Mónica de la Torre
In the words of Raymond Queneau, Oulipo’s co-founder, Oulipians are “Rats who build the labyrinth from which they will try to escape.” Even if you’ve never heard of Oulipo, if you’ve written something beside e-mails, then you probably know what this metaphor means. You have an idea in your head, you start putting it down on the page, and as you go along you realize that it simply keeps getting muddier, to the point that you forget what you thought you wanted to say in the first place. Every word that you jot down brings to mind an onslaught of other words and ideas that lead you further and further away from your original intention. If you allow yourself to go wherever these associations take you, then you are practicing what the Surrealists referred to as “automatic writing”. If you think that you’d be cheating by considering the results as a poem, for instance, because the writing wasn’t thought out or transformative enough, then you’d be closer to the spirit of the Oulipo.
The connection between the two literary movements is not arbitrary; Queneau had been a Surrealist but defected from its ranks in the 1930s after a riff with André Breton. The motto of the movement he founded with mathematician Francois Le Lionnais in Paris in 1960—which would eventually be called the Ouvrior de Littérature Potentielle (hence the acronym OuLiPo)—was “the only literature is voluntary writing.” They were responding to the limitations of what they considered “eructative” or “shriek” writing, which, in their opinion, lacked literary merit, and of “experimental” writing that was conducted without scientific rigor.
The concerns of the original members of the Oulipo were, at least, two-fold: on the one hand they wanted to write literature that could not be easily consumed and disposed of, literature that was always in the making. The paramount example of this type of text is Queneau’s Cent Mille Milliards de poèmes, which contains ten sonnets whose lines can be detached and permutated in one hundred thousand billion ways (10 to the 14th power). Astoundingly, Queneau ensured that no possible combination of lines would break the rhyme scheme and that any given resulting sonnet would be grammatically correct. He estimated that no single person would be able to read all the potentially possible sonnets and even devised a reading machine that would facilitate one’s handling of the piece.
Oulipians also wanted to devise a system to guarantee that writers would not run out of innovative formal possibilities. As Queneau wrote in the 1963 essay “Potential Literature,” their objective was, “To propose new ‘structures’ to writers, mathematical in nature, or to invent new artificial or mechanical procedures that will contribute to literary activity: props for inspiration as it were, or rather, in a way, aids for creativity.” The more popular procedures involve following numerical, alphabetical, graphic, and prosodic constraints, which can always be combined and recombined to generate an infinite array of new forms. Thanks to the Oulipo, poets with writers’ block can explore lipograms, perverbs, antonymic translations, homophonic translations, spoonerisms, centos, heterograms, pangrams, and a myriad of other forms instead of agonizing over the blank page. They can even treat preexisting texts by subjecting them to operations, such as the ubiquitous N+7, which consists of replacing each noun in a text with the seventh following it in a given dictionary.
If it’s true that a lot of these procedures were not coined by Oulipians and some even hark back to Antiquity, the Oulipo must be given credit for rescuing them from literary oblivion and adding more forms to the tradition. A book like the Oulipo Compendium, published in 1998, has made language play seem accessible to anyone willing to try their hand at the different forms and procedures it features, or at inventing new ones. Predictably, this rather hands-on approach to writing is exactly what many writers dislike about the Oulipo. In this age of MFAs, Oulipians could seem like the “anticipatory plagiarists”—their term for forerunners—of creative writing exercises that tend to generate monotonous work with a limited post-workshop lifespan. Yet other more esoteric approaches to writing might have equal, if not worse, fates.
Where can poetry go when the language of emotions has been taken over by the media and the corporate world, and a catchy phrase like “Your life is waiting” can appear on a TV commercial for antidepressants? Whatever its detractors might think, the Oulipo’s radical formalism has promoted literature with quite a few much-needed qualities: first off, its constraints tend to keep psychobabble out of the picture. It tends to be humorous and less concerned with what is said than with how it is said. Besides, its composition raises relevant questions about formal issues, literary conventions, and the value of artifice. Is there anything intrinsically meaningful about, say, the sonnet? As with any other artificial literary structure, the sonnet was merely one among many until the form’s endurance and popularity invested it with its current aura. A different approach to the writing process and a search for fresh forms that might have more resonance for us today can only enrich the current landscape, as two of the best poetry books in recent years already have, using Oulipian constraints: Sleeping with the Dictionary, by Harryette Mullen, and Christian Bök’s Eunoia (the title is the shortest word in English to contain all five vowels and means “beautiful thinking”).
To this reader, the best works of art result from the happy marriage between the will towards form and that other elusive component, call it the intangible, the ecstatic, depth, or meaning itself. Blame it on my Catholic upbringing or on a Baroque sensibility: the more difficult the task, the better it feels to achieve it. Or put differently, the more intricate the labyrinth, the happier the rat who escapes from it.
Note: You can read François Le Lionnais First and Second Manifesto, as well as other key essays by Oulipians including Raymond Queneau and Georges Perec, in Oulipo: A Primer of Potential Literature, translated and edited by Warren F. Motte (Dalkey Archive Press, 1998). The most complete handbook on Oulipian forms and procedures in English is the Oulipo Compendium, compiled by Harry Mathews and Alistair Brotchie (Atlas Press, 1998).
Diarsipkan di bawah: Poezia & Arte
Mónica de la Torre
Not to search for meaning, but to reedify a gesture, an intent.
As a translator, one grows attached to originals. Seldom are choices
so purposeful.
At midday, the translator meets with the poet at a café at the intersection
where for decades whores and cross-dressers have lined up at
night for passers-by to peruse.
Not a monologue, but an implied conversation. The translator’s
response is delayed.
The translator asks, the poet answers unrestrictedly. Someone
watches the hand movements that punctuate the flow of an
incomprehensible dialogue.
They’re speaking about the poet’s disillusionment with Freud.
One after another, vivid descriptions of the poet’s dreams begin to
pour out of his mouth. There’s no signal of irony in his voice.
Nor a hint of astonishment, nor a suggestion of hidden meanings,
rather a belief in the detritus theory.
“Se me aparece un gato fosforescente. Lo sostengo en mis brazos
sabiendo que no volveré a ser el mismo.”
“Estoy en una fiesta. De pronto veo que el diablo está sentado frente
a mí. Viste de negro, lleva una barba puntiaguda y un tridente en
la mano izquierda. Es tan amable que nadie se da cuenta de que
no es un invitado como los otros.”
“Anuncian en el radio que Octavio Paz leerá su poema más reciente:
‘Vaca . . . vaca . . . vaca . . . vaca . . . vaca . . . vaca . . . vaca . . .’”
“Entro a un laboratorio y percibo aromas inusitados. Aún los recuerdo.”
The translator knows that nothing the poet has ever said or written
reveals as much about him as the expression on his face when he
was asked to pose for a picture. He greets posterity with a devilish
grin. To the translator’s delight, he’s forced to repeat the gesture at
least three or four times. The camera has no film.
Gil Scott-Heron
You will not be able to stay home, brother.
You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out.
You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and skip,
Skip out for beer during commercials,
Because the revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox
In 4 parts without commercial interruptions.
The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon
blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John
Mitchell, General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat
hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be brought to you by the
Schaefer Award Theatre and will not star Natalie
Woods and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia.
The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal.
The revolution will not get rid of the nubs.
The revolution will not make you look five pounds
thinner, because the revolution will not be televised, Brother.
There will be no pictures of you and Willie May
pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run,
or trying to slide that color television into a stolen ambulance.
NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8:32
or report from 29 districts.
The revolution will not be televised.
There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of Whitney Young being
run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process.
There will be no slow motion or still life of Roy
Wilkens strolling through Watts in a Red, Black and
Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving
For just the proper occasion.
Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and Hooterville
Junction will no longer be so damned relevant, and
women will not care if Dick finally gets down with
Jane on Search for Tomorrow because Black people
will be in the street looking for a brighter day.
The revolution will not be televised.
There will be no highlights on the eleven o’clock
news and no pictures of hairy armed women
liberationists and Jackie Onassis blowing her nose.
The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb,
Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom
Jones, Johnny Cash, Englebert Humperdink, or the Rare Earth.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be right back after a message
bbout a white tornado, white lightning, or white people.
You will not have to worry about a dove in your
bedroom, a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl.
The revolution will not go better with Coke.
The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath.
The revolution will put you in the driver’s seat.
The revolution will not be televised, will not be televised,
will not be televised, will not be televised.
The revolution will be no re-run brothers;
The revolution will be live.
FUN DA MENTAL
Gentlemen for far too long something has been going on
Under our very noses
A storm is brewing but not many know this
But know this- we must awake from the slumber before our great nations goes under thru the sheer weight of numbers
THEY DON’T KNOW DON’T YOU KNOW THE ROAD BACK HOME HAS COME- girl vox
We must recognise and realise we are not here to practise but preserve democracy
This is our philopsy –
we must maintain this status in order by ordering the solution as prescribed by evolution
I know well that fear has reigned in many a tongue and restrained many a son but now the time has come
We must unify the sum of our efforts and diversify our approaches until our efforts achieve their run
This great work has already begun-
incited by the farsighted forefathers initiated in the art of might is more harder and effective when a people demand it itself and keep chasing the wealth, chaving its health
Now its your duty to clock the hard sell –lock ‘em if you have to -no-one will tell –send them to our friends across waters
Utilise already established court orders that apply across boarders
They have served their purpose and at present are not in a position to hurt us
Furthermore
we have a precedent set in the declaration of Balfour
And have millions in store at our beckoned call
We can never fail We can never fail We can never fail
We will forever prevail
THEY DON’T KNOW DON’T YOU KNOW THE ROAD BACK HOME HAS COME
AM TIRED OF THE SIGHT OF YOU – EVERYTHING YOU STAND FOR
YOU SICK AND WEAK AND FICKLE YOUR IDEAL IS
CAN’NT FOOL ME WITH YOUR LIES AND IDEALS
YOUR PAPER THIN – YOUR MADE OF SIN
FUN DA MENTAL
On the day of Vaisakhi, Udham Singh made this solemn prayer,
‘Oh my Guru, May I take revenge on those who murdered my people at Jallianwalla Bagh. I ask for your blessings in this task.
After 20 long years, the hero Udham Singh tracked down the main culprit, Sir Michael O’ Dwyer and exacted his revenge in the home country of his oppressor.
The evil regime was knocked into place by his back handed stroke.
In the house of freedom fighting revolutionaries, was the warrior Bhagat Singh born.
As a child, he vowed to free his country by planting weapons in the fields, in order to arm his people.
It is rare to find a hero such as Bhagat Singh, who laughs in the face of his oppressor at the moment of death.
After shaking the throne of oppression with bombs, he gave his final sacrifice.
The evil regime was knocked into place by his backhanded stroke.
After the massacre at Nankana Sahib, the Sikhs realised that their plight could only be saved by militant action.
The Babbar Akali movement was created to punish the corrupt police, who were just puppets of the evil regime.
The British Government cried out in helplessness at the might of this small but influential group.
Before giving their lives, the Sikh soldiers taught their enemies a lesson that they would never forget.
The evil regime was knocked into place by a backhanded stroke.
The hero of Mysore, Tipu Sultan, swore that he would not spare the British invaders.
‘I will face them in battle and die, sword in hand. Come forward if there is a single brave amongst you’, he shouted.
After defeating the British four times in battle, they finally killed him through deception.
The evil regime was knocked into place by his back handed stroke.
Diarsipkan di bawah: Poezia & Arte
Aimé Césaire
It’s also fine to die in our beds
on a clean pillow
and among our friends.
It’s fine to die, once,
our hands crossed on our chests
empty and pale
with no scratches, no chains, no banners,
and no petitions.
It’s fine to have an undustful death,
no holes in our shirts,
and no evidence in our ribs.
It’s fine to die
with a white pillow, not the pavement, under our cheeks,
our hands resting in those of our loved ones
surrounded by desperate doctors and nurses,
with nothing left but a graceful farewell,
paying no attention to history,
leaving this world as it is,
hoping that, someday, someone else
will change it.
Diarsipkan di bawah: Poezia & Arte
Manzen Kerbaj
http://mazenkerblog.blogspot.com/
2000 years ago, in qana, jesus
transformed water into wine.
today, in qana, the israeli air force
transformed kids into ashes.
today, in beirut, i am not able to transform
this page into a drawing.
Diarsipkan di bawah: Poezia & Arte
Fun’da’mental
http://www.fun-da-mental.co.uk/
The common man has continuously shown the system that he too has the capacity to operate on a similar level to the State albeit with lesser consequences. The ingredients for the “common bomb” are no rocket science and do not require wealth. All action should always be against the symbols of the state and in accordance with a “just” cause. There are those that also dissent, who lead seemingly normal lives. They use their knowledge to jump out of the box of life and use that which the system created for its own self purpose and utilise their intellect upon the very same system. The irony of the State is that it works legitimately and unchallenged, supported by the common man, who pays for the most vicious of weapons. All is justified, encouraged and applauded as the bombs become ever more destructive to human life, yet it is these same nations that through sheer military power preach morality and exclusivity to such weapons and are often the first to use them.
I’m packed up ingredients stacked up my Laptop
Downloaded the military cookbook PDF
Elements everyday chemicals at my reach
Household bleach to extract the potassium
Chlorate Boiling on a hotplate with hate
recipe for disaster plastic bomb blaster
I mix up 5 parts wax to Vaseline
slowly … dissolve in gasoline
add to potassium in a large metal bowl
knead like dough so they bleed real slow
Gasoline evaporates… cool dry place
I’m strapped up cross my chest bomb belt attached
deeply satisfied with the plan I hatched
electrodes connected to a gas cooker lighter
switch in my hand the situation demands
self sacrifice hitting back at vice with a £50 price
I’m 31.. numb …but the hurt is gone
Gonna build a dirty bomb
us this privilege and education
My PHD will free me
Paid of the Ruskies for weapons grade Uranium
Taught myself skills from Pakistan Iran
upgraded its stage two of the plan
Rage… a thermo nuclear density gauge
stolen by the Chechens from a Base in Georgia
I get some cobalt 60 from a food irradiator
so easy to send the infidels to their creator
its takes a dirty mind to build a dirty bomb
The simplicity is numbing genius is dumbing
down the situation to a manageable level
to make the world impossible to live for these devils
a suitcase of semtex a mobile phone trigger
Blow them all to hell for a million dollar figure
I insist I’m a legitimate scientist
paid by the government with your finances
I got a private room in the Whitehouse suite
So I can develop according to presidential Brief
The megaton don Gulf war veteran
The foremost proponent of the neutron bomb
at the centre atomic surrounded on all sides
wrapped in layers of lithium deutaride
the bomb detonates causing lithium to fission into helium
tritium neutrons into Fission
The blast causes shockwaves that melt body fat
uniquely though it leaves the buildings intact
I made the 25 megaton daisy cutter
a great blast radius with very little clutter
There’s less radiation so you get a cleaner bomb
its your money people it cost a billion
Diarsipkan di bawah: Poezia & Arte
It begins, the lament
of the guitar…
and Garcia Lorca sing:
Night-Song of the Andalusian Sailors
From Cádiz to Gibraltar
how fine the road!
The sea knows I go by,
by the sighs.
Ay, girl of mine, girl of mine,
how full of boats is Málaga harbour!
From Cádiz to Sevilla
how many little lemons!
The lemon-trees know me,
by the sighs.
Ay, girl of mine, girl of mine,
how full of boats is Málaga harbour!
From Sevilla to Carmona
there isn’t a single knife.
The half moon slices,
and, wounded, the air goes by.
Ay, boy of mine, boy of mine,
let the waves carry off my stallion!
Through the pale salt-seams
I forgot you, my love.
He who needs a heart
let him ask for my forgetting.
Ay, boy of mine, boy of mine,
let the waves carry off my stallion!
Cádiz, let the sea flow over you,
don’t advance this way.
Sevilla, on your feet,
so you don’t drown in the river.
Ay, girl of mine!
Ay, boy of mine!
How fine the road!
How full of boats the harbour,
and how cold it is in the square!
Diarsipkan di bawah: Poezia & Arte
…kita semua harus menerima kenyataan, tapi menerima kenyataan saja adalah pekerjaan manusia yang tak mampu lagi berkembang. Karena manusia juga bisa membikin kenyataan-kenyataan baru. Kalau tak ada orang mau membikin kenyataan-kenyataan baru, maka “kemajuan” sebagai kata dan makna sepatutnya dihapuskan dari kamus umat manusia…
(Pramoedya Ananta Toer, Rumah Kaca, hal 436)
