Anne Carson's Dialogue of Grief
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Table of Contents Gabrielle Calvocoressi: Introduction Mark Nowak, Ruth Ellen Kocher, Nick Flynn, & Carmen Giménez Smith: Roundtable on Citizen: An American Lyric, Part I Gary Hawkins: Talk and Not Talk: Anne Carson’s Dialogue of Grief Michael Robbins interviews Anahid Nersessian: A Conversation Between Friends Lynn Melnick: I Would Have to Wake Up Young Again: On Bay of Angels, Personal Mythology, and the Enduring Badassery of Diane Wakoski Matthew Spellberg: The Epic Art of the Haida Mythtellers Juan Felipe Herrera: Anthropoetry M.P. Ritger: The Charges Cover: Sarah Conaway (Oval) Moon 2015 Chromogenic Print 27 x 21 1/2” — INTRODUCTION — Hello from Carrboro, North Carolina, where the lilacs have yet to bloom but the azaleas are making a real racket. National Poetry Month has come to an end and we here at LARB Poetry are about to launch a number of new projects and adventures that will take us through the rest of 2015. What better time to look back on the last few months of conversation, inquiry, and poems that we’ve been so honored to host at Los Angeles Review of Books? Right now, for this editor and human, it seems hard to think about anything other than the devastation in Nepal and the senseless violence — and necessary uprising — in Baltimore. If poetry is truly news that stays news, then how can we best have our feet and ears on the ground? That’s what we have always tried to do here in our section: give poets and critics space to report back from their worlds. The essays in this ePub represent poets thinking and struggling with what it is to make poems and what it is to be in a body that’s making poems in the face of a world that often violently resists being written into. There’s the joy of old friends talking. There’s myth and Wakoski and the arrival of The New World by Jorie Graham. And there is Citizen, a book whose cultural relevance is illustrated and amplified each day. We’re glad to have you thinking alongside us. From here. Gabrielle Calvocoressi, Senior Poetry Editor Michael Ursell, Assistant Executive Editor Joshua Rivkin, Assistant Poetry Editor Elizabeth Metzger, Poetry Editor, Quarterly Journal Michael Weinstein & Caitlin Weiss, Poetry Copyeditors Roundtable on Citizen: An American Lyric, Part I Carmen Giménez Smith, Ruth Ellen Kocher, Nick Flynn, Mark Nowak WHEN GABRIELLE CALVOCORESSI, LARB’s poetry editor, invited me to organize a roundtable with writers to talk about this important book, I was both thrilled and terrified. The discourse around race is fraught, but it’s also the most important subject we’re facing today. I invited Mark Nowak, Ruth Ellen Kocher, and Nick Flynn to have this conversation with me because I admire their work, and because they are all writers who are unafraid to talk about even the most difficult issues. This conversation could have gone on for months — all of us felt that this book brought to bear some urgent questions about race, micro- aggression, and power. We are all grateful to Claudia for reminding us that our work as poets can have a great political significance. — Carmen Giménez Smith This is the first of two parts. CARMEN GIMÉNEZ SMITH: I’m really excited to be talking about a poet I consider a hero, and about a highly anticipated book that speaks to a lot of urgent issues. Early on she enunciates one of the book’s themes: [Hennessy] Youngman in his video doesn’t address this type of anger: the anger built up through experience and the quotidian struggles against dehumanization every brown or black person lives simply because of skin color. The anger is generative; I think of the work a controlled fire does. I’m thrilled to read a book that expresses anger, something which is oppressively frowned upon in our liberal humanist circles. This wasn’t the book I expected, but I’m thrilled it’s the book it is. What about you? RUTH ELLEN KOCHER: Carmen, I like that you say, “the work a controlled fire does.” It does seem to me from the first page that this book is doing necessary work. I have to concede that I am, initially, after emerging from this book, at a loss to ask anything of any of you. To ask means that I have to step outside the experience of the book, the experience of a body entering into and then stepping outside of the experience of this book, and somehow objectify that experience in order to “get at” it — the experience of the book, and perhaps also the experience of the body, of my black body. I’m caught up in the act of searching. What do I do? What do I say? What do I say to you? How do I “say” this feeling? How do I contain this feeling? What does that container look like? What can house a feeling like this, feelings like these? So I am confronted at once with the form of this book, and the ways it calls into question the mechanisms whereby we contain these thoughts, these feelings, this language. To what efficacy? What does a script mean to a book of poems? What does an image of Turner’s sublime terror, captured in the flailing limb of a chained body, mean to the poem, to the language that is perhaps poem or not poem, and to you, the reader and witness to this language and these images presented in this particular way? These are many questions, I know, but I want most to ask about the role of form and invention, within a discourse of the body, of identity, maybe even of the self and Other. I’ll add that for some time now, the media has been giving us frequent reports of brutality directed at the black body. These are explosive, politically charged, violent moments. To me, they are obvious moments of degradation. Part of the work in Citizen is to engage the charged moment that is not necessarily explosive, not obviously violent, not initially considered political. These micro-aggressions are at the heart of larger conflict. They are stealth. They often fly under the radar. Their impact and the damage they cause is no less catastrophic in the end. We don’t talk much about the psychological violence that gives rise to the physical. Rankine takes us there and makes us sit with it awhile, uncomfortable in our skins, shifting in our seats, shaking our heads. NICK FLYNN: I’ve also been waiting for this book for a long time and am thrilled to have this chance to talk to the three of you about it, and about its impact, which will be far-reaching. Ruth, in some ways I also do not know what to say, after emerging from these pages, except that I felt utterly alert to every word while reading it. One of its projects, it seems, is how — or if — one is able to navigate through the feelings these micro-aggressions bring up. Carmen, you start with Rankine’s reference to Youngman’s video How to Be a Successful Black Artist, where he proposes an enactment of anger as a way to fulfill (white) expectations. Rankine aligns this type of anger (enactment) with Serena Williams’s (seeming) embodiment of anger, after a history of bad calls against her by line judges. Though, tellingly, the final explosion of anger comes at a justified call against her. Rankine wonders if Serena “has come across Hennessy’s Art Thoughtz and is channeling his assertion that the less that is communicated the better. Be ambiguous.” MARK NOWAK: I totally agree, Nick (and all). And that brings up a question from Rankine’s book that seems central to my own thinking about Citizen, and I ask it of all of us — how difficult is it for one body to feel the injustice “wheeled” at another? And together with this — how does your reading of Citizen: An American Lyric make you think through this question, and your response to it, differently. CGS: The use of the word wheeled, which seems important to reading the book, captures the relentless cycles of race and power Rankine is critiquing. While reading the book, especially the first section, I found myself audibly whispering, No. No, this can’t be true, I was thinking, Surely not now, even though another deep part of me thought, of course, and I know this. I think the cycle is also interminable and the book’s relentless quality is a rhetorical evocation of this cycle. The truth is — and I think what this book reminds us is — that we glance past the experience of blackness because it’s easier, because we don’t know what to do or because it seems insurmountable, unaddressable. The book’s urgency doesn’t let the reader off the hook (and I don’t want it to, especially since I come to literature to be transformed). REK: Yes, Carmen and Mark. I’m thinking of that transference of injustice wheeled from one body to another as something akin to the cumulative effect of grief and mourning — how the loss of someone always recalls, freshly, the last loss, so you live through each simultaneously and as if for the first time. I respond, in thought, of course, and I know this, but also No. No, this can’t be true again. NF: The question “how difficult is it for one body to feel the injustice wheeled at another” does seem central. It’s from the section of the book where the “Situations” are located, the texts/scripts of her collaborations with her husband/video artist John Lucas.