Scribd Logo
Upload

Welcome to Scribd!

  • Paris Views by Michael Joyce Book Preview

    Uploaded by

    BlazeVOX [books]
    365 views11 pages
    Paris Views Michael Joyce BlazeVOX [books] Anyone who loves Paris will find that literarily-overdetermined city brought to new life---new and not particularly literary, for through Joyce’s sharp, quick, and cleverly amorous eye, Paris is evoked not as objet d’art, but as sloppily, raucously, lived; as an idiosyncratic confluence of specific instances that shed deep light on the way that individual perception and experience sculpt public space. Throughout, he makes the most of a delightful and visceral head-on collision of languages to construct a space between all utterance that is raw and always reaching out for its word---which, though not yet arrived, can be felt coming into being through that collision itself. — Cole Swensen The pleasure of slowly walking, vieux pantouflard & flâneur that I am, through a city & two languages I love is always a treat — & is positively relished when I can do it from the comfort of my Schlendrian armchair, eye-tip-toeing gently & at leisure, savoring each word & phrase of these sharp, lovely, rich poems. I’m home, here & there, in this book & in that city. —Pierre Joris Oui, bien sûr, la traduction entres les langues est impossible, but what happens here is better: in a language that has no word for "home," Michael Joyce tries to find out what one is by wandering the weird labyrinthine and counterintuitive transfer points (comme le Paris Métro, je pense!) entre anglais et français. Franchement, ce n'est pas "Franglish" qu'on va trouver in this book mais a different kind of synchronicity, not a mélange of languages fusing but rather a scintillating point where chaque langue existe seule et ensemble tous le deux at the same time and toujours. —Kazim Ali "How do you say we are longing to mean something?" With poetry that registers the migratory subject's occasional glimpse of les bonheurs in the midst of self-estrangement, each view captured "in a language we / can't understand although by now we know the words." The frissons here arise not from the fluent excursions into Franglais or their corresponding aperçus, but from the "untranslatable" difference between what we will (to) remember and what we remember, yet another trace of that inexorable "universe of silence" which, whether it "possesses us" or we it, underwrites our eloquence. There may be "no second act in heaven" or in American lives, but here, in these deeply felt and brilliantly nuanced poems, lyric splendor is making a formidable comeback. — Joe Amato Book Information: · Paperback: 100 pages · Binding: Perfect-Bound · Publisher: BlazeVOX [books] · ISBN: 978-1-60964-089-7 $16 About the Author: a self-interview Please describe growing up in South Buffalo. In my Buffalo novel, The War Outside Ireland, the central conceit was how we are formed of our stories as well as how the “family mind” authors those stories for and of us. Growing up in South Buffalo there were eight of us kids, four of each of the then available genders, and so there were many stories, making the family mind quadraphonic if not schizophrenic. What I recall most was the teeming chaos, the pure energy of South Buffalo life (most evident on the Fourth of July which, until I lived near Detroit, seemed the nearest thing to living in an anarchistic banana republic that I could imagine). In my collection of essays and fictions, Moral Tales and Meditations, I have a series of short memoirs and speculations—the meditations—some of which center on growing up there, seeing my first TV (with Howdy Doody and Buffalo Bob upon it), going to the Cazenovia park during Bethlehem Steel strikes, and so on. Each of my brothers and sisters became poets and storytellers of a sort, some professionally as teachers, writers, actors, ministers, comics. We grew up with a benign sense that we were loved and that everyone shared an unspoken understanding that life was all a grand joke, which only sometimes came a cropper when someone beat the shit out of you at the skat

    Copyright

    © Attribution Non-Commercial (BY-NC)

    Available Formats

    PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd

    Did you find this document useful?

    Is this content inappropriate?

    Report this Document
    Paris Views Michael Joyce BlazeVOX [books] Anyone who loves Paris will find that literarily-overdetermined city brought to new life---new and not particularly literary, for through Joyce’s sharp, quick, and cleverly amorous eye, Paris is evoked not as objet d’art, but as sloppily, raucously, lived; as an idiosyncratic confluence of specific instances that shed deep light on the way that individual perception and experience sculpt public space. Throughout, he makes the most of a delightful and visceral head-on collision of languages to construct a space between all utterance that is raw and always reaching out for its word---which, though not yet arrived, can be felt coming into being through that collision itself. — Cole Swensen The pleasure of slowly walking, vieux pantouflard & flâneur that I am, through a city & two languages I love is always a treat — & is positively relished when I can do it from the comfort of my Schlendrian armchair, eye-tip-toeing gently & at leisure, savoring each word & phrase of these sharp, lovely, rich poems. I’m home, here & there, in this book & in that city. —Pierre Joris Oui, bien sûr, la traduction entres les langues est impossible, but what happens here is better: in a language that has no word for "home," Michael Joyce tries to find out what one is by wandering the weird labyrinthine and counterintuitive transfer points (comme le Paris Métro, je pense!) entre anglais et français. Franchement, ce n'est pas "Franglish" qu'on va trouver in this book mais a different kind of synchronicity, not a mélange of languages fusing but rather a scintillating point where chaque langue existe seule et ensemble tous le deux at the same time and toujours. —Kazim Ali "How do you say we are longing to mean something?" With poetry that registers the migratory subject's occasional glimpse of les bonheurs in the midst of self-estrangement, each view captured "in a language we / can't understand although by now we know the words." The frissons here arise not from the fluent excursions into Franglais or their corresponding aperçus, but from the "untranslatable" difference between what we will (to) remember and what we remember, yet another trace of that inexorable "universe of silence" which, whether it "possesses us" or we it, underwrites our eloquence. There may be "no second act in heaven" or in American lives, but here, in these deeply felt and brilliantly nuanced poems, lyric splendor is making a formidable comeback. — Joe Amato Book Information: · Paperback: 100 pages · Binding: Perfect-Bound · Publisher: BlazeVOX [books] · ISBN: 978-1-60964-089-7 $16 About the Author: a self-interview Please describe growing up in South Buffalo. In my Buffalo novel, The War Outside Ireland, the central conceit was how we are formed of our stories as well as how the “family mind” authors those stories for and of us. Growing up in South Buffalo there were eight of us kids, four of each of the then available genders, and so there were many stories, making the family mind quadraphonic if not schizophrenic. What I recall most was the teeming chaos, the pure energy of South Buffalo life (most evident on the Fourth of July which, until I lived near Detroit, seemed the nearest thing to living in an anarchistic banana republic that I could imagine). In my collection of essays and fictions, Moral Tales and Meditations, I have a series of short memoirs and speculations—the meditations—some of which center on growing up there, seeing my first TV (with Howdy Doody and Buffalo Bob upon it), going to the Cazenovia park during Bethlehem Steel strikes, and so on. Each of my brothers and sisters became poets and storytellers of a sort, some professionally as teachers, writers, actors, ministers, comics. We grew up with a benign sense that we were loved and that everyone shared an unspoken understanding that life was all a grand joke, which only sometimes came a cropper when someone beat the shit out of you at the skat

    Copyright:

    Attribution Non-Commercial (BY-NC)
    Download as PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
    Flag for inappropriate content
    Download as pdf or txt
    365 views11 pages

    Paris Views by Michael Joyce Book Preview

    Uploaded by

    BlazeVOX [books]
    Paris Views Michael Joyce BlazeVOX [books] Anyone who loves Paris will find that literarily-overdetermined city brought to new life---new and not particularly literary, for through Joyce’s sharp, quick, and cleverly amorous eye, Paris is evoked not as objet d’art, but as sloppily, raucously, lived; as an idiosyncratic confluence of specific instances that shed deep light on the way that individual perception and experience sculpt public space. Throughout, he makes the most of a delightful and visceral head-on collision of languages to construct a space between all utterance that is raw and always reaching out for its word---which, though not yet arrived, can be felt coming into being through that collision itself. — Cole Swensen The pleasure of slowly walking, vieux pantouflard & flâneur that I am, through a city & two languages I love is always a treat — & is positively relished when I can do it from the comfort of my Schlendrian armchair, eye-tip-toeing gently & at leisure, savoring each word & phrase of these sharp, lovely, rich poems. I’m home, here & there, in this book & in that city. —Pierre Joris Oui, bien sûr, la traduction entres les langues est impossible, but what happens here is better: in a language that has no word for "home," Michael Joyce tries to find out what one is by wandering the weird labyrinthine and counterintuitive transfer points (comme le Paris Métro, je pense!) entre anglais et français. Franchement, ce n'est pas "Franglish" qu'on va trouver in this book mais a different kind of synchronicity, not a mélange of languages fusing but rather a scintillating point where chaque langue existe seule et ensemble tous le deux at the same time and toujours. —Kazim Ali "How do you say we are longing to mean something?" With poetry that registers the migratory subject's occasional glimpse of les bonheurs in the midst of self-estrangement, each view captured "in a language we / can't understand although by now we know the words." The frissons here arise not from the fluent excursions into Franglais or their corresponding aperçus, but from the "untranslatable" difference between what we will (to) remember and what we remember, yet another trace of that inexorable "universe of silence" which, whether it "possesses us" or we it, underwrites our eloquence. There may be "no second act in heaven" or in American lives, but here, in these deeply felt and brilliantly nuanced poems, lyric splendor is making a formidable comeback. — Joe Amato Book Information: · Paperback: 100 pages · Binding: Perfect-Bound · Publisher: BlazeVOX [books] · ISBN: 978-1-60964-089-7 $16 About the Author: a self-interview Please describe growing up in South Buffalo. In my Buffalo novel, The War Outside Ireland, the central conceit was how we are formed of our stories as well as how the “family mind” authors those stories for and of us. Growing up in South Buffalo there were eight of us kids, four of each of the then available genders, and so there were many stories, making the family mind quadraphonic if not schizophrenic. What I recall most was the teeming chaos, the pure energy of South Buffalo life (most evident on the Fourth of July which, until I lived near Detroit, seemed the nearest thing to living in an anarchistic banana republic that I could imagine). In my collection of essays and fictions, Moral Tales and Meditations, I have a series of short memoirs and speculations—the meditations—some of which center on growing up there, seeing my first TV (with Howdy Doody and Buffalo Bob upon it), going to the Cazenovia park during Bethlehem Steel strikes, and so on. Each of my brothers and sisters became poets and storytellers of a sort, some professionally as teachers, writers, actors, ministers, comics. We grew up with a benign sense that we were loved and that everyone shared an unspoken understanding that life was all a grand joke, which only sometimes came a cropper when someone beat the shit out of you at the skat

    Copyright:

    Attribution Non-Commercial (BY-NC)
    Download as PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
    Flag for inappropriate content
    Download as pdf or txt
    of 11

    Paris Views

    Poems Michael Joyce

    BlazeVOX [books] Buffalo, N Y

    Paris Views by Michael Joyce Copyright 2012 Published by BlazeVOX [books] All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the publishers written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews. Printed in the United States of America Book design by Geoffrey Gatza Artwork by Carolyn Guyer except for the self-portrait by Michael Joyce (page 84) First Edition ISBN: 978-1-60964-089-7 Library of Congress Control Number: 2011940043 BlazeVOX [books] 76 Inwood Place Buffalo, NY 14209 Editor@blazevox.org

    p ublisher of weird little books

    BlazeVOX [ books ]
    blazevox.org
    2 4 6 8 0 9 7 5 3 1

    Rue de la montagne Ste Genevive


    How do we get from the airplane to here or anywhere we think to be, nearing Zurich the thick stream of mist across the wings was gold with morning light along the fringe of the Alps, while tonight summer lingers through September and as they descend she teaches him the names of Philosophes and their schools although it is not easy to remember them or the word for congenial or how one got here or where we are going, except home, wherever that is or may be

    15

    Karma Slippers
    The perfect pantoufles for one who lives near Le Cirque dHiver are of course found there, dans le voisinage, awning striped and lined in red, comfortably air-soled, after days of walking in the wrong neighborhoods et les boutiques des grands magasins comme the clown one is, vraiment un faux plerin dans un monde without destination or any known god, save what the wanderer sees circling centrifugally in the city comme une feuille in a forest pond

    17

    Coeur intrieur
    Heels click travers le cour in the night, and then again two women returning solitary late on a Saturday across the stone courtyard in the thin rain. Filigree of plants and fer forg stenciling the ceiling at dusk light draining slowly from a stone well, les voix des enfants lapsing into babble and television. Noon sternly summoning itself in the clamor of bottles as the crooked wheels of the gardiennes bucket wobble le messager africain consults his bill of lading. This thin pencil of light traces receding forms of darkness and shadows amble off like bison their pelts gathering improbable highlights of rose et lavande

    18

    Dimanche matin
    Through lappartement a baritone on the radio intones doleful Bach in the stillness of dimanche matin along rue Oberkampf On y va, on y va! vite! yelps the mother upstairs, getting les enfants off to mass ou la maison de la bonne-maman. Yesterday an avenue away les camions fond plat throbbed with the DJ Mixe of the Technoparade, each truck itself a mix of buffed boys shirtless and girls in sequined sports bras arms upthrust dansant dans L'action Contre la Faim and contra death itself although it looked on through the eyes of a man carrying a baguette and wearing the button hed bought from the girls who surrounded him asking two euros and then offering a choice of colors rouge, violet ou noir, we each make our choices and move on travers le dluge de decibels as it was advertised to here now

    19

    A discourse on whether one is a conduit


    The rain sappelle jattends, Im waiting, Im waiting its a simple lesson, the hardest things to learn are so, aussi simple, the way it ticks and clicks upon les balcons and the metal roof of the television producers bathhouse metronomic mtrologique, cest simple, cest la mme chose, tiens, rain. The philosopher would not agree, for me, she says, is always the concept (they are eating les sandwichs au fromage along an alley in the Marais and he rearranges cornichons with a finger along the gorge of the demi-baguette), its not a matter of literary history or the story, she says, Ce n'est pas evident. What is, they wonder, going different directions afterward, proof positive of what goes without saying, les nuages already coming in, colliers haut

    21

    Rcitation
    Les fleurs, la soupe, le pain create a semblance of home for the traveler. It isnt necessary to taste although the scent of each is after its fashion inescapable and the gaudy flesh of the lily flared like a gramophone evokes elle qui arrive. For now let her sleep and dream dreams of the ocean below left behind in what was only a semblance of rest, for now let the sun rise or set or whatever it was it is doing wherever she is now, suspended somewhere in this list of simple words

    22

    You might also like