Howe's reading of Dickinson is
a radical didactic, for in it we find the degree
to which our reading of Dickinson has been policed,
confined, violently pacified. With each word,
Howe's text necessitates choice, as the opening
segment from the second section, "Hope Atherton's
Wanderings," of Articulation of Sound Forms
in Time demonstrates:
Prest try to set after grandmother
revived by and laid down left ly
little distant each other and fro
Saw digression hobbling driftwood
forage two rotted beans & etc.
Redy to faint slaughter story so
Gone and signal through deep water
Mr. Atherton's story Hope Atherton (S
6)
As many readers note, the opening word "Prest,"
plays upon soundings of oppressed, pressed,
impressed, and the sense of set after. However,
read with the segment's final line, Howe suggests
an urgency in maintaining an identity as an
inviolate object, an "I," rather than as a subject:
the pres-sure of being (still) Hope Atherton,
of being not reduced to someone's (Mr. Atherton)
story. The risk is to become story and then
become marginalia, a curiosity discovered among
one's cluttered papers. Although this segment
is most transparent, for the narrative of ambush,
escape, and survival are apparent, so is the
fragmentation and decomposition of the word.
This is most apparent with ly. As Perloff notes,
this little suffix makes possible bringing any
number of words to join it, as well as to work
as a decomposition of lie, itself an ambiguous
word (305). The reader must address each word
as a signal coming "through deep water," hence
wavered, distorted, and transmuted.
Hope Atherton becomes a mirror for ourselves
as readers. Harried by both Indians--in their
war for survival--and the British militia, he
is the prey of military actions. What it is
he saw must be confined, obliterated, or rendered
silent. Only a certain reading is allowed, hence
Hope Atherton is ostracized from his community,
his story is not believed. Our condition as
readers then is resolved by and reflects our
condition as a community. "Mythology," writes
Howe "reflects a region's reality" (MED 43).
As the poem continues, with Hope Atherton's
wanderings, the lines, writes Peter Quartermain
on another of Howe's poems but applicable here,
"seem to register a process of perception and
thought subject perpetually and continuously
to re-casting, re-seeing, re-vision. They register
a process of cogitating, meditating and exploring
an old enigma, endemic perhaps to all human
culture but especially acute in the history
of New England, perpetually evoked and invoked
by the complex of the known and the unknown,
the seen and the unseen, the cultivated and
the wild: The relations between the real and
the visionary" (187).
Howe does not accommodate the reader: Atherton's
wanderings become our own as we construct readings--and
question their foundations--from the gatherings
of words:
scow aback din
flicker skaeg ne
barge quagg peat
sieve catacomb
stint chisel sect (10)
In this ninth segment, with its crossed out
but not erased fourth line, Atherton finds himself
re-counting the miasma of his wanderings, yet
we are drawn back to foundational words. For
example, "ne" appears fractured and incomprehensible,
yet it is an obsolete form for nephew, and more
importantly, it is an archaic negative form,
for not, and part of the negative structure
of neither . . . nor. It also serves as a homophone
for knee. If we follow the O.E.D., itself a
lexicon of certain relations of history and
power, "quagg" is identified with marshy, boggy
ground, though it also forms a verb, to submerge,
and as a descriptor for flabby, unsound flesh.
Submerged in this quag is "skaeg," which is
not found in the O.E.D., but which is homophonically
related to "quagg" as well as suggestive of
a fracturing of an American Indian word. Emerging
from dialects and perhaps onomatopoeic formations,
as well as mutations of words from American
Indians, words such as "qaugg" make their first
recorded appearance, according to the O.E.D.,
just prior to Atherton's wanderings and the
early wars against the Indians as typified by
the Falls Fight.
Are we then caught in a miasma--a defilement--of
sound and meaning, or are we asked to interrogate
the origins of words for the latent struggles
of power and meaning? If the latter, then what
of the seeming directive of the excised, but
not removed "sieve catacomb"? A notation against
the excavation of word-tombs? A notation against
the impulse to "chisel" and "stint" words into
tombs or "sects." To "stint" a word, to stop
its movement and flow, to assuage its pain,
and the rupturing of instinct, is Hope Atherton's
fate: his vision of the forest, the violence
unleashed, is stinted by his sect.
Howe directs us to this close, demanding (albeit
this paper's demonstration is hopelessly brief
and stinted), through her circular constructions,
as in the fourteenth and fifteenth sections.
This is not a palindrome, but an articulation
of sound, that is the pronouncement of movement.
In the articulation of movement back-and-forth,
oscillation, retrieval and continuity become
important rather than a shift to the symbolic
ordering of Return and Organic Wholeness associated
with the image of the circle. Reading the final
words of section fourteen, "see step shot Immanence
force to Mohegan," which are reversed to become
the first words of the next section as well
as typographically compressed, connections between
words are fluid. Yet "Immanence," with its Dickinsonian
capitalization, is destroyed. To lift out and
isolate from the text a passage is to risk perpetuating
violence, and yet such action is Howe's own
compositional method.
The third section of Articulation of Sound Forms
in Time, "Taking the Forest," is comprised of
twenty-five segments composed primarily in declarative
couplets. The highly stressed, compact lines
never rupture as they do in "Hope Atherton's
Wanderings." Instead these lines seem set as
"Letters sent out in crystalline purity" (22).
Hank Lazer helpfully suggests that in Howe's
writing there are "several noteworthy lyricisms:
A lyricism of 'disturbance' (of syntax and the
layout of the page), that concentrates attention
on the individual word, or even the syllables
or letters in a word, as well as the word's
placement on the page; a lyricism of statement
in which the 'philosophical' or didactic also
sings; and a lyricism of historical fact, acting
as an image or epiphanic vortex, often intensified
by its opposition to accepted or normative historical
accounts" (63-4). Lazer's "lyricism of statement"
describes this third and final section. Single
lines, a single couplet, or even a grouping
of couplets often forms an oracular meaning.
In segment seven, one of two (the other being
the sixth segment) which is composed in single
lines not couplets there is a tension between
the line as isolated meaning or prophesy and
the entire segment as narrative (a recapitulation
of the Falls Fight):
Shouting an offering
Messengers falter
Obedient children elder and ever
Lawless center
Scaffold places to sweep
unfocused future
Migratory path to massacre
Sharpshooters in history's apple-dark (22)
Howe names the condition "Lawless center," a
cipher loosed from the draft of history, a rejection
of that Yeatsian pleading vision in "The Second
Coming," "Things fall apart; the centre cannot
hold." That tightened circle of falcon and falconer,
of unity (but also that celebratory predatory
violence that sweeps through Yeats's work),
is the early American town's green, that of
stocks and "Scaffold places."
Howe offers a spiritual history that forms an
ongoing prophecy: the twenty-second segment
opens with the line "Latin ends and French begins"
thus compressing the transformation of languages
that coincides with the shift of power, the
rise of the vernacular, and the nation-state.
By compression--an exercise of violence itself--Howe
is able to delineate the history of the taking
of the forest:
Caravels bending to windward Crows
fly low and straggling
Civilizations stray into custom Struts structure
luminous region
Purpose or want of purpose Part of each kingdom
of Possession Only conceived can be seen
Original inventors off Stray Alone in deserts
of Parchment
Theoreticians of the Modern --emending annotating
inventing
World as rigorously related System Pagan worlds
moving toward destruction (35)
Like Blake reading the already and always
past, or Dickinson reading the Abstract and
Luminous, Howe prophesies in what we know
what we are becoming still. By moving toward
prophecy, Howe eludes the claim of authorship.
Heidegger's description of poetry, that of
the renunciation of linguistic mastery and
an opening to language's danger or mystery
informs Howe's Hope Atherton. In every word,
implies Howe at the poem's conclusion, the
"Archaic presentiment of rupture" (38).
Part two
Unlike Howe, Ann Lauterbach does not draw
upon foundational texts, nor does she insert
herself through the interrogation of those
texts (of Dickinson, Thoreau, Melville, Rowlandson)
into the canon, as Megan Williams argues of
Howe, thus rescuing herself for posterity.
Lauterbach's poetry is dialogic and paratactic:
voices enter, not as collage, but as markers
of rupture and liminality. Garrett Kallenberg
notes, claiming Lauterbach's poetry as oracular,
that "Most essentially. . . oracles were not
an end product, not an artifact of inspired
excess: they were meant to be interpreted"
(99). As in Howe's poetry, the withdrawal
of an identifiable authorial "I" re-emphasizes
the demands placed upon the reader. Writing
has ceased, but the act of interpretation
continues. Howe's work suggests her own reading--each
text is never complete, each word a presentiment.
In Lauterbach's poems, the oracular signals
loss: while loss may be defined biographically,
in Lauterbach's poetry loss is never contained
wholly within that authorial mastery. The
leaves of the oracle scatter; implicit in
the oracular is that the whole is always and
already lost. The titles of Lauterbach's collections,
from her first Many Times, But Then to her
most recent On a Stair, suggest rupture, interruption,
lost antecedents, syntactic betweenness--even
her third collection Clamor resists stasis
by occupying identities as both verb and noun.
Lauterbach's poems, from her earliest collection,
have insisted upon metaphoric constructions:
displacement occurs, the real that has been
habitual or familiar is undermined by the
real that is unfamiliar. Her poems, moreover,
occupy the position between those two elements--the
energy of rupture and displacement is made
real.
Like Howe (and Hope Atherton), Lauterbach's
poet is expelled from the community:
In that country, there were no heroes to
invent a way to fill the hours with parables
of longing, so her dreams were blank. Sometimes
she imagined voices which led to her uneven
gait and to her partial song. Once she was
seen running. A child said he saw her fly
low over the back meadow and into the pines,
her feet raving in wind. The child was punished
for lying, made to eat ashes in front of the
congregation. The priest said, You have made
a petty story. Now enter duration. (AFE 4)
This conclusion of "Rancor of the Empirical"
echoes the fanaticism of the Puritans, albeit
instituted as a mode of survival, and the
resulting Salem witch trials. Segregation
from the forest, sequestering of desire (or
its commodification), and public discipline
for any transgression define our culture and
history. Social and political banishment coincide
with the banishment of the imagination and
the metaphoric. Lauterbach, in a recent essay,
cites Girogio Agamben's Infancy and History
that with "Descartes and the birth of modern
science. . . . having been the subject of
experience the phantasm becomes the subject
of mental alienation, visions and magical
phenomena--in other words, everything that
is excluded by real experience" (41). To this,
we must add, as Lauterbach's poetry would
claim, eros as banished, as rendered a subject
of mental alienation.
The connections between eros and the oracular
revolve around the desire to reconstruct or
re-imagine ways of telling. This desire to
examine, in Lauterbach's words, "the various
ways in which language constructs both who
and how we are (in) the world" so as to "bring
us back into a relation to visceral contingencies
of human contact" (her emphasis, 22), constitutes
what could be termed eros. There is a connection
between eros and written language as Anne
Carson has observed in regard of the ancient
Greek alphabet:
The alphabet they used is a unique instrument.
Its uniqueness unfolds directly from its
power to mark the edges of sound. For, as
we have seen, the Greek alphabet is a phonetic
system uniquely concerned to represent a
certain aspect of the act of speech, namely
the starting and stopping of each sound.
Consonants are the crucial factor. Consonants
mark the edges of sound. The erotic relevance
of this is clear, for as we have seen eros
is vitally alert to the edges of things
and makes them felt by lovers. As eros insists
upon the edges of human beings and of the
spaces between them, the written consonant
imposes edge on the sounds of human speech
and insists on the reality of that edge,
although it has its origin in the reading
and writing imagination. (55)
The arrangement upon the page of words,
lines, and blank spaces as well as the fluid
use of margins is one demonstration, in many
of Lauterbach's poems--as well as that of
many of her contemporaries such as Barbara
Guest, Kathleen Fraser, and Susan Howe to
name but three--of the edge of sound/word,
which maps the contact between silence and
material. Such play between contacts, as Carson
notes, corresponds to the erotic in that it
derives in part from early language play--an
atavistic memory of openness. Lauterbach has
thematically investigated the cordoning of
eros in her earlier collection, Before Recollection--but
it is in her last three collections that eros
has been sited within the composition or material
of the written. The oracular depends upon
this erotic imagination, for through the oracular,
human contact, in the form of the interpretive
community, is renewed.
There is a radical tension between the estrangement
enacted by poetry and that estranging of the
poet, of Hope Atherton, or of the boy in "Rancor
of the Empirical." The community cannot be
avowed if it is founded upon the violent discipline
of segregation and exile. Reading in the point
or moment of rupture or estrangement forms
a differing community, that is the community
of ongoing interpretation. Jean-Luc Nancy
writes,
The community takes place of necessity
in what Blanchot has called the unworking
[desoeuvrement]. Before or beyond the work,
it is that which withdraws from the work,
that which no longer has to do with production,
nor with completion, but which encounters
interruption, fragmentation, suspension.
The community is made of the interruption
of the singularities, or of the suspension
singular beings are. It is not their work,
and it does not have them as it works, not
anymore than communication is a work, nor
even an operation by singular beings: for
it is simply their being--their being in
suspension at its limit. Communication is
the unworking of the social, economic, technical,
institutional work.
The oracular, that which eludes the biographical
control of authorship as well as the institutional
control of meaning, occupies the space of
rupture, the moment between the diachronic
and synchronic, human and non-human: Something
must have lifted our spirits caused our tongues
to be untied dreamed us from ruin where the
ur-bells begin sun roiled under an elk's body
penciled toward or into its subject willing
to aspire as the turbulent same doubles its
augur "body color" "blood" These (unnamed,
above) have a gash or surprise, a smile missing
the dangling thing as the tacit crosses over
to where meanings are mind changing again
into its mystery flume of song and cedars
made to weep across from the flags in the
signature gardens trajectory of a fragment
at all times in view (AFE 89)
These opening lines from "When Color Disappoints
(Joseph Beuys)" suggest the imagination's
power to have "dreamed us from ruin" or where
"mind / changing again into its mystery /
flume of song." Joseph Beuys's work, with
its allusions to shamanism, the materiality
of the body, fetishism, and isolation, is
a scattering of letters, tracings, and remnants
of materials. The figure of Beuys, who survived
near death in the Second World War, parallels
Hope Atherton in that his art reflects a return
and a simultaneous banishment.
To create a wholeness would negate the perception
of the particulars of that wholeness. Her
poems keep each "fragment at all times in
view." Thus the strands of different voices,
the lyric upwellings, the conversational are
collected not to create wholeness nor to exhibit
the fracture of unity, but as records of the
dismemberment of eros and community. The fragmentary
signals contingency--"Also, perhaps, maybe"
(33)--our very grammar is that of transition
and rupture. Identity is a series of constructions--Beuys
may reify identity as collections of saved
matter, dismembrae, excreta--each severed
from the others.
Even when the biographical becomes explicit,
the narrative operates as a form of contingencies
or examples. Her poem "N/est," from On a Stair,
is perhaps her most biographical with its
meditation on solitude, the transformation
of the female into the object of the gaze,
her abortions and childlessness, and her identity
as a poet. Shifting from prose, to linear
arrangements that appear to be poems, to quotations
from other texts, such as Ondaatje's The English
Patient, Lauterbach creates a field of ruptures
and parallel narratives. Near the end of the
poem, Lauterbach writes,
one word instead of another they call
to each other sometimes/constructing a
place
in which to live a life
words are acts of the world they are
prior to us
issued
forth
they
become facts in the world an
address
(OS 84)
It is to words both the reader and writer
come to. Each must sift and choose, in that
choice comes responsibility or an ethics of
freedom.
Lauterbach's unit of composition is that
of the page, like Howe, and comprises, as
Lauterbach writes in an essay, a shifting
"the reader's attention away from temporality
and narrativity toward a metonymic mapping,
an embodiment" (22). "N\est" is a reconstruction
of a past, and of how one is in the world:
but most importantly, it is how memory is
formed by words, how we remember is structured
by language and our choice of words. The memories
of her father and his absences (thus her fatherlessness)
as well as the decisions to forestall maternity,
and then its displacement into the social
role not of mother but of poet is constructed
through language and the social impingements
upon language. The very title of Lauterbach's
poem "N/est" with the dash's violent cut demonstrates
the field of choices with its pun on nest
or home, and the breaking apart of the word
into the French "est" (state of being) and
its negative, as well as the superlative suffix,
and the obsolete forms of "est" meaning east
and, redundantly, nest. Nest, that constructed
habitation, is both affirmed and negated in
its own formation. That the poet's practice
is an in-dwelling--or inscaping to borrow
from Hopkins--of words, it is also the banishment
from habitation, from the familiar, from the
safety of nests and family and normative (that
is the disciplinary) community.
The reader assumes the responsibility of
making meaningful the text; this is not to
say Lauterbach or Howe have made meaningless
works, but rather part of their work's significance
(its signifying value) is the need for the
reader to participate in the signifying process.
This involves one's own meditation on the
historical context of both reader and text
and the historicity of words. Howe writes,
in regard to Dickinson, "Poetry is never a
personal possession. The poem was a vision
and gesture before it became sign and coded
exchange in a political economy of value"
(B 147). This vision is the "ur-bell" that
Lauterbach responds to, as did Beuys, and
Howe, and Dickinson. Cultural institutions
mediate and discipline--and as Howe demonstrates,
violate that vision, as in the case of Dickinson,
out of the fear of otherness, the forest,
eros.
Works Cited
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Language, Truth and Poetry in the Later Writings.
New Haven: Yale UP, 1989.
Carson, Anne. Eros and the Bittersweet.
Princeton: Princeton UP, 1986.
Howe, Susan. The Birth-mark: Unsettling
the Wilderness in American Literary History.
Hanover: Wesleyan UP, 1993.
_____. My Emily Dickinson. Berkeley: North
Atlantic, 1985.
_____. Singularities. Hanover: Wesleyan UP,
1990.
Kallenberg, Garrett. "A Form of Duration."
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Lazer, Hank. Opposing Poetries, Volume
Two: Readings. Evanston: Northwestern
UP, 1996.
Lauterbach, Ann. And for Example.
New York: Penguin, 1994.
_____. "The Night Sky III." American Poetry
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_____. "The Night Sky IV." American Poetry
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_____. On a Stair. New York: Penguin, 1997.
Perloff, Marjorie. Poetic License: Essays
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Quartermain, Peter. Disjunctive Poetics:
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Reinfeld, Linda. Language Poetry: Writing
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