Z.

“For Louis Zukofsky”

By, D. Olivia Paxson

I am going to give this presentation in a Walter Pater on the Mona Lisa manner; that is, I am going to “teach and delight” (Chaucer) you in the same way Zukofsky entertained and informed The University of Connecticut with his speech “For Wallace Stevens” on April 29, 1971. In that vein, I must first introduce how I “became aware” (a term used by Z. in his “For Wallace Stevens” speech) of Zukofsky, as well as how I fell madly and deeply in love with American Literary Modernism and Postmodernism. When initially looking over the syllabus for this class and deciding on which poet I wanted to give a presentation, I saw that the final poet was one I had never previously encountered, and shamefully, one of which I had not even been vaguely aware. However, the syllabus read something like “modernism and its post-‘s.”  I knew that was where I needed to be. Moe had warned me, “You know Scroggins has done like all his scholarship on Zukofsky.” That sealed the deal. With minimal trepidation, I signed up for Z. Going back about five years in time, Professor Ulin (now my thesis chair) assigned Thomas Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49. None of us students knew what we were in for, but I plunged in head first, as usual. Let’s just suffice it to say, I came out feet first with my heart on my sleeve running as quickly as I could to sign up for her (then) fiance’s “Honors Postmodern Survey Course. “ Gravity’s Rainbow, V., Against the Day, and COL 49. I thought Pynchon was it, but then came David (Foster Wallace). David waltzed into my life with his grungy, humbling nonchalance about his appearance, and I clung to his work like a leech. I “became aware” of an interdisciplinary approach to poetics which not only helped me to define myself, but helped me to define how the world in which I was currently living evolved. When leaving Murtaugh’s undergrad 17^th century lit course one morning in 2011, I overheard some students saying “postmodernism is just a bunch of smart people saying smart things that don’t mean anything.” I chuckled, because I had made a nest, as a reader and a writer, in postmodernism’s tenuousness of meaning, its multiplicity of meaning, its lack of meaning, its puppeteering of language, language that could successfully be both literary and mathematic (I always loved physics, but could never quite compute). These unique postmodern-“isms,” as exemplified by Thomas and David, delivered me from the cozy, Modern metanarrative inundated with classical rhetoric, and placed me next to, alongside, somewhere with Thomas and David—somewhere which defied time and space. A transportation, a travel through a Madame Psychosis meets Derridean chain of meaning which lacked any realistic verisimilitude, but felt like home. I had been officially tainted by the fun-house. I was among friends. Z. refers to this as a “feeling of duration.” In his explanation of this “feeling of duration,” Z. remembers reading Luis de Leon’s book called The Perfect Wife: “I felt very close to [Leon]…. We were together” (Prepositions + 25). The above mentioned writers [including Nabokov, even though he is essentially Modernist according to the can in (I know, it’s Canon)] forced me to see with my intellect and “become aware” through my eyes. They became part of the scholar/writer/reader I would forever be. Their invasion of my person would become part of my “stomachs,” “logs with print on them” (A-7).  But I wasn’t a prose writer, I didn’t know how to do what they did. I was a poet. They weren’t(,) like me.

Z. was a poet. Z., like Thomas and David, challenged my physical and intellectual bond with language in a way, not superior to, but…Ok- yeah. I will always be a poet, intrinsically. Despite the chance of appearing aristocratically nauseating, I do content that poetry is a superior art form to prose. Why I feel this way is not the topic of discussion here, though I do hint at it throughout this “speech.” Z.’s works appeal to me for exactly the same reasons that TP and DFW’s do. However, and yes, isn’t there always a however at about this point? Nonetheless, however, the first “however” must wait until this second “however” is complete. This second “however” introduces, and substantiates the one mentioned first, therefore- isn’t there always a there for? What for? — For there. Exactly. Part of myself talks to another part while the first feigns to listen while formulating repudiation. See final stanza of Z.’s (A-7).  I think as prose writers or poets, we can relate to the beauty of this internal dialectic constantly warring against and, all at once, nurturing one another. I think that this intricacy can also be found and manifested in Z.’s constant wordplay. This wordplay does many things, but below I will elucidate two main premises:   (1) it synaesthetically transposes the written word with the spoken/ heard word (the experience of seeing/reading a word versus hearing a word—a problem with the meanings of words (in auditory form) that comprise a communicable language [a point which Derrida points out in his 1966 speech (and later essay), "Structure, Sound and Play in the Discourse of the Human Sciences"]. Notice that reading and hearing Z.’s poems are very different experiences. If one were to hear the poem, “A,” one would not see the quotation marks around the title, and therefore would not consider how these contribute to the work in part or in whole. If heard aloud only, one would question where “air” was supposed to be “heir,” if “sea” should be “see,” if “I’s” should be “eyes.” And with Z., the context is not always one-hundred percent clear—a hallmark of the postmodern experience with literature—further complicating an aural understanding of the poem. However (stop counting the “however”s, I will tell you when they need to be numbered), if reading the poem, the erudite reader will superimpose the homophone onto the written word, exponentially opening the intellectual window to an array of meanings, an array of experiences, an array of Derridean chains of meaning for that one word. A palimpsest created on the wall of an ancient cave inscribed with decades of paintings. Anecdote: Personally, when I hear Wallace Stevens’ name, I think of the word, “walrus” (through my own experience with the word) and I see the ravenous, clam-manipulating walrus depicted in the 1990’s Disney cartoon version of “Alice in Wonderland.” And then my mind wanders to The Looking Glass, specifically the scene where the knight plays on words and structures. Alice realizes that the song the knight is singing, a song he claims to have invented himself, is actually being sung to a tune she already knows, but the song she knows by a different name. The knight superimposes new words onto an already existing tune, or structure, that even if he isn’t aware of it, always already existed (yeah that phrase is paraphrased from a modernist, just can’t quite remember which one, which means I have superimposed this academically popular phrase from an esteemed modernist into my own rhetoric). If someone were to read me “I’s (pronounced eyes)” I would immediately feel disoriented. “I’s” is not a common construction. In the context of syntax, or grammar, we don’t pluralize “I” for any reason that I can currently think of. Therefore, I would want desperately want to SEE the word, perhaps even immediately Google it so that I could “figure it all out” in my head, speak the word in my own head- the right word with the right meaning. I would want to play with the word and see WHY Z. chose that homophone rather than its counterpart. This reaction, though, would be problematic for Z., which I conclude given this quote from “For Wallace Stevens”: “I try not to read into things, I try to read, which means if the page doesn’t have it any imagination on my part as to what I might read into it has no significance. I hope everybody would read me the same way—that is, not wonder whether I was afraid of a draft as I am at the moment, but just read the words.” He adds in the next paragraph: “I don’t think there is any such thing [as identity] or state of things, but sometimes a word impels, well, an impersonal thing—a feeling of duration, best defined I think as Spinoza defined it, an indefinite continuance of existence. It is not a temporal thing, may be felt only an instant, but that instant call it love, eternity, infinity; whatever you want—that’s it.” (Prepositions + 24-5) I believe what Z. wants to imbue is not just a reading, but a reading. Yes, both readings: first, a reading of the symbols on the page (which constitute “words” which represent or are a semblance of meaningS), and second, a reading into oneself. It is misleading to state “first” and “second,” because I am not trying to impose a hierarchical order, but rather a simultaneous and mutually inclusive combination of both readings where the reader both acts and is acted upon. That is to say, some of the experience is cerebral, and some of the experience is  “[instinctive]” (Prepositions + 27).  We will return to this shortly, after our discussion of the structures of poetry versus prose.

(2) Moreover, when reading the poem versus hearing the poem, one can take note of the line breaks, or the way in which Z. takes the “substance” and “[subjects]” it to “human prevision” (A-9).  [Here: Let us turn to this stanza and discuss for a moment. My page 109]. In poetry, line breaks are essential. For example, when Z. ends a line with the adjective “Broken” (A-9), it would be hard to deny that he is speaking to the construction, the science, of the art of poetry. Z. here is illustrating his acute consciousness to form. Above, I exemplified how he is conscious of the form of a word and it’s sound, whereas here Z. is conscious of the structure of his poetry. In this dense light, it is easy to see why it took Z. 50 years to cease revising this poem. Z. speaks to his “formed lack of form” (my own words) quite explicitly: “The poet’s design is his work. I may be doctrinal for myself in design but never wish to be doctrinal for anybody else. If I feel that form does not burgeon from an original inventive impulse it has no use for me. Now, speaking positively, I may do a regular form which nearly every reader of poems may recognize as the most irregular thing under the sun, while a doctrinal majority of practicing poets finds it painfully regular. I must trust myself then as a poet, and like Stravinsky accused of imitating Mozart, answer (at least to myself) no, I stole Mozart.”  (Prepositions + 31) I can’t help but recall here W.C. Williams’s claim that his lack of meter was metered where he wanted it to be, or that is was only discernible to him in his construction—some nonsense or another. Unlike WCW, though, I believe that Z.’s intention, as explained with the above quote, warrants his stylistic choice. Where there are boundaries, the possibilities are infinite. Where no boundaries exist, you are paralyzed within the overwhelming freedom of all of the ether. [Side note: “Profuse but clear the outer leaf breaking on space. Also speaks to his integral of upper limit music and lower limit speech]. The (1) boundaries of Z.’s structure/ line breaks (even if “irregular”), in combination with the (2) multiple meanings of homophonic words both in written and spoken speech, breed an infinitude of meaning which magnetically attracts linguistic gymnasts and creates an experience for the reader which transcends both time and meaning. (note: Z. himself does not claim his work to be transcendent) What about non-linguistic gymnasts, those very unlike ourselves? What about those who cannot read, or cannot read well. Poets still have sound. And silence. [And, quite honestly, the magnanimous task of attending to both of these elements, unlike prose writers]. Though a lack of literacy or ability to visually experience the poem may drastically eclipse the “most full” experience of Z.’s work, there is always another perspective—the perspective of listening. I, myself, am very drawn to mathematical and physical theory, but I am afraid I work in worlds of words, not numbers. I am illiterate in those symbols which say what they mean and mean what they say, as it were. But I get Z., no not the variable, the author. I get his explanation of his poetry, even though it is expressed through scientific means. Through a visual tryst of the mathematic and the linguistic, Z. illustrated that the aim for his poetry was for each work to be an integral of sound and meaning: the upper limit of the integral should BORDER on perfect/ infinite/ transcendent sound, to the point of nearly being purely musical, the lower limit should BORDER on speech, using vernacular rather than classical rhetoric. This integral combined the derivatives of two means of communication: auditory and written means, as I discussed earlier in terms of form. While this “manifesto” of poetry writing may first sound (pun intended) like it reflects WCW’s desire to speak in uncomplicated, American vernacular, there is a twist, just like there always is in every good “cocktail” (sorry, I couldn’t help myself). The twist is this: WCW says “I wanted to write a poem/ that you would understand./ For what good is it to me/ if you can’t understand it?” But, Z. wants you to work for it, to use all of your intellect and senses in combination in order to derive a meaning for yourself, even if that meaning amounts to little more than a positive experience. But when you can conquer something difficult, yet not outside the boundaries of difficulty, you foster within yourself the great pride and satisfaction at having done so. I felt this way when I finished Gravity’s Rainbow and Infinite Jest. I felt this way when I wrote my first amazing paper about The Sound and the Fury, then went outside to vomit. It pushes the limits of what it means to be human. It makes you feel.

Meaning is cerebral, it exists in the head—and as Derrida and Thomas and DFW and Z. manifest, it is changing always, it is fluid, it is like trying to find the exact middle of a moving body of water—it is gone as soon as one even thinks he/she has located it. But the experience of a poem exists in a space indefinable, yet sometimes seem as if it is all that defines you. The experience of a great poem, if only for an “instant,” arrests the memory, a memory which craves to ingest and keep and carry that permutation of hollow-log symbols, salivating– a sycophant for truth, a truth no one can ever define, but a truth which means everything, even if it is only an amalgamation of letters, lines, birds, words. But you know you have read great poetry when it has waltzed in, you have breathed its air and tasted its guts, and save for that one moment, saved in that one moment—you forget.

Bibliography

Eds. Andrews, B., and Bernstein, C. The L=A=N=G=A=U=A-G=E Book. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1984. Print.   Harper, Phillip Brian. Framing the Margins: The Social Logic of Postmodern Culture. New York: Oxford University Press, 1994. Print.   Zukofsky, Louis. Complete Short Poetry: Louis Zukofsky. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1991. Print.   Ed. Scroggins, Mark. Upper Limit Music: The Writing of Louis Zukofsky. Tuscaloosa: The University of Alabama Press, 1997. Print.   Zukofsky, Louis. “A.” Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978. Print.   Zukofsky, Luis. Ed. Mark Scroggins. Prepositions +: The Collected Critical Essays. Hanover: Wesleyan University Press, 2000. Print.   Perelman, Bob. The Trouble With Genius: Reading Pound, Joyce, Stein, and Zukofsky. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1994. Print.

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