From Pre-Face to a Symposium
on Ethnopoetics (1975)
There is a Seneca
Indian song, a song that is part of a medicine society & ceremony
called "shaking the pumpkin" or "the society of
the mystic animals" or "the society of shamans,"
which I have translated elsewhere in a more elaborate form than
I will give here. But it is a key, in what it says, to the bewilderment
I feel at where my own poetry & the poetry of my generation
has taken me to this place, for example, where I am to
be celebrating a poetry of performance in our time tied up in
some ways we have yet to define to a poetry of performance in
those cultures we may think of as "primitive" or "primary"
or "primal." The words of the Seneca song, which I translated
with the Seneca singer, Richard Johnny John, go like this (the
title is our own addition):
I
WAS SURPRISED TO FIND
MYSELF OUT HERE &
ACTING LIKE A CROW
I didnt think Id
shake the pumpkin
not just here & now
not exactly tonight
I didnt think Id
rip some meat off
not just here & now
not exactly tonight
Now, I had not
shaken the pumpkin before, had not sung before or sung before
to a rattle: I had not done any of these things & it would
have seemed foolish to me then to have done them. It did seem
foolish but at a point I was doing them & it no longer seemed
foolish, seemed necessary if anything I had said about it before
had a meaning. My own origins, from which I had been running for
most of my own grown life, should have told me as well, if I had
been able then to give them my attention, for the living tradition
of the Jews is also "oral," from the mouth, & even
in an age of writing, the word must be renewed by the process
of "speaking" & of "sounding." It is by
such sounding & voicing (this near eruption into song) that
the attention is brought to focus on the sources of the poem,
the song, the discourse, in the prior act of composition (making
or receiving), which was itself an act of focusing attention.
In creating that attention, that intensity, the Senecas, who are
otherwise as removed as we are from the primitive condition, begin
the ceremony by invoking those "mystic animals" who
were the first keepers of the song., who came once in a vision
to a hunter lost & wounded in the woods, to cure him &
leave him with a set of keys by which to summon them again. Thee
ceremony begins in darkness, then the rattle sounds & makes
a kind of light, a heat, that moves around the circle of those
joined in the performance.
(At this point
there follows a chanting, with rattle, of the opening songs
to "Shaking the Pumpkin," translated by myself &Richard
Johnny John)
Now, what has
happened here, at least for me, is not a separated series of events
or actions but a totality that I no longer want to break into
its component parts: to isolate the words, say, as the poem. For
my experience is the experience of everything that happens to
me in that act: the movement of my arm, the sound (& feel)
of pebbles against horn, the way that breaks across my voice,
the tension in my throat, the full release of breath, the emptying
that leaves me weak & ready to receive the next song, the
song occurring, rising out of memory, becoming voice, becoming
sound, becoming physical again & then returning into silence.
And it is also this room, this time & place, these others
here with me. The event is different from the event of composition
(in this case, to further complicate the matters, involves a second
composition-by-translation), but the poem is everything-that-happens:
& if it is, then to insist that it is only part of it (the
words), is to mistake the event, to miss that total presence.
Before I am anything
else, I am a poet & (living in the time I do) a stand-up performer
of my own poetry. It is better for me to do poetry than
to talk about it. I do it first & then I sound it:
this is doing it a second time, a third a fourth a fifth time,
to renew it by the sounding. My performance is the sounding of
a poem: it is renewal of the poem, the poems enlivening.
Without this sounding there would be no poem as I have come to
do it (though, since I work by writing, there would be notes about
the poem as I intended it). This is the return to voice, to song,
as the poet Gary Snyder speaks of it; it is one side of the impulse
towards the oral, toward a poetry of performance, as is that other
side, discourse, that the poet David Antin speaks of. Poetry becomes
the sounding not the script apart from, the preparation
or notation, but the sounding. Where there is no writing, the
sounding truly renews the poem, creates it in each instance, for
here there is no poem without performance. Writing, that strange
aid to memory, eventually becomes its surrogate, displaces memory
itself the first, great Muse. The poetry sounding becomes
the poetry reading. This is the condition under which most
of us work. If others would go more deeply into orality, would
bring composition & performance together in a single, improvised
event, that would also be welcome. But I would like to describe
it as it now is for me & why I have sought my model of the
poem-as-performance (the poem in action) in the domain of what
I came to call the "ethnopoetic."
As a stand-up
performer the poet retains a solitary stance. He is in no way
the playwright of the old verse dramas, but the central (typically
the only) figure in a performance in which he must play
a part. The part he plays is the poet-as-himself, performing in
a theater as yet without an actor or much of anything else
besides what the poet brings: words & a voice. The difference
between the poet & the actor is somehow crucial: the basis
of the poetry performance is in fact hostile to the presence,
the manner, of the professional actor. That the poet as performer
is otherwise motivated, otherwise related to the poem, is here
a shared assumption: in insistence on a lack of separation between
the maker & his work, & of a virtual innocence of any
means of performance beyond the ones immediately to hand. The
poets delivery may vary, he may read easily or he may falter,
he may digress, he may drift at times into a drunken incoherence,
he may fulfill or disappoint our expectations of how a poem is
spoken. Somehow it is enough that he has risked himself to do
as much as he can do: to stand there as a witness to his words,
he who alone can sound them. That kind of witnessing is not without
its precedents, as in the sounding of the written "law"
within the ancient Jewish Temple, where the reader (sounder)w
was the witness to the meaning of a text devoid of vowels. It
is one arrangement (there are others) that maintains the oral
basis of a poetry, its openness, once we have entered on an age
of writing. In the poetry of our own time, with its use of an
approximate & highly individualized notation, the measure
of a poem (& much of its meaning) is likewise only clear when
it is being sounded: in this case sounded by its maker. The poet
when he sounds his poem is witness to the way it goes, the way
it came to happen in the first place. He is in fact the witness
to a (prior) vision, to an image-of-the-world expressed through
word & sound. The failure to communicate is a failure to communicate
his credibility: his own relation to those words, that vision.
The actor may attempt to take his place (& in certain kinds
of theater today the actors have become the makers & sounders
of their own words), but as a witness to the poets words
the actors credibility has yet to be established.
There is a widespread
idea that the poets of our time, the artists in general, have
abandoned the possibility of relating to poets of other times
as models: that we live without a vision of ourselves as historical
beings but are locked into an eternal present, not so much an
opportunity as a trap. I have never seen our condition in those
terms have rather seen us as freeing ourselves, on the
basis of conditions in the world itself, to a wider, more generous
view of the past, of the historical totality of human experience,
than has ever been possible. This process has been going on at
least from the time of the Romantics, & it has produced a
number of new images, new models or visions of the past, from
which we now can draw. (Like any historical search, it functions
to heighten our awareness of the present & the future.)
Increasingly,
the model, the prototype, of the poet has become the "shaman":
the solitary, inspired religious functionary of the late paleolithic.
Partly this has been because of our own involvement with the kind
of solitary, stand-up performance that I was just describing,
But there is also a second side to it: the visionary & ecstatic,
& a third perhaps, the communal. I will not concentrate on
the last two (although they are in some ways the real heart of
the matter) but will try to focus on the shamans (proto-poets)
way of going/speaking/singing: his performance. In deeper, if
often more confused sense, what is involved here is the search
for a primal ground: a desire to bypass a civilization that has
become problematic & to return, briefly, often by proxy, to
the origins of our humanity. Going back in time we continue to
find diversity & yet, maybe because were looking at
it from the wrong end, the picture emerges of an intertribal,
universal culture (& behind a poetics) that has a number of
discernable, definable features. The most direct inheritors of
this culture up to their virtual disappearance in our time
are those hunting & gathering peoples, remnants of
whom now exist as an endangered & ultimately doomed "fourth
world." Far from being mere "wild men," mere fantasizing
children, they had a world-view marked (Paul Radin tells us) by
a strong sense of realism ("reality at white heat")
or, according to Stanley Diamond, " (by) modes of thinking
(that) are substantially concrete, existential & nominalistic,
within a personalistic context" & supremely able to "sustain
contradictions."
Here the dominant
religious functionary is the shaman: he is the one who sees/the
one who sings/the one who heals. He is not yet the bard, the tribal
historian. He is not necessarily the speaker. He is typically
withdrawn: experiences long periods of silence, other periods
of exaltation. He may inherit his words, his songs, from others
or he may come on them directly in a vision or a trance. He may
be a prolific songmaker or he may be constantly renewing a small,
fixed body of song. He may have helpers but typically he works
alone. He may improvise within the actual performance of his rites,
but more often he will sound, will activate, the words or songs
delivered at another time & place.
So, among us the
poet has come to play a performance role that resembles that of
the shaman. (This is more than coincidence because there is an
underlying ideology: communal, ecological, even historical: an
identification with late paleolithic ideology & social organization,
seen as surviving in the "great subcultures" within
the later city-states, civilization, etc.) The poet like the shaman
typically withdraws to solitude to find his poem or vision, then
returns to sound it, to give it life. He performs alone (or very
occasionally with assistance, as in the work of Jackson Mac Low,
say), because his presence is considered crucial & no other
specialist has arisen to act in his place. He is also like
the shaman in being at once an outsider, yet a person needed for
the validation of a certain kind of experience important to the
group. And even in societies otherwise hostile or indifferent
to poetry as "literature," he may be allowed a range
of deviant, even antisocial behavior that many of his fellow-citizens
do not enjoy. Again like the shaman, he will not only be allowed
to act mad in public, but he will often be expected to do so.
The act of the shaman & his poetry is like a
public act of madness. It is like what the Senecas, in their great
dream ceremony now obsolete, called "turning the mind upside
down." It shows itself as a release of alternative possibilities.
"What do they want?" the poet wonders of those who watch
him in his role of innocent, sometimes reluctant performer. But
what? To know that madness is possible & that the contradictions
can be sustained. From the first shaman that solitary person
it flows out to whole companies of shamans, to whole societies
of human beings: it heals the sickness of the body but more than
that: the sickness of the soul. It is a "mode of thinking"
& of acting that is "substantially concrete, existential
& nominalistic, within a personalistic context" &
"supremely able to sustain contradictions." It is the
primal exercise of human freedom against/ & for the tribe.
Now, as many questions
are left as are answered. Does the poem really heal? Or what kind
of poem or song, or discourse, does heal or sustain contradictions
or turn the mind upside down? What is the basis for seeing
in cultures & poetries so far removed from us the kind of
conjunctions I have so far assumed? And if the move from the "oral"
to the "literal" was tied up, as I believe it was, with
the need of an emergent class of rulers for a more rigorous arrangement
of society, why should we now expect a movement in the opposite
direction? It is as yet hard to say, for our whole poetics (not
just our ethnopoetics) is, like our life in general, up
for grabs. What do we say about the function of our poetry, the
thing we do? That it explores. That it initiates thought or action.
That it proposes its own displacement. That it allows vulnerability
& conflict. That it remains, like the best science, constantly
open to change: to a continual change in our idea of what a poem
is or may be. What language is. What experience is. What reality
is. That for many of us it has become a fundamental process for
the play & interchange of possibilities.
And it has come
out of a conflict more or less deeply felt with
inherited forms of poetry, literature, language, discourse: not
in every instance but where these are recognized as repressive
structures, forms of categorical thinking that act against that
other free play of possibilities just alluded to. Against these
inherited forms, the conventional literature that no longer fed
us, we have both searched for & invented other forms. Some
of us have doggedly gone from there to a reviewing of the entire
poetic past (of any poetry for that matter outside the immediate
neighborhood) from the point of view of the present. Here there
are two process involved not mutually exclusive. On the
one hand the contemporary forms (the new means that we invent)
make older forms visible: & on the other hand, the forms that
we uncover elsewhere help us in the reshaping, the resharpening,
of our own tools. The past, come alive, is in motion with us.
It is no longer somewhere else but, like the future, here
which is the only way it can be, toward a poetry of changes.
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