David Lehman (r) and KGB patrons relax between sets
Jim Cummins & David Lehman. They like to do things
together. Like write entire books of collaborative poetry. Such as a collection
of sestinas entitled Jim and Dave Defeat the Masked Man (Soft Skull
Press, 2005). They also do things like read to audiences in the same place at
the same time. Such as Monday’s reading at KGB [Nov 10]. But the projects they’re focused
on now and what they say about their own work is quite disparate.
Cummins speaks about his poetry in between reading:
"Because we went blue in Ohio, I knew I could come to
NY without any problems. It’s been a weird year, hasn’t it though? I went
through a bunch of old notebooks and took a number of poems that range from ten
to forty years ago. From my 1970 notebook, the poem ‘Hands’ will give you an
idea of what I thought was funny as an undergrad.”
The second poem, “Lunch,” centers on two lovers meeting up
for a meal many years after their relationship ended. It has this line I love
that goes, “She knew her ecstasy would be brief and she wanted all of it.” The
urgency and indulgence in this line counters the slow loss of trust and
emotional/physical connectivity that they find themselves facing at this
meeting. What stands out to me in this poem is how the boldness of the images,
such as the memory of having “picked toilet paper out of her as before licking
it,” meshes with the sadness of feeling
distanced from someone you knew so intimately. Their ecstasy is both
irrecoverable and alive in a past decade.
Cummins also read Poet-based shorties like these:
Jorie Graham
Once said, I am,
Or not.
At least I’m hot.
Derek Walcott
Was known as Pol Pot
To the Ladies
In Hades
Jim Cummins
Got his summons
From the court
Of last resort
1997, said, “I’d like to begin with a poem I wrote collaboratively with David
St. John for Jim. We embarked on a series of letters to friends.”
After reading the collaboration, Lehman introduced a sestina: “Jim had written his poem called ‘Fling’ in which [the name]Gary
Snyder’s a recurring theme. I wanted to write a poem inspired by his and our
conversations about other poets.”
Then: “I’d like to read a 26-word poem. It’s called ‘Antigone’.”
“I have some newer poems. Here’s one of them. It’s called ‘1976.’ In
six parts.”
“On Valentine’s Day I like writing a poem for my wife. And in
February of last year, I believe it was on the fourteenth, I wrote her a prose
poem called, ‘Why I Love “You.””
“I’ve been writing, for some years, poems in the
manner of
other poets, from Wallace Stevens to Gertrude Stein."
After
reading ‘Poem in the Manner of Wallace Stevens as Rewritten by Gertrude
Stein”: "Another poem ‘in the manner
of’, is in the manner of Joe Brainard’s I
Remember. It’s hard to read his book and not want to write in his manner.” In
this poem, Lehman works to evoke not only memories but a sense of wonder at the
discovery of the self through events and the city. He makes that fondness for
the sense of discovery palpable without being sentimental or nostalgic.
“I’ll just read one final poem, “The Party of Ideas,” from When a Woman Loves a Man. In an
election campaign, the two parties are always vying for the accolade of being the ‘party of ideas.’ So it was nice to liberate that phrase
for the title.” I think it’s only fair for you to read this poem in its
entirety:
The Party of Ideas
Existentialism was there, smoking on the balcony.
Inside, Descartes’ Cogito held a volume of Spinoza’s Ethics
in one hand and a glass of port in the other as if the difference
between them were either self-evident or non-existent.
The dictatorship of the proletariat had made eye contact
with the theory of infantile sexuality. Cardinal Newman
(The Idea of a University) chatted amiably if a bit stuffily with
the Sublime, who kept looking over his shoulder in the approved
manner of New Yorkers at parties on the lookout for someone
more important than the person they are speaking to,
only this was the party of ideas, where the idea of a republic, a democracy,
and the idea of the self-determination of nations could mingle
at the end of the day, satisfied. The idea that history repeats
itself was there. The idea that history repeats itself was there.
Logical Positivism was there, a kindly old pipe-smoking don who
asked to his rooms for sherry and said he was cautiously optimistic.
The buzz in the room was that the first refuge of the scoundrel
had begun an affair with the last infirmity of the noble mind,
which explained why neither of them was present. Art for
art’s sake was there, nursing a vodka gimlet. It was clear
from a look at Utopia’s face that she’d had one brandy Alexander
too many, but British empiricism looked none the worse for wear.
Everyone said so, especially American pragmatism, savoring
a new wrinkle. The Noble Savage tended bar.
The Categorical Imperative wouldn’t take no for an answer.
I thought of "The Idea of Order at
and took a leap of faith
opening a door hoping it led to the men’s room.