Posts Tagged ‘ Sean Bonney ’
Sean Bonney, Our Death (image courtesy Commune Editions)
While despondency and madness appear aplenty in Sean Bonney’s writing, its keynote is pure, hard rage.
Source: Poetry as a Blowtorch of Protest
Lee Miller | Women Firewatchers, London (1940)
“I will get a map of London to see where Hackney is” – Ed Dorn “. . . left the ruins, climbed out from under the white stones” – Amiri Baraka (((1))) …
Source: Sean Bonney | Notes on Baudelaire – BLACKOUT ((poetry & politics))
Photo courtesy of Sean Bonney’s family.
On Sean Bonney’s prophetic wrath.
Source: The Bard of Capitalist Realism by Ed Simon | Poetry Foundation
Photo of Sean Bonney courtesy of Commune Editions.
The late poet on his artistic influences, leftist politics, and reading to anarcho-punks.
Source: Their Own Pantheon: Sean Bonney Interviewed – BOMB Magazine
The text of ruminations then commences:
On appelle Calendrier le decoupage et l’étiquetage des morceaux de temps. C’est grâce à ce classement que nous nous retrouvons dans le dévidage de l’existence.
Sans calendrier nous ne serions bougrement pas à la noce: on vivoterait à l”aveuglette, kif-kif les animaux.
The calendar is our name for the cutting up and labeling of bits of time. It’s thanks to this arrangement we that can find our way around in the unraveling of existence.
Without the calendar we wouldn’t be in such a fucking mess: we’d scrape by blindly, same as the animals.25
“Same as the animals” also means, or will do as code for, “who gives a fuck.” Blah blah. “We both know what that means.”
Blah blah is also an associative trigger that the poem sees coming. The excoriation sets off a memory prepared earlier. The next sentence is “It put me in mind of the mass incineration of farm animals that happened in Britain, in 2001.” The shift up into a literary idiom (“it put me in mind of”) is subtly, but clearly, stagy: the poet is not just thinking of something, he is performing a reminiscence. The text knows that the scene brought in for the purpose of this reminiscence (the mass incineration of farm animals) is by this point in the authorship liable to seem generic. An associative trigger in a poem by Bonney, seen coming or not, will not put the poet in mind of a nice Christmas. Association doesn’t work like that, especially not within the prison of the prose block, and certainly never in a “Love Poem.”
This too is part of the stagy consistency of the text, which knows (as you also know) that writing is now, in the contemporary eternal dévidage, either a stranglehold on devastation or a longwinded airy load of bullshit and nothing. “The poetic moans of this century have been, for the most part, a banal patina of snobbery, vanity and sophistry,” reports the “Letter on Riots and Doubt.”
* * *
in the final years of birds
don’t remember the dead
resemble then / reassemble them
Source: Zeitgeist Spam: So long, Sean. A few lines of yours to see you out … w/love
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I know, my reach should exceed my grasp, blah, blah, but I can’t even reach these days. I would love to be able to go all Sean Bonney and talk about suns falling into the otherwise burning freezing streets, etc etc, but I’ll leave that to Sean, he does it better than I ever could. I have friends who find ways to turn bad energy into good (here’s looking at you, Richard), but not me, I can’t. I’m just sick. I’ll just say this.
These last weeks, with DACA rescinded, another attempt to leave tens of millions without healthcare, especially women, the basic ignoring of Puerto Rico and the Virgins Islands, two US colonies (we still have colonies people), and then that -is there an insulting term that I can apply strictly to one person without insulting others?- Trump and his attack on black people who do NOT like being murdered speaking up about it, followed by the massive cowardly response of the NFL teams who refused to take a knee, the amazingly cowardly response of fans who refused to take a knee … because it would insult the vets and the flag (more on which on the next paragraph), well, I have no words. As for why I don’t leave this country if I hate it so much, well, I hate every other country, too. I love many people, but I hate the human race. I hate it.
OK. The whole flag and vets thing. The accusation of disrespecting the flag and veterans is the current equivalent of the accusation of disrespecting white women that got Emmett Till and so many others killed. Anyone, black or white or any other color, who thinks that this is about the flag or who feels the need to say something nice about this country, or about veterans, is, knowingly or not, a white supremacist, or at least filling the role of one. Period. I don’t care who you are and what your background is. This has as much to do with all that shit as Emmett Till’s death had to do with white women. This is another way of killing black men. Uppity ones, as the expression went. And excusing the deaths of any others who might die at the hands of the police. This is not about you, vets, and you know it, but to the degree you think it is, you might as well be wearing a KKK hood.
The attempt to shift the discussion to black on black crime, whether Jim Brown does it or anyone else, is another fall into that same white supremacist logic.
It all makes me sick.
And … if I hear one more word about the veterans who gave their all defending our freedoms, not that that’s relevant to anything, I’ll puke. Not one vet has died defending our freedoms since I was born, and that was 1950. Those who have died have died defending or extending our capitalist empire, period. There has not been one war for our freedoms in all that time. Everything else is a lie. I will explain this to anyone too stupid or should I say ignorant to understand me. Does that mean we don’t have enemies, no it doesn’t. Our enemies also want empires. Whether they be jihadis, whether they be Russians, whether they be Chinese … etc etc … name an enemy. Every fucking country wants to rule others. Our vets are either conscripts who joined because of poverty or the absence of choices, or pure mercenaries. As for the former, I feel some sympathy, as for the latter, none. Sorry. You took money to kill people. Were you lied to and tricked into thinking that was ok? Probably. For chrissakes, learn to THINK.
I make my poems to save the world. I don’t want to save it. Today I root for global warming. I have no words for poetry. I’ve taken up weaving. Maybe I’ll write again, or collage again, if I can figure out how to channel this rage.
Source: Zeitgeist Spam: I hven’t been making poetry and this is why