Complexity and Chaos: Sensible Nonsense

The woodcut print at the end of this post is its apt punctuation.  A part of a series of apocalyptic prints inspired by The Revelation of St. John, this one is called “St. John Devours the Book,” by Albrecht Durer, 1497-1498 AD.” What sense does it make to anyone?

Now: I wanted to add this link to a wonderful interview with president of the Santa Fe Institute David Krakauer, “Take me to the limit,” which appeared today on Science Radio Cafe.  His careful explanations of myriad limits are fun, as much as they are useful for understanding the complexities of the universe and realizing what we can/cannot reasonably communicate about them.

His interview reminded me of a recent lecture I attended at Virginia Military Institute where Kelly Dean Jolley tackled Wittgenstein’s paradoxical puzzlement: “if a lion could speak, we could not understand him.”  After a busy semester teaching rhetoric and composition, I could hardly stop and think about Jolley’s lecture, until today, and what a blessing to be able to spend added time listening to Krakauer tackle comparable communication breakdowns–when it comes to tackling limits!

Ah, this is the same with poetic expression, too!  There are times when I come to a place where the language is just that: sensible nonsense.  At those times, I know my poem doesn’t quite make sense, and so, while I can sense the experience, I simply cannot understand it, even when the words I use are mine.  Yet, there is comfort in knowing that this communication breakdown is still a gateway for communicating an experience.  Yes, poets can make no sense.

I will share one example, a poem I wrote in response to Winston’s mother’s suffering in George Orwell’s 1984, a novel which explores the limits of suffering:

The Immutability of Change

for Winston’s mother

What we have here, Winston,
Is tried terrain taken again
By another, and the mothers
Making do with a lick on the brink
Of what pours over and is lost:
Milk spills pursed lips;
Salt pours shorn shakers;
Water boils naked pails.
This is what I know
Of the immutability of change:
It is kept with the worm-worn crackers
And rolled between twice-boiled bones.

Here is another one, “Wainscot Rats,” published in Driftwood Press 2.2, pages 52-55, followed by an interview in which I share a bit about the terror of reading 1984 and the process I used to write “Wainscot Rats.”  How can anyone approach that limit where an emergent apocalypse hinges on unimaginable catastrophes and suffering?  How does a poet speak this clearly?

All together, I have fifteen of these Orwellian poems, all written in response to 1984 and energized by Kirsten Miles’ careful attention during a recent Tupelo 30/30 poetry project. Hopefully, over the summer, no matter how incommunicable, they will multiply into a book-length collection deserving of an audience!

09apocal

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Sacred Harp Singing: Glossolalia, Polyphony, and Participatory Singing

What possible value could untrained, localized voices have for singing?  None, especially in this age of commercialism where we can buy the best for our listening pleasure, passive though our listening is.  Could participatory singing be more valuable for community building than the more passive state of “listening” most of us are accustomed to today?  After all, we are comfortable with consumption and the perfection it houses, but is music consumerism best for the hearts and souls of men?

I wouldn’t be wondering about this at all, had my son Hal not asked me about shape note singing and shared that his music appreciation professor at Sewanee was requiring him to attend a shape note singing meeting.  When Hal mentioned shape note singing to me, I remembered my dad talking about singing in the churches he attended as a boy–some of them Primitive Baptist–and how memorable it was for him, though he is now a man grown divided against the Church.

More than once, my dad told me about Elder Golden Harris and my Great Uncle Monroe Simpkins travelling to New York City from Floyd County, Virginia, for a recording session.  Uncle Monroe became so frozen with fear that he could not sing at the recording sessions, leaving Elder Golden Harris to finish the sessions alone.  I even related this in a poem which appears in Floyd County Moonshine.  Just a little superficial research online connects Elder Golden Harris with the rich heritage of shape note singing and American music that emerged from it: blues, blue grass, country, and other popular music, even rock-n-roll.

Well, let’s just cut to the chase: shape note singing is a “low church” activity.  In fact, when the shape note singers are getting warmed up, they explore just four notes in melodies without words, and the warm up practically hinges on glossolalia.  These religious distinctions aside, what I want to explore, though, is polyphony, a type of singing which is disappearing worldwide, church or not.

Polyphony is a musical gift for the people, an awe-inspiring and disordered order which permeates folk as well as religious music.  I would go as far as to call it a “joyful noise.”  Most common in sub-Saharan Africa, polyphonic singing is known to be integral to community building.  Heartfelt, resonant, wrenching…these are words that I can use today to describe this singing, though polyphonic singing really just captures my heart and makes me shut up.

There is something of complex systems in polyphony, where the rules run the show, but the show shifts on a dime.  As the fabric of variable voices erupts, I am rapt.  Albanian, sub-Sarahan, Georgian, Appalachian American, as I search polyphonic singing worldwide, I discover a unity denied people by the recent academic march against universality.  Yet, there it is, universal expression, evident for anyone who really wants to inquire.

Please check out the embedded links below, and last but not least, the bowling balls.  They co-join in spectacular, predictable paths, even through phases of relative chaos.

Scaling: Michael Martone Explores Perspective in His Prose Poem “Scale”

“From the air, the world, falling away below, grew so small.” is the opener for Michael Martone‘s prose poem “Scale,” appearing in Pleiades, Volume 34, Issue 1.  This poem explores the lives of Art Smith, “The Bird Boy of Fort Wayne,” and Paul Guillow, a naval aviator whom Smith meets during the Great War.  The single word “scale” mediates this poem, appearing first as the title, three eighths of an inch tall, and repeated throughout to punctuate sections of the text at two-eighths, one-eighth, one-sixteenth, and one-thirty secondths of an inch, respectively.  Surveying the font size as it syncopates the text, the reader can figure that the narrative approach is divided against itself, scaling toward an epiphany, likely to be apprehended at zero, perhaps the point ahead where Smith somehow arrives after he “would, the next year, mistake light in a farmyard for the lights of the landing strip in Toledo” (35).

In the final section of Martone’s poem, “Your eyes can play tricks on you.”  It is here where Martone invites the reader to consider scale and perspective by taking the reader into Smith’s cockpit where he once “held up the coin, the thin little wafer tweezed between his fingers, held it at arms length, and saw it blot out any inkling of another nearby world in all that nearby closing darkness” (35).  That “nearby world” is the moon, or is it?

How many times have I tried the same moon-dime trick that Martone explores in “Scale,” bewitched in childhood by a large, glowing harvest moon slipping up from the horizon, only to rediscover that it has a dime’s worth of circumference, regardless of how big it appears against the horizon.  I hope I have broadened my perspective since then–past childish things such as the dime and moon conundrum–by realizing that it is also an illusion to believe that something measurable can be measured with certainty, for the measurement depends on scale and perspective.  I am not arguing against the objective existence of a thing, only that mankind cannot necessarily apprehend it by measuring, because a single shift of scale alters the measurement.

Martone’s “Scale” is an evocative poem where one man–filled with a child’s glow–confuses his perspectives and measures reality against the wrong scale, somehow slipping away in darkness.

However, there is something about scaling that could also speak to transcendence.  It is the power of scaling that enables my own imagination to reach beyond Euclidean space toward the fourth dimension, as much as scientists are now realizing the intermediate force of scaling in dynamical systems that allows them to fill so much space that they, too, can imagine the fourth dimension.

Perhaps a dime’s worth of circumference was the wrong scale with which to measure what Martone so beautifully calls “any inkling of another nearby world in all that nearby closing darkness” (35).

For anyone who would like it, please watch one of my favorite movies from my childhood: it introduces the viewer to scaling in powers of ten!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0fKBhvDjuy0

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