reprint

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I'm reprinting an old post below . . .

(In asserting my civil right to end my life when and as how I choose, I may be transgressing the social norms, which of course poets have never done!

It seems to me that poets especially should appreciate and support this right. I'm not excluding other vocations, sculptors for example could receive such benefits from the Sculptors League, and etcet for every field of endeavor,

but I demand that the Poetic Institutions should aid poets particularly in this matter.

I demand their patronage at this acme of climacteric: they owe me (and needless to say, all other poets like me, we who have overpaid our lives into that metaphorical fund devotionally and are now due our parting pension) that much, they owe me this assisted demise.

This bequeath of death.

I can of course do it via the usual violent methods, but I feel that as a poet I deserve a painless deliverance granted by the Academy of American Poets or the Poetry Society of America or the Poetry Foundation or the Ingram Merrill Foundation or the heiratic Bollingen or similar endowers of poetic endeavor—

Or is it hopeless to expect succor from such evil and corrupt bodies? Must poets form their own self-help groups, auto-euthanistic societies. If those malevolent cabals listed above will not help poets in this quest, must I turn to poets themselves and beg for their individual or collective mercies . . .

I can attend poetry readings with a sign around my neck asking for contributions of the right prescription strength . . . I can write pleas to famous poets begging them to scrape their medicine cabinets for a bolus of panacea, a perk of peace ...

Yes it would be useless of me to protest picket the offices of the Academy of American Poets et al, though I will continue to proclaim that they are in arrears to me, that they are obligated to accord me this compensatory quittance in return for my lifetime of service.)

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Once they get to a certain age, poets should be put to sleep; I don't mean all poets, not real poets, successful poets: but poets like me, second-raters, third-raters, whether run of the mill SOQhack like me or superannuated avant, we should get it in the neck. Our poems are already dead; we might as well follow.

Because what's the point. We're not going to write anything important now: I'm not going to, that's for sure. I'm through, I know it. Why hang on and keep going through the motions, which is all I'm doing now as anyone can see who reads the work I've posted here on this blog over the past year.

But there should be an easy out for old poets who've failed. A graceful goodbye, a painless dispensation. We should be helped to put ourselves away quietly. A "terminal dosage" should appear on our doorsill from some anonymous generous patron of the arts, to honor not our accomplishment but our sustained devotion to the bright cause. We don't deserve a prize for our lifelong failed poetic attempts, but surely by those laborious efforts we have at least earned a charitable bottle of sleepingpills! The American Academy of Arts and Letters could spare an OD, don't you think?

Is it too much to ask the Poetry Society of America and the Academy of American Poets to help euthanize the exits of old failed poets like me? Can't they set up a discretionary fund, an in-house Hemlock Society, to assist and sponsor such acts of mercy? If they had hearts they would.

Seriously, with all the millions the Poetry Foundation has, Christian Wiman can't take a little of that money and establish an Euthanasia outreach program for extinctist poets like me?

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Expunge us from the scene. Wipe us off the screen. We're (I'm) just taking up space and attention that would otherwise and should indeed be going to younger poets.

I'm just taking up space a younger poet should be filling. My job, my publisher(s), my readership (all 12 of them) should be going to that younger viable poet.

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Can no one hear us old failed poets begging for surcease? "Put me out of my misery" we whimper. Have pity on us. Is there no kind Benefactor who will aid our quietus, who will press into our hand the nepenthean vial?

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(The CIA issues suicide pills to its agents. . . the CIA used to fund under-the-table most USA artistic institutions. . . why can't someone from the myriad Academies of American Coldwar Culture call up their former or current conduits in the CIA and say, Hey we got all these old failed poets cluttering up the mis en scene, can't you lend us some "escape-capsules" to help us delete this mess. . . The Academy of American Poets could benefit AmerPo most by scoring cyanide cocktails for terminal poets like me. . . .)

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The CEO of Home Depot just retired with a 210 million dollar payout. I wasn't the CEO of PoBiz Inc, I was only a minor clog in the company: I don't expect 210 million, but can't they at least give me a crummy bottle of barbituates, some goodbye-Bill pills to ease my demise?!

If everybody reading this would scrounge their medicine cabinet and vouchsafe me a tab or two. Or if only some wealthy patron of the arts would find it in their hearts to mercifully anonymously endow me with the Terminal Sedation that would balm and dose me to a close.

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suspect should be shot on sight

(a post from two years ago:)

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Someone who runs a little poetry reading series here in Boston wants me to do one in their schedule before I leave the area next year . . .

Vanity (as always) tempts, but I can't do it.

My health is not up to it, first and firstmost. That in itself is sufficient reason to refuse,—

but also, as I've mentioned in earlier posts here, back when I was younger and did do readings I was by all accounts pretty bad at it.

And to say "I did readings" is not quite accurate, considering that in my three decades of residence here in the Boston area, I was almost never invited to give them . . .

which is not surprising, really, taking into account how terrible I was at doing them—

and in view of how the few readings I did give were so poorly attended—

it's no wonder I was asked to do them so infrequently . . .

The overseers of such venues knew how small a crowd my limited (meaning "bad") reputation as a poet would bring in. And they were right, of course.

In those thirty years there were certainly plenty of places where I could have been invited to read, most of the many colleges and universities in or around the Boston area had reading series, and there were always non-affiliated independent ones ongoing . . .

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But lately I've been wondering whether my pathetically meager reading career might relate to the fact that the State Arts Council had at some point early on in my thirty years here pronounced me persona non grata . . .

and ergo the administrators of all those poetry-reading series knew that it would be *illegal* to recognize me as a poet, to invite me to read—

this is a metaphor, but poets live and die by metaphor, and I've died dozens at the hands of this one, so please stay with me while I tease it out a bit—

Laws are created not solely by legislation, but also by precedence and custom:

so if the State of Massachusetts, through its Arts Agency, has repeatedly and consistently ruled that my poetry has no merit and is not worthy of—

I applied I can't remember how many times, how many years for one of the poetry grants they gave over the course of those three decades to hundreds of other Massachusetts poets—

if the State has determined that I am a nonpoet, if they have rendered that judgement again and again and again, then,

does that not constitute a statutory mandate, does that not have the authority of an ordinance,—

does that not establish a Law, a commonlaw or corpus juris,—

does that not in jurisprudence enact an Edict that finds "Knott is not a poet"—

has not the State ratified, by precedence and custom, and decreed just such an embargo—

and if the State of Massachusetts has legally ordained by fiat that I am not a poet, then, ergo,

it would be illegal, wouldn't it, for citizens of Massachusetts to regard me as a poet?—

No wonder all those folks never invited me to participate in their reading series, when they knew that by doing so, they'd be breaking the law!

(It's obviously why the editors of here-in-state magazines always rejected the poems I send them—)

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Yes, the metaphor sayeth: it is illegal for Massachusetts residents to read my poetry, or ask me to give poetry readings, or to consider me a poet in any way.

Hopefully whatever state I move to next year won't enact similar prohibitions.

I guess I'm lucky that Massachusetts didn't actually make it a criminal offense for me to be a poet, and sanction its police agencies to arrest me each time I tried to write a poem.

I guess it's lucky I'm not on Death Row by now.

My poetry career's on Death Row, but I'm not quite there yet. Won't be long, though.

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BLACKLIST, WHAT BLACKLIST, THERE'S NO BLACKLIST, YOUR POETRY IS WORTHLESS, THAT'S ALL

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from their website:

The Massachusetts Cultural Council awards grants in poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction to some of the most exciting and talented writers in the state. The prize has been awarded to some of the Bay State’s best-known writers including Jonathan Franzen, Robert Pinsky, Sue Miller, Tom Perrotta, and Mark Doty.

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from me:

Yeah, I lived in Mass for over 3 decades and applied I don't know how many times for a grant, and they never gave me a fucking penny. They gave grants to hundreds of poets over that period, but I never even made it to finalist. You're gonna tell me I wasn't blacklisted?

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i don't do a lot of recommending here of poets or books to read etc because let's face it who the fuck am i and why should anybody care for my word on shit— if you're ever in a store with a big poetry section one thing you won't find on the backs of the books there, is a blurb from me, because all those poets and editorpublishers know my name won't sell anything to anybody—

but i bought this book from "bravemenpress.com" and it's pretty great, brilliant stuff: 'No Theater' by Chris Tonelli——

I would type one of the poems in here, but i can't figure out how to get this blogger software to accept indents,

and all the poems in the book have indents,

so I did a scan of the poem with the title in it: see above and click on image to view it fullsize

....

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I keep this blog hidden under some dirty underwear inside a locked drawer and if you don't like what you see here then I suggest you drop your jimmy and stop rummaging through my shorts. Do that B and E somewhere else.

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...

from "home.swipnet.se/northernobscene/knottintro.html"

Bill [eg. William] Knott började publicera sig under den blommande tidskriftseran i USA under 60-talet, och gav ut sin första diktsamling 1968, The Naomi Poems. Sedan dess har han skrivit myriader av dikter men egentligen aldrig fått något riktigt erkännande vare sig från det stora etablissemanget eller förlagselefanterna. Kanske det var detta som föranledde Stephen Dobys att kalla honom "the greatest outsider" i AWP Chronicle, 1995. Här hemma i Sverige sågs Knott senast i översättning av Tomas Tranströmer i "Tolkningar" (red. Niklas Schiöler) som Bonniers gav ut 1998, och något tidigare samma år även sporadiskt i undergroundfanzinet blaskan odd. Anars är det tunt. Varför det blivit så kan man verkligen undra, för Knott har hyllats av författarkollegor som Kenneth Rexroth, Louis Simpson, James Wright m. fl i över 30 år nu, vilka inte heller sparar på superlativen. Självklart är även jag förvånad över detta faktum, vilket också är en av anledningarna till dessa översättningar.

Första gången jag stiftade bekantskap med Bill Knotts poesi var sommaren 1999, och det var i bokstaden Hay-on-Wye, på gränsen mellan England och Wales, av alla platser i världen. En liten sömnig och gemytligt lunkande by, där så gott som varenda invånare drar in sin inkomst via böcker på ett eller annat sätt. Där finns 100-tals antikvariat och jag gjorde den sommaren under några dagar mitt bästa för att utforska dem alla. Min jakt på amerikanska poeter gick dock trögt [men jag hittade en svensk utgåva av Karin Boye´s Kalocain]. Det var först när jag hittade fram till The Poetry Book Shop i utkanten av staden som det började brännas. Ett par amerikanska guldkorn återfanns i hyllorna och när jag återvände till disken med famnen full av Kenneth Rexroth och Gary Snyder m. fl. kom jag i slang med ägaren som snart plockade upp ett sandgult dikthäfte av en viss Bill Knott. Antagligen tyckte han synd om mig som tvingades prioritera mina inköp, och skänkte mig helt sonika häftet [tack Chris!]. Senare på kvällen satt jag på den lokala puben och bläddrade i häftet. Knott´s dikter hade en förmåga att verkligen göra sig hemmastadda där i den kontemplativa, traditionsfasta, men ändå nydanande byn. När jag återvänt till Sverige skrev jag ett brev till Knott där jag framförde min uppskattning. Svar kom från Boston, där han innehar en professur vid Emerson Collage, och bestod av ytterligare fem lika sandfärgade dikthäften med vänliga dedikationer. Hösten var räddad. Efter att ha läst häftena började jag se mig om i bokhandeln och på biblioteket efter hans böcker - utan resultat.

Dikterna i föreliggande samling är hämtade ur en diger 30-årsperiod, från 1960-1999, och i Knott´s egen anda har jag valt att inte ställa upp dem vare sig tematiskt eller kronologiskt, utan de dyker bara upp på sidorna, oväntade, oregerliga och ofta också helt oberoende av sådant som tid.
En del av Knott´s dikter kan vid en första anblick se nästan naiva ut, med en självklar enkel raktframhet, men växer snart och blottar större djup. Mitt i det existentiella allvaret letar sig också humorn in med jämna mellanrum. Och språkleken. Och det smågalna. Och det helgalna. Kanske är det just i denna märkliga kombination, eller sättet varpå Knott kombinerar dem, som hans storhet ligger - det är fräscha och udda dikter med energi, ett flöde och en påtaglig språklig experimentlusta. Den mycket högstämda och klassiska diktrösten som plötsligt tar vilda krumsprång ut i abstrakta landskap. Hans influenser tycks komma från alla möjliga [och omöjliga] håll - från Japansk dikttradition till yttre rymden - vilket är en av anledningarna till att Knott´s poesi är så omtumlande att bege sig in i. Och ger man sig väl in i den löper man risken att både skratta, gråta, förundras och fängslas.

Bill Knott´s energi och uppfinningsrika språk är dock inte alltid en källa till njutning - under översättningen av de här dikterna har jag mer än en gång slitit testar av mitt hår för att finna en rättvisande synonym till någon vild ordlek. Detta har fungerat ibland, men lika ofta har jag tvingats till alternativa lösningar. På svenska har det följaktligen inneburit att det på vissa ställen har vuxit fram nya konstruktioner och abstraktioner - på gott och ont. Att Knott på sina ställen tenderar att flirta med japansk poesitradition, med strikta stavelsescheman som styr över formen, har sannerligen inte gjort saken lättare. I dessa fall har jag helt enkelt bortsett från att räkna stavelse på fingrarna, och istället koncentrerat mig på att hitta överensstämmande tonfall och innebörd.

Med tanke på dessa svårigheter kan det kanske te sig konstigt att en novis som jag själv ger mig på att översätta Knott. Jag snuddar inte ens vid tanken på att jämföra detta arbete med översättningar utförda av yrkesmän som t ex tidigare nämnda Tranströmer. Däremot ser jag ingen annan utväg när ingen annan vill uppmärksamma så stor poesi som Knott verkligen besitter förmågan att producera. Det handlar med andra ord mer om lust än kompetens - och med det kan man komma rätt långt.

from "home.swipnet.se / northernobscene / knottintro.html"

Bill [eg. Bill [eg. William] Knott började publicera sig under den blommande tidskriftseran i USA under 60-talet, och gav ut sin första diktsamling 1968, The Naomi Poems. William] Knott began publishing during the blooming magazine era in the U.S. during the 60s, and published his first poems in 1968, The Naomi Poems. Sedan dess har han skrivit myriader av dikter men egentligen aldrig fått något riktigt erkännande vare sig från det stora etablissemanget eller förlagselefanterna. Since then, he has written myriad of poems but never actually received any real recognition from either the large establishment or publishers elephants. Kanske det var detta som föranledde Stephen Dobys att kalla honom "the greatest outsider" i AWP Chronicle, 1995. Perhaps it was this that led Stephen Doby to call him "the greatest outsider" in the AWP Chronicle, 1995.Här hemma i Sverige sågs Knott senast i översättning av Tomas Tranströmer i "Tolkningar" (red. Niklas Schiöler) som Bonniers gav ut 1998, och något tidigare samma år även sporadiskt i undergroundfanzinet blaskan odd. Here at home in Sweden was observed by Knott in the translation of Tomas Tranströmer in the "Interpretations" (ed. Niklas Schiöler) as Bonniers gave out in 1998, and slightly earlier in the year also sporadically in the underground fanzinet blaskan odd. Anars är det tunt. Anar is thin. Varför det blivit så kan man verkligen undra, för Knott har hyllats av författarkollegor som Kenneth Rexroth, Louis Simpson, James Wright m. fl i över 30 år nu, vilka inte heller sparar på superlativen. Why does it become so one can really wonder, for Knott has been praised by writers colleagues Kenneth Rexroth, Louis Simpson, James Wright and others in over 30 years now, which also saves on superlatives. Självklart är även jag förvånad över detta faktum, vilket också är en av anledningarna till dessa översättningar. Of course, I too am surprised by this fact, which is also one of the reasons for these translations.

Första gången jag stiftade bekantskap med Bill Knotts poesi var sommaren 1999, och det var i bokstaden Hay-on-Wye, på gränsen mellan England och Wales, av alla platser i världen. I first become acquainted with Bill Knotts poetry was the summer of 1999, and it was in bokstaden Hay-on-Wye, on the border between England and Wales, of all places in the world.En liten sömnig och gemytligt lunkande by, där så gott som varenda invånare drar in sin inkomst via böcker på ett eller annat sätt. A little sleepy and friendly detail TROT village, where almost every inhabitant draw their income from books in one way or another. Där finns 100-tals antikvariat och jag gjorde den sommaren under några dagar mitt bästa för att utforska dem alla. There are 100-century antiquarian and I did that summer for a few days my best to explore them all. Min jakt på amerikanska poeter gick dock trögt [men jag hittade en svensk utgåva av Karin Boye´s Kalocain]. My hunt for American poets were, however, slow [but I found a Swedish edition of Karin Boye's Kalocain]. Det var först när jag hittade fram till The Poetry Book Shop i utkanten av staden som det började brännas. It was only when I got up to The Poetry Bookshop at the periphery of the city as it began to burn. Ett par amerikanska guldkorn återfanns i hyllorna och när jag återvände till disken med famnen full av Kenneth Rexroth och Gary Snyder m. fl. A couple of American PEARL were found in the shelves and when I returned to the disk with arms full of Kenneth Rexroth and Gary Snyder et al. kom jag i slang med ägaren som snart plockade upp ett sandgult dikthäfte av en viss Bill Knott . I got in line with the owner as soon picked up a yellow sand poem book by a certain Bill Knott.Antagligen tyckte han synd om mig som tvingades prioritera mina inköp, och skänkte mig helt sonika häftet [tack Chris!]. Probably he felt sorry for me, which had to prioritize my purchases, and gave me simply booklet [Thanks Chris!]. Senare på kvällen satt jag på den lokala puben och bläddrade i häftet. Later in the evening I sat on the local pub and look through the booklet. Knott´s dikter hade en förmåga att verkligen göra sig hemmastadda där i den kontemplativa, traditionsfasta, men ändå nydanande byn. Knott's poems had an ability to truly make their home there in the contemplative, traditional solid, yet innovative village. När jag återvänt till Sverige skrev jag ett brev till Knott där jag framförde min uppskattning. When I returned to Sweden, I wrote a letter to Knott where I expressed my appreciation. Svar kom från Boston, där han innehar en professur vid Emerson Collage, och bestod av ytterligare fem lika sandfärgade dikthäften med vänliga dedikationer. Responses came from Boston, where he holds a chair at Emerson College, and consisted of a further five equal sand colored poem booklets of friendly dedication. Hösten var räddad. Autumn was saved. Efter att ha läst häftena började jag se mig om i bokhandeln och på biblioteket efter hans böcker - utan resultat. After having read the book I began to see me in the bookstore and the library of his books - without results.

Dikterna i föreliggande samling är hämtade ur en diger 30-årsperiod, från 1960-1999, och i Knott´s egen anda har jag valt att inte ställa upp dem vare sig tematiskt eller kronologiskt, utan de dyker bara upp på sidorna, oväntade, oregerliga och ofta också helt oberoende av sådant som tid. Poems in this collection are drawn from a corpulent 30-year period, from 1960-1999, and in Knott's own spirit, I have chosen not to set them either thematically or chronologically, but they appear only on pages up, unexpected, unruly and often completely independent of any other time.
En del av Knott´s dikter kan vid en första anblick se nästan naiva ut, med en självklar enkel raktframhet, men växer snart och blottar större djup. A part of Knott's poems may at first sight, almost naive, with an obvious simple raktframhet, but is growing quickly and baring depths. Mitt i det existentiella allvaret letar sig också humorn in med jämna mellanrum. Amid the existential seriousness looking also humor in regularly. Och språkleken. And language game. Och det smågalna. And it smågalna. Och det helgalna. And it helgalna. Kanske är det just i denna märkliga kombination, eller sättet varpå Knott kombinerar dem, som hans storhet ligger - det är fräscha och udda dikter med energi, ett flöde och en påtaglig språklig experimentlusta. Perhaps it is precisely in this strange combination, or the means Knott then combine them, that his greatness lies - it is fresh and odd poems with energy, a flow and a marked linguistic experiment lust. Den mycket högstämda och klassiska diktrösten som plötsligt tar vilda krumsprång ut i abstrakta landskap. The very ELEVATED and classic poem voice that suddenly takes wild gambado in abstract landscape. Hans influenser tycks komma från alla möjliga [och omöjliga] håll - från Japansk dikttradition till yttre rymden - vilket är en av anledningarna till att Knott´s poesi är så omtumlande att bege sig in i. Och ger man sig väl in i den löper man risken att både skratta, gråta, förundras och fängslas. His influences seem to come from all kinds [and not] hold - poem from Japanese tradition to outer space - which is one of the reasons why Knott's poetry is so dizzying to go up in. And, people well into the run Monday risk to both laugh, cry, marvel and imprisoned.

Bill Knott´s energi och uppfinningsrika språk är dock inte alltid en källa till njutning - under översättningen av de här dikterna har jag mer än en gång slitit testar av mitt hår för att finna en rättvisande synonym till någon vild ordlek. Bill Knott's energy and imaginative language is not always a source of pleasure - in the translation of these poems, I have more than one hard test of my hair to find a fair synonym for any wild pun. Detta har fungerat ibland, men lika ofta har jag tvingats till alternativa lösningar. This has worked sometimes, but just as often I have had to alternative solutions. På svenska har det följaktligen inneburit att det på vissa ställen har vuxit fram nya konstruktioner och abstraktioner - på gott och ont. In English, it has consequently meant that in some places have developed new designs and abstractions - for better or worse. Att Knott på sina ställen tenderar att flirta med japansk poesitradition, med strikta stavelsescheman som styr över formen, har sannerligen inte gjort saken lättare. The Knott at times tend to flirt with Japanese poetry tradition, with strict syllable patterns that govern over form, has certainly not made things easier. I dessa fall har jag helt enkelt bortsett från att räkna stavelse på fingrarna, och istället koncentrerat mig på att hitta överensstämmande tonfall och innebörd. In these cases, I simply except that the syllable count of the fingers, and instead focussed on finding consistent tone and meaning.

Med tanke på dessa svårigheter kan det kanske te sig konstigt att en novis som jag själv ger mig på att översätta Knott. In view of these difficulties, it might seem strange to a novice like myself to give me to translate Knott. Jag snuddar inte ens vid tanken på att jämföra detta arbete med översättningar utförda av yrkesmän som t ex tidigare nämnda Tranströmer. I touched not even at the thought of comparing this work with translations done by professionals, such as the aforementioned Tranströmer. Däremot ser jag ingen annan utväg när ingen annan vill uppmärksamma så stor poesi som Knott verkligen besitter förmågan att producera. However, I see no other way out when nobody else wants to pay attention as much poetry as Knott really possess the ability to produce. Det handlar med andra ord mer om lust än kompetens - och med det kan man komma rätt långt. In short, more about lust than skills - and with it you can get the right length.