Category Archives: Events

Mid-Summer’s Day / New Weathers’ / Review

Summer Writing Program, Review

of Week 1 & 2

 

 

I write to you, a day past midsummer and a day past mid summer-writing program. The anthropocene continues with a heavy geological and social current. Resisting, delaying, we do the good work—learning and writing and loving—along with these rising temperatures. At SWP, we’ve already experienced with all senses the vast counter-patterns these “New Weathers” have subsequently rippled into with poetics and discussion. Last week, Roger Reeves cited Adrienne Rich in her poem “Dreamwood” when discussing how to dismantle the New Weathers of our time: “…poetry isn’t a revolution but a way of knowing why it must come.” And so, as our bubble of deep thinkers meditate on the skeleton of our country, we have all also created—and witnessed—deconstructions, realms of defiance and prediction, and open pockets of awareness for the healing to come through. We have learned from Brenda Coultas how to document our local manifestations of decay in poetry. Azareen Oloomi encouraged us to “read widely and with vigor.” Eileen Myles told the secret to taking care of ourselves is (sometimes) getting a dog. And always, in the gifted eye of each of us, there is the knowing of watching a poet as they work—Mairead, Jeffery, or Anne weaving fibrous tapestries of SWP magic behind a humble curtain—that gives us the wisdom of generosity and dedication—helping us communally return what has been given to us as writers. In other words, we are becoming meteorologists.

Increasingly we are hearing the cutting truth revealed by our teachers—that these Weathers are not actually New. C.A. Conrad spoke to this on his panel: “Things have been fucked up for a long time.” Following up on his own threads of heart-mind activism, Conrad noted that political atrocities against the gay community have not only been happening for too long, but are also on the rise—with over 300 anti-gay and lesbian laws passed in 2017 so far. “Everybody needs to be an activist, and simultaneously creative,” Conrad said as pens flew across the pages in the windy, high vibrational PAC.

There is a lot to be grateful for. Hope is rising up and we become lighter with knowledge and nourishing poetry. Your homework is to tell the people around you that you love them, stay in the now and the unknown, and read to wake up, my dear SWP warriors. Write to wake others.

 

—Gabriella Reamer, Faculty Liaison

Photos by SWP New Weathers assistants & Director: Erika Hodges, Shawnie Hamer, Garen-Lavender Whitmore, Swanee, & Jeff Pethybridge

In-Person w/ Basma Alsharif: Alternative Cinema

Monday, February 27 at 7 PM – 9:30 PM

After History / Post Palestine
A selection of short films by Artist/Filmmaker Basma Alsharif that explore Palestine’s political history through visceral landscapes reflecting on the human condition and the future beyond history.
Total Program = approximately 80 minutes
[please see event discussion for individual synopses]
http://www.internationalfilmseries.com/first_person_cinema/

Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics and the University of Colorado Film Studies Program were honored to host Basma Alsharif for the In-Person: Alternative Cinema event on Monday, February 27, 2017 on the Naropa University Arapahoe Campus in the Performing Art Center, 2130 Arapahoe Avenue, Boulder, CO at 7:00 p.m.

Basma Alsharif is an Artist/Filmmaker born in Kuwait to Palestinian parents, raised between France and the US. Since receiving a Master of Fine Arts in 2007 from the University of Illinois at Chicago, she developed her practice nomadically between Chicago, Cairo, Beirut, Sharjah, Amman, the Gaza Strip and Paris.

Basma Alsharif’s work centers on the human condition in relation to shifting geopolitical landscapes and natural environments. Interested in what cannot ever be proven or explained, she uses photography, film, video, sound, language and performance to reveal the fallibility of our perception and of history. Engaging with politics on a visceral level through pieces characterized by their immersive, lyrical qualities, Alsharif creates familiar environments that lure us into unsettling experiences of being comfortable and foreign simultaneously.

Major exhibitions include: Le Prix Découverte des Rencontres d’Arles, les Module at the Palais de Tokyo, Here and Elsewhere at the New Museum, the Jerusalem Show, Yamagata Documentary Film Festival, the Berlinale, the Sharjah Biennial, Videobrasil, and Manifesta 8. She received a jury prize at the Sharjah Biennial 9, the Marion MacMahon award at Images, and was awarded the Marcelino Botin Visual Arts grant. Basma Alsharif is represented by Galerie Imane Farés in Paris, distributed by Video Data Bank and Arsenal, and is now based in Los Angeles.

 

We Began by Measuring Distance (2009) SD Video ~ 19 minutes. Long still frames, text, language, and sound are weaved together to unfold the narrative of ananonymous group who fill their time by measuring distance. Innocent measurements transition into political ones, examining how image and sound communicate history. We Began by Measuring Distance explores an ultimate disenchantment with facts when the visual fails to communicate the tragic.

A Field Guide to the Ferns (2015) 16mm HD transfer ~ 10 minutes. “Primitive savagery meets the brutality of the modern world in Ruggero Deodato’s timeless slice of visceral horror”. Cannibal Holocaust is revived deep in the New Hampshire woods
where apathy and violence are blurred.

This image requires alt text, but the alt text is currently blank. Either add alt text or mark the image as decorative.Home Movies Gaza (2013) HD video ~ 24 minutes
Home Movies Gaza introduces us to the Gaza Strip as a microcosm for the failure of civilization. In an attempt to describe the everyday of a place that struggles for the most basic of human
rights, this video claims a perspective from within the domestic spaces of a territory that is complicated, derelict, and altogether impossible to separate from its political identity.

This image requires alt text, but the alt text is currently blank. Either add alt text or mark the image as decorative.Renée’s Room (2015) ~ 15 minutes. A film on the perpetual present as an enactment of the concept of the eternal return.
“This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything unutterably small or great in your life will have to return to you, all in the same succession and sequence – even this spider and this moonlight between the trees, and even this moment and I myself. The eternal hourglass of existence is turned upside down again and again, and you with it, speck of dust!” Frederick Nietzsche


[photographer & projectionist, Jacob Barrera]

Jack Kerouac School @ AWP

 

Photos by Anisah Ali, Garen Lavender, Swanee, Erika Hodges

My mother bites her nails, and I am not like her. I am the skin around her. —  How Ginsberg can I bed? — I am here and you are here but we are nowhere to be found. — Looked at the map unfolded on his lap. “Empire of ideas.” — I want to tell you I am coming. Please don’t Super Nova yet. — If learn is synonymous with teach, how is student not synonymous with teacher? — Remember who owned the land we now occupy.

These are all lines from the Student & Alumni reading on Saturday afternoon. Their voices on the foreground to the exhibit hall hum, the culmination of four days worth of book mongering, poetry-promoting, free-speech protesting, heritage, vigil and vigor. 

It was an inspiring long weekend, which began with our first visitor to our table of the weekend, Alice Notley, garbed in a white scarf with sky-blue owls on it. Between her and other old friends to bright, new faces inquiring to our graduate programs we had such visitors as to make us full on Community. And what we brought to give away, we gave it all– issues 41 & 42 of Bombay Gin, select broadsides and anthologies, ex libris stickers, and other sweet swag. 

And although everything happened at once, and we were sad not to see you all, Summer Writing Program is right around the corner to reunite our tribe of Bodhisattvas. 

4×4 Reading Series

No. 1, a review by Sarah Escue

The 4×4 reading series creates a space in which writers from various Colorado communities can join together and share their creative works. The first 4×4 reading was held in the Nalanda Events Center at Naropa University on November 29, 2016. The readers included Megan “Babs” Heise (Naropa), Meghan Pipe (Fort Collins), Natalie Rogers (CU Denver), and Kailey-Alyssa Tucker (CU Boulder).

The readers wrote and spoke of ghosts, pickled brine, crustaceans, Batman villains, a boy named Steve, NPR broadcasts, organs, black holes, mental illness, a/sexuality, starfish, insomnia, repression, expression, and memory. Each reader made the audience laugh, hum, and ponder. The barrier between artist and audience crumbled, the room was anything but stagnant. Everyone was silent, reverent, open, alive.

Megan Heise from Naropa says, “I think the 4×4 is an amazing opportunity to share one’s work and connect with the larger Front Range literary community, and I’m honored to have represented Naropa at the first reading of the 2016-2017 series. I’m eager to support my classmates reading in the next three, and to learn about the creative work of writers from the other schools represented.”

The 4×4 series is a  way to connect with the Colorado literary and art community. Upcoming 4×4 readings will be posted on the Jack Kerouac Schedule of Events.

 

Sarah Escue is earning her MFA in Creative Writing & Poetics in the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics.

Writers in Community Speakeasy

Dec. 6, 2016

The Writers in Community Speakeasy is a reading in which undergraduate and graduate writing students who are taking the course Writers in Community have the opportunity to come together and share the creative work they produced during the semester.

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Travis Newbill, MFA

Writer’s in Community is a course that engages several aspects of being a writer, from the page to performance, from innovative poetic concerns to professional development. Several working writers, such as Gabrielle Civil, Eugene Lim, and Muriel Leung, are invited to give in-class lectures and/or lead workshops. During this course, students also have the opportunity to explore contemplative gestures and writing processes, such as meditation, free movement, and more. By the course’s end, students have completed a context presentation, a prospectus proposing a project of their own, a creative portfolio based on the course’s focus of study, and a short professional dossier with career goals.

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Steve San Luis, BA

The WIC Speakeasy was held in the Nalanda Atrium on December 6, 2016. Students read poems and prose, and some even performed spoken word poetry. The readers and performers included: Ben Gross, Emily Duffy, Camille Craig, Eric Shoemaker, Chance Boatman, Jessica Down, Danielle Gardner, Joshua Musicant, Erika Hodges, Kaleb Worst, Holly Salvatore, Jack Eley, Kristiane Weeks, Julien Blundell, Paul Gomez, Kate Langyher, Ryan Mihaly, Lea Pendersen, Sarah Escue, Michele Lorusso Ortega, Shelly Robinson, Paige Frisone, Travis Newbill, Steve San Luis, and Grace Horton.

The Speakeasy was an energized space in which undergraduate and graduate writers could share their work, support each other, and chat over tacos post-reading. It was such an honor to read alongside so many talented and encouraging people. And it was an even bigger honor to hear their stories, poems, and songs.

Review & photos by:                                                                                     Sarah Escue is earning her MFA in Creative Writing & Poetics in the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics.

Bright Impossibility: Sarah Escue with Amy Wright

 

Amy Wright is a poet, author, and Associate Professor of Creative Writing at Austin Peay State University. Amy is the Nonfiction Editor of Zone 3 Press and Zone 3 Journal and the author of four poetry chapbooks: There Are No New Ways to Kill a Man (Apostrophe Books), Farm (Finishing Line Press), The Garden Will Give You A Fat Lip, won the 2012 Pavement Saw Chapbook Contest. Dancing Girl Press published her fourth chapbook, Rhinestones in the Bed, or Cracker Crumbs, in 2014. Her newest collection of nonfiction essays Wherever the Land Is (miel, 2016) was published earlier this year. Amy’s writing appears in a number of journals including Kenyon Review, Southern Poetry Anthology (Volumes III and VI) and Tupelo Quarterly. She was awarded a Peter Taylor Fellowship for the Kenyon Review Writers’ Workshop, an Individual Artist’s Fellowship from the Tennessee Arts Commission, and a fellowship to the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts (VCCA).

 

Sarah Escue: One of the many intriguing aspects about Wherever the Land Is are your translations of Sappho and Emily Dickinson. Why did you choose to translate these particular authors and bodies of work?

 

Amy Wright: Emily Dickinson is the first poet whose poems I loved and memorized, yet even after years of reading her poems as a girl then as an undergraduate and graduate student, they were still wild with mystery. I knew from translating for my Master’s thesis the poetry of Peruvian poet César Vallejo that translation lends incredible intimacy to another’s work, so I used it to gain additional access to her poems. It was a way of adopting her as a mentor and trying to determine what characterizes feminine authority.

 

Sappho I undertook later with an additional objective. So much of the lyric’s origins have been reduced to mere slivers that I wanted to give the remaining fragments the attention they warrant. Translation helped me step through the doors that Anne Carson’s bracketed translations left open.

 

SE: How would you describe the movement of translation, adaption, and reclamation throughout this book?

 

AW: I think of this particular form of what I call poetry-to-prose translations as another medium. Language-to-language translations have a different relationship and responsibility to their originals. We already have Sappho and Dickinson’s poems in English, so I couldn’t contribute on that level, but I could offer my side of the conversation they initiated with one 21st century Appalachian-American reader. I could infuse my response to the call I hear within her work with the reasons I celebrate and honor it. And in carrying her lines into readings, which are themselves lyric, I could strum them against the shifting context through which they continue to live.

 

SE: Was there a specific text or author that first attracted you to translation? How do you enter a translation without changing the original text’s context?

 

AW: Stephen Mitchell’s translation of Rilke’s Duino Elegies first showed me the power of great translation. Rather than disguising his relationship to Rilke’s work—and Lao Tzu’s and Homer’s, and Job’s and the many other writers he’s translated—he integrates the context in which the work is being read with the one in which it was written. A change in context is inevitable. That these works remain in circulation and in various translations is a testament not to their lack of change but to their responsiveness to change. Embracing how these works currently resonate with him helps bridge their preserved wisdom and contemporary understanding, but that is because he is an exceptionally perceptive reader. The best translators are necessarily first great readers.

 

What I am working to create is not a facsimile but another work altogether—an apple in itself, if one that falls not far from the tree from which it sprung.

 

SE: Is translation a type of appropriation? Is translation a public or private act?

 

AW: For me, translation is both public and private in the way that grief is both. I use this unlikely comparison because one of the great gifts I noticed after my brother’s death was that the family members and friends would bring me the most precious thing imaginable at that time—more memories of him. Since my ability to make new ones with him was gone, I reveled in the ones they shared. Translation can be a similar means of preserving memories and relationships to work we love. Unless someone finds a long-lost Dickinson or Sappho poem, we only have what we can now offer in response—across language or media. It’s a public, or communal, offering that we receive in quite personal and internal ways.

 

SE: When does a translated text lose its original context? When this happens, is the work still considered a translation, or is it an adaptation or separate body of work altogether? Do you have any advice for individuals new to literary translation?

 

AW: Perhaps I should, but I don’t think of the context for a translation as a physical space akin to the setting for a play or a cathedral ceiling mural. I think of translation as a means of communicating across time or country or language or media potentially universal insights. Translators of poetry have additional responsibilities to retain the music and what Benjamin calls the “essence” of the original—but those original works do not seem to me separate from what has come before. Rather, they resound age-old notes newly combined. They evolve meaning in relation to changing conditions. They add to what is matter and not air, by building on centuries of human work and error.

 

I would advise language-to-language translators differently than poetry-to-prose or other kinds of experimental translators. Both need to first be exceptional readers whose readings complement, complicate, or otherwise augment the originals. But language-to-language translators also need to become like Coleman Barks, whose translations of Rumi evidence a profound depth of understanding while casting the light of himself onto the page only to illuminate the text. Poetry-to-prose or other translators have a different opportunity to celebrate the making new. Like the best song covers, they are original in themselves, so of course they don’t always work. I’ve tossed out a number of attempts myself, and there are more than enough bland Dylan covers that fail to bring voices as individual as his. But wouldn’t I tune in to Joanna Newsom’s version of “Tangled Up in Blue?” So, probably the best thing an experimental translator might do is to first train her own voice to carry as far as it can.

 

SE: Ownership and movement play prominent roles in Wherever the Land Is. Stolen or hidden paintings by Vermeer, Rembrandt, and Degas are reimagined, quite beautifully I might add. These paintings were stolen years ago and are in unknown locations where the public can’t view them. Can a person or culture truly own art? When art is stolen or hidden, is it still considered art? Can art become an artifact?

 

AW: Thanks for saying so. Your question reminds me of Dickinson’s poem 348 “I would not paint—a picture —” because the speaker prefers to be, rather than the painter, “the One / Its bright impossibility / To dwell — delicious — on—.” Contemplating a work of art, she makes apparent, is central to the work of art as such. Like a tree falling in a forest that no one hears, does it make a sound? If your definition of sound requires the meeting with a human eardrum, it does not, although the falling tree still emits sound waves. A work of art maintains its “bright impossibility” even when the channel between observer and work is broken, but I would say it animates through that exchange. A work of art, though, differs from a tree, which lives in its own right and as plant science has begun to reveal would sense the sonic vibration, if not with ears.

 

In the case of the works stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardener Art Museum, it is possible that they were removed from the public eye for the sake of a select and smaller audience, which complicates how one thinks about that channel of animation. I hope it does remain open, even in a more limited form, as it means the works remain intact somewhere. It’s also possible that they were reclaimed as national treasures, which opens a broader question of ethics. I would not hazard a fixed answer about how to handle all art, but I would say a sign of respect for work that has long outlived its artist is to entrust it to the care of its ancestors. It’s an ethical debate I felt especial empathy toward after the loss of my only brother. Given enough time—as in the 20,000-year-old Paleolithic paintings in the Lascaux Caves—one can see art become artifact and conduit of multifarious human stories.

 

SE: Why is the relationship between text and image important? What’s your process for blending text and image? Do you experiment with other mediums, such as painting or sculpture? How does experimenting with various art forms inform your writing?

 

AW: I was making a lot of color pencil drawings when I drafted this essay—simplistic and minimalist due as much to my drawing skills as to my aesthetic. Right now I am folding origami animals, which I send through the post to friends. Working with my hands helps me quiet thought and free my mind to listen to the rhythms that arise. Images fire in another region of the brain and light new paths toward understanding. I’m just grateful that new media helps me build on that potential.

 

SE: Exploring the restorative power of the creative process is a large part of this book. How has writing and the creative process helped you overcome hardships and heartbreak over the years? What was it like writing about your brother several years after his passing? How can the arts unite and heal a community?

 

AW: There is a beautiful line in Helen MacDonald’s H is for Hawk in which she is tracing a key her now-deceased father had taped on a card for her. In doing so she recognizes the shape of her love for him, and the way her grief has opened into something else. The absence of a lost person will always be with us, if at varying times harder to bear. What writing or drawing can do is similar to those new memories I said loved ones brought me after Jeremy’s funeral: they can add to the story that ended too soon. They can empower me not to change it but to create a protected space to mourn. Grieving is healthy and should be well honored, as it teaches us the depth and breadth and height and width of our love for another person. I had no idea my capacity was so vast until I felt the infinite space his loss opened up. Art can help us trust ourselves enough to risk that.

 

Sarah Escue is earning her MFA in Creative Writing & Poetics in the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics.

Naropa Writing Center Reading Tomorrow


Naropa Writing Center Reading 4/13