intermission I approached him with a request not to play two tunes. I wanted him to join me later and use those two (which I knew were in his reportoire) as background for two of the poems I intended to perform.

When my turn came I began with a formal poem followed by one dealing with a location in the neighbourhood. I then invited the guitarist to join me. He played a swaying melody to back a poem about falling rain, and a more ethereal one to back one about a ghost and an eclipse. I finished alone with a wryly humourous one.

The whole experience was excellent. It brought back for me all the old memories of poetry events at the Staircase. The food, drink, and ambience were first class. The S C C was quite pleased at the turnout; I hope the Tapestry Bistro was too. In case others were not aware of it, poetry is not necessarily a trite bit of "high" culture but a connecting voice in holding a community together, expressing its hopes and dreams. Recognition and acceptance of those facts can invigorate the life of a neighbourhood, a city, a country. The Bread & Roses Cafe should not be the only viable venue for poetry in this city.

Poetry Reading

Three days after the fact the experience still stays with me so I guess I should share it with you. It wasn't supposed to be anything out of the ordinary, just a regular reading. Lit Live on the first Sunday of February. A good, solid series but with no special "names" this time and the curse of competing with the Superbowl. I knew two of the readers; the other two I didn't.

The house was reasonable, not crowded. That was to be expected. What I hadn't expected was four poets instead of the usual mix of poetry, fiction, perhaps non-fiction. I hadn't paid any attention to the publicity; I just figured it would be, for me, a good antidote to the most over-hyped football game of the year.

But there was a magic that happened that night. I don't know if it was simply my percxeption or if it was shared by others, and that doesn't matter. This is what happened for me.


Each poet read from his own work, with his own voice, on his own themes. I realize that. What struck me was that the "voices" of these four poets, not the physical but the metaphysical, the presentation of the poetry blended so well. Each one, reading in his own space, became part of a common blend, a meld. Within me the whole experience became something other. The material, the personalities, the presentations, all seemed to build one on the other. At the end of the evening I knew something different had happened but was unsure of what it could be.


I thought I could compare it to a voice quartet, a barbershop piece perhaps, but that didn't quite fit. I was nosing through my recordings yesterday and came across something I hadn't listened to in many years. In the late 60s, early 70s, I was intrigued by an artist named Sandy Bull and how he layered different tones and instrumenst into one rich and full performance. I listened and recognized that what he had recorded musically had happened in my head and soul with sound and poetry. The realization provided a structure, a frame for this enigmatic happening, an anchor to hold it close as part of my personal knowledge.


God, let me never lose this memory.

More About Haiku

Last Thursday the Poetry Centre hosted a reading at Bryan Prince, Bookseller by the East Coast poet Bryan Bartlett which left me unsastisfied and more than a little dismayed by several matters in his presentation. I want to deal with one of those here.

He read selections from what he claimed were three "haiku series." Now a lot seemed to be missing, either from his way of presentation or his understanding of "haiku" and probably a combination of the two. It certainly left this part of the audience wondering.

Because I had (and have) no copy of his material in hand I cannot comment on form or format on the page; from the way it was read, there was no sense of line or thought breaks, no pause giving emphasis. I can only criticize according to my emotional response to the material presented. And that was nil.

But this is what haiku is. By presenting an image in its strength and clarity without extraneous baggage hanging on, the haiku poet demands visceral response from his audience/reader. He uses every word carefully, saying as much as possible through the associations each word carries. This Bartlett never did. I can remember not one clear image, not one emotional note he touched. All I remember from those three separate haiku sequences he purported to lay before us was the story that he had read once in Toronto with a nephew improvising guitar lines. (I did the same twenty years ago with a professional saxophonist; the resulting combination can be mesmerizing.) Whatever magic that might have held was not present here.

About magic: much of the strength of the best haiku lies in a sense of Zen Buddhism. its essence is the capture and transmission of the "haiku moment," as North American haiku poets would have it. What that comes down to is a small sense of enlightenment, a clearer understanding of a part of existence that may have seemed insignificant, a satori if you will. The Masters create this with their choice of image, by comparing or contrasting (which must happen in the mind of the reader/listener), by presenting a small series for consideration, all leading to that point where the mind/spirit says "Aha!" This was sadly lacking.

The only thing I came away with (pertaining only to his "haiku") was the memory of several polysyllabic words which seemed as relevant to haiku as my finger to the shape of this galaxy.


I suppose it is only fair to display some of my own, hoping that they may illustrate the principles I'm talking about.


across the ravine
a deer watches silently
as my feet stumble


such an expanse of water
and one lone windsurfer
November breeze


Simple images; seasonal reference to set mood; let the reader's mind do the work.