While reading In the Pines, I couldn’t help but think about the Mackey essay, specifically this passage on page 88:
“… the quintessential source of music is the orphan’s ordeal – an orphan being anyone denied kinship, social sustenance, anyone who suffers, to use Orlando Patterson’s phrase, ‘social death’… Song is both a complaint and a consolation dialectically tied to that ordeal, where in back of ‘orphan’ one hears echoes of ‘orphic,’ a music which turns on abandonment, absence, loss… Music is wounded kinship’s last resort.”
Furthermore, In the Pines is a self-proclaimed orphan of literature – orphaned because it is cut off/different from what has come before. In both the Kaluli myth and In the Pines this orphaning leads to a transformation (in the myth the human becomes bird and in Notley’s book writing is “changed completely”) and this experience is best communicated through song. The speaker describes In the Pines as “almost a story or a poem but it’s really a song because it’s ripping me apart.” So again, we have a complex enunciation of fragmentation and loss tied directly to song. In the Pines needs to be a song because only song, a thing orphaned, can break the bonds of literary kinship and transform into something new, changing writing completely. Also, only song can attempt to enunciate the fragmented self, the self ripped apart. What we’re left with is fragmentation and multiplicity, both structurally/formally and in terms of meaning, I think.
That the book is called “In the Pines” seems to be yet another enunciation of how song transforms the anonymity and absence of the new “no one species" into multiplicity and plurality - because “In the Pines” is the title of an old American folk song and folk songs are these anonymous things passed along from voice to voice to voice to voice.
As far as my question goes: I thought I’d first get a discussion started above, though I’m aware the above paragraphs are rather unfocused/rambling… If you feel inclined, please respond with your own two-cents and add to the discussion I’ve tried to start, or feel free to answer one of the questions I've listed below:
1. Let’s think some more about the plurality evoked by Notley’s book. In a way, Notley seems to be playing with the conventions of lyric poetry. The speaker is not the univocal, monolithic lyric “I”. Instead the speaker is “no one,” a term which captures both absence and plurality. "No one" can signify an absence of someone but also, if we emphasize the word "one" as a numerical value, the term can mean "not one" or not singular. Can we draw some political implications from the way Notley is perverting the lyric convention? (Is Notley as anarchic and badass as I suspect she is?)
2. How is womanhood represented or absent in In the Pines?
3. Mackey describes poetic language as “language owning up to being an orphan, to its tenuous kinship with the things it ostensibly refers to.” How is Notley’s language owning up to it’s own tenuousness? (Some close readings of certain passages or poems would be cool here.) But why expose such tenuousness? Why question the referentiality we all take for granted in everyday speech? Rather than trying to fulfill some (impossible?) desire for freedom from signification, can we interpret such questioning as an act of resistance? Against who/what?
5. [Insert your own question here]
I’d like to address Rachel’s third question. I think it took me a total of three times (I bought the book before this class) to get into Notely’s poems, or more, to let go of what I wanted them to say, the conclusion I thought there would be somewhere along the line.
ReplyDeleteWhat I found the most revealing was Notley’s reference to rats throughout the beginning of the book. Seems the rat is the stepchild of the rodent family in that it is often placed underground or if it is in a dwelling it is pushed out or killed. She writes,
“I am a real rat, unclear to myself, because there is no earth and no story…Within the rat I am light which is bleak but the cast is disappearing so I can cease to become.(4)”
She uses this symbol to refer to herself as a “true” animal or persona, but then retracts her statement and tries to become nothing or no part of the social order. I think Notley is pushing against the system, or social hierarchy (I’m searching for a better way to say this) by referencing an animal or beings that are outcasts and then abandoning those outcasts as well. As a means (maybe) to say she won’t be part of it. She won’t contribute or play a role, although she chooses to reference images that represent outcasts in order to situate herself in an insignificant or weak position and then declare she is abandoning that too.
I am also playing around with the idea, and maybe I am just thinking out loud, of her mention of women in the poems. I don’t know that I am directly answering Rachel’s second question completely. She acknowledges that she is a woman and speaks about her sister who dies in a mental institution (11). Notely mentions a diaphram and a taller woman to whom she literally looks up to see, but I do not get a sense of her womanhood as something that defines her or that she clings to or even that she hates. She works so hard on being disconnected from the characteristics that she mentions. She even says later on in the book that she has no characteristics. Notley uses abrupt statements about not being a woman and becoming no one (5). She writes in statements and questions to the point where she seems not to have one particular voice or audience, but to be talking to the air. I don’t mean that she is not purposeful. If anything I think that’s the point. She makes it seem as if she has no purpose but to question and then to give answers or statements that are almost too bold to believe. She writes,
You are all my sisters and brothers, though you might prefer
I didn’t say that. It is the most disruptive thing that one can say.
…I never had a lover.
Why should there have been anything to do in life?
I am tortured by my heart which they say is my mind. I don’t care
About those two words. (13)
Notley mentions the heart and the mind, the family, the purpose of life, but she pushes away from any of those things having meaning, having weight or value. She works towards a steady confusion where she can speak about through these subjects instead of trying to make sense of them. I also think there is sense to them, to her somewhat ranting style and song, but she doesn’t make it clear to the reader. She doesn’t want them to know what’s real and what isn’t, what matters and what might be nonsense. I think the book proves to say nothing, but that’s not possible. Maybe, more specifically it pushes to lose its voice. Not its sound, but the speaker behind the sound, for the speaker not to have a face.
The idea of a book, song, or poem being an orphan fascinates me, particularly because I’ve been thinking about the ‘heritage’ aspect of art lately. In the case of the first poem, In the Pines, I thought I could detect tension between heritage and originality. On the one hand, the speaker says she changed writing; on the other, she says if we don’t recognize the songs she’s referencing, we “don’t know anything” (27). Maybe this implies that nothing is totally ‘original,’ hence the song reference even in the title. But I suppose we can change something while remaining a connection to our heritage. I mean, that must always be the case.
ReplyDeleteIf I am going to believe that the speaker changed writing, I guess it’s because I’ve never read something that I felt was trying to pick a fight with me before. Or, as she says: “Now you have to compete with this reckless change.” (6) (To which I replied, "Oh, yeah?") I wondered if this implied that the reader (of poetry, of anything) somehow competes with a text. If Walker’s right, and poetry works rhetorically, then poetry has to win us over to its side. But what does that even mean?
Notely’s poetry seems to invite us to a wrestling match—maybe asking us to wrestle ourselves free from what we know about poetry, to evaluate it. At one point, she tells us we can’t stop reading. This actually got a rise out of me; my instinct was to put the poem down. But I finished the poem, so I guess the poet won (this time). On that note(ly), I’ve never thought about reading as a wrestling match, so I suppose she did succeed, at least, in getting me to think about reading poetry differently.
I really love Meg’s idea here that “it pushes to lose its voice. Not its sound, but the speaker behind the sound, for the speaker not to have a face.” So, I’m going to do something here that I might regret, and that’s to bring in a work to reference that we haven’t discussed in class: Gayatri Spivak’s “Can the Subaltern Speak?” It’s a convoluted theoretical position piece based on the deconstruction of such philosophers as Foucault (though he may object to that title), Deleuze, and certain “radical Marxists.” Spivak demonstrates that the subaltern has no voice except that which sociopolitical powers and intellectuals deem it to have. But, because those powers and intellectuals, though they try often to represent the subaltern, can never be accurate re-presentations of the subaltern, the subaltern is rendered mute.
ReplyDeleteThis seems an unusual document to bring up in a course on the rhetoric of song, but I feel there is something useful here as concerns the ironic paradox of presenting a “song,” which is, by nature, the production of sound, through the written word, which is inaudible. As Notley creates her persona, as she forces us to confront her “no one-ness,” I would say that she is working against the notion of the subaltern as a mute by the very fact that she is declaring herself, voicing herself, to be mute through a voiceless activity and calling it a song- a creation born from the act of orphaning. She is an orphan- as the subaltern is the social orphan- and, as such, through being no one, though being “unable” to communicate in a conventional way, she is accurately “re-presenting” (rather than the political idea of representation) the subaltern. In this way Notley fulfills the requirements of songs, for she uses epôidai, what Walker eloquently calls “incantatory words” as they apply “not only to poetry but also to speech in civic and philosophical forums” (pg. 17 in our coursepack). I would certainly say that In the Pines intends to address both. (So, yes, Rachel, I think she’s being as anarchistic and badass as you do.)
(Hope no one minds that last reference. Reading this week’s section by Walker put me in mind of his piece that we previously read. And if anyone has any idea what I’m talking about with Spivak, please sing out (hehe- pun). I would really appreciate other perspectives. And, just to vent, WHY is my italicize not working?!)
I am an orphan on god's highway, but I'll share my troubles if you go my way... The song has been playing on a loop since we read the Mackey piece. Luckily, it's a good song.
ReplyDeleteI really like Rachel's analysis of In the Pines, the song, as an orphan of sorts because of its folk song status. I'm not sure if we ever really answered the ethos question in terms of folk. These texts seem to be cut off from an easy to pinpoint ownership, and they tend to drift as time passes, belonging to everyone and "no one," to make a play off Notley's new species, at the same time. Being cut off from one particular person while simultaneously belonging to communities gives them their charm. At the same time, I wonder if this emphasis on song as loss and want, song as "wounded kinship's last result" reifies pain in a really problematic way. Are we saying that only gut-wrenching, crying out your soul songs are valid? If this is the case, how do we explain the success of "I Want to Hold Your Hand" by the Beatles or (ick) "Party in the U.S.A" by Miley Cyrus? Teeny bopper sensations aside, I would argue that many powerful songs come from a place removed from pain. At the same time, I tend to agree that there is something inexplicable but magical about pain-ridden music from the gut. In many cases, to revisit the orphan, these songs communicate isolation, being cut off from something. Notley's use of fragmentation, the idea of being cut off, could perhaps reinforce this phenomenon. Perhaps this is why she overtly references song in the text so much and even uses a folksong as her collection's namesake.
With the orphan in mind, I'm particularly interested in the way Notley uses particular folk songs to highlight the idea of the traveling, cheating woman who belongs to both one man in particular (the "I" male singer in the song) and no man. Obviously, Notley relies on the idea of a cheating woman hiding in the pines, and she seems to be specifically referencing Leadbelly's version of it. She references him a couple of times in the text, for example, when she encourages Irene from "Goodnight Irene" to jump into the river and drown (28). She also references "Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town." While this isn't a folk song (at least I don't think it is), once again, there's this fear that a woman will forget her place alongside her man and wander. "Black Jack Davey" and "Man with the Long Black Coat" are also referenced in the text. It strikes me that these examples share a common thread: a woman resists her conventional place alongside her man and wanders or perhaps is perceived as a wanderer (her "defect"?), much to the frustration of the men in the songs, who are either lamenting the loss of their woman (perhaps the convention) or fearful of this loss. I admit that I don't have all the kinks worked out yet, but I wonder why this theme in particular keeps recurring, and why the overt references to Leadbelly, one performer of In the Pines? Is she commenting upon the relationship between sexual and racial oppression? Are the women in these songs really orphans? Are the men?
I admit-I'm hesitant about making hard and fast statements about Notley. Like Nora, I wrestled with her, and I fear she may have won this round (reading).
I think I want to answer Rachel’s first and fourth questions, which sort of end up folding into each other, for me, when considering the lyric. Walker says:
ReplyDeleteWhat we might call the mainstream modern view [of the lyric poem] has been that, while poems may “contain” ideas, or thought, or “themes,” or may be “informed” by certain intellectual or philosophical perspectives (including the latest postmodern theory), such things are merely there, contained, as useful and sometimes even interesting but finally dispensable accessories and props, because the essential business of a lyric is to dramatize or express a state or feeling of subjectivity. (168)
He then spends most of the 3 chapters we read contradicting—or at least complicating—this notion. Argument and rhetoric in poetry are not incidental to the expression of feeling or mood, they can (and should?) exist alongside each other. I’m not completely sure what distinctions Walker is making, esp. between syllogism and enthymemes, but I think it’s safe to say that, (also esp.) given his insistence on tracing rhetoric’s origins as rooted in the poetic from our earlier reading this semester, the two (the expression of feeling/subjectivity and the argument/rhetoric) needn’t be divided, but rather allowed to exist simultaneously. Which I think Notley does beautifully in In the Pines.
In the Pines is at once an elegy and a manifesto; if I may read some autobiography into the book—and I think I may, re: “I got hepatitis C from shooting speed thirty-three years ago” (3)—then this book is a mourning song for her husband, Ted Berrigan, as well as an exploration of the grief she felt and the pain experienced during her (both physical and emotional) recovery.
But as Rachel points out, Notley rejects the meditative, self-reflective lyric “I” in favor of an envisioning of a new mode where “no one” is the new species. She is no one (“My name is no one” 13), the new species is no one, and on page 57, she declares, “I serve the poem, no one,” either a direct address or an inclusion of the poem/song as “no one.”
Rachel hinted at anarchic tones in the book, and they do seem to be there—she wishes there weren’t a president and is constantly aware of escaping the federales. What seems to be happening is a rejection of normative recovery—she finds diamonds, sapphires, and rubies in her “defect,” which, when “the man” tries to fix it, she responds, “It may be what I love now” (50); her mind is “broke” and it did so on its own (3 and 14); she is constantly retreating into the “periphery” and into song.
She desires to experience the fullness of pain and solitude (in the pines) but longs for unity and anonymity—something that folk songs (and the “no one” paradox) allow her. In the Pines is laced with lyrics from folk songs—LeadBelly, “The Wagoner’s Lad,” whatever song the Jack of Diamonds line comes from—and more. It makes sense that Notley would choose folk songs as the vehicle for her play and pain—they belong to everyone and no one; they are often about loss; etc.
If the new species is “no one,” then the code that links the species is not just genetic “but [also] songs…but tears” (52). Here, Notley introduces another seeming double: as she longs for both solitude and collectivity, she conflates song and tears—creation and pain. This naming allows space/use (?) for individual pain and a forum for collective experience.
As for genre, if pressed, I guess I’d call this a lyric poem, although it resists these conventions (see above) as often as it abides by them. It is song, as well; I don’t think I’d classify it as prose, although the next section, “The Black Trailor,” is written in prose poem format. I think Notley resists convention, which illustrates her point/argument—for let’s not forget, the book opens with a call to, “change writing completely” (3).
PS I just posted that on a plane somewhere between Atlanta and Dayton. I am about to ask for a tomato juice. How cool is that?
ReplyDeleteWhile I completely agree with Mandy that not all valid songs have to be heart wrenching, I think that if we’re talking from an art perspective I don’t think songs can be judged by their commercial appeal. Some songs are popular because people don’t like to think (“I Love Rock n Roll”). It’s the reason Two and a Half Men is one of the top rated shows while Arrested Development got cancelled. That said, I think heart wrenching isn’t necessary for great art either. I doubt many people were moved to tears looking at an Andy Warhol print, but they were moved in other ways. Probably, great hip hop artists like MF Doom are an example of this, they can seem trivial, but have many layers to them.
ReplyDeleteBut anyways, personal rants aside, I like the idea of the plurality invoked in Notley’s writing. The lines:
“I’ve seen you, all my other doubles too.”
And a few lines later:
“The new species.
Part bird. Part rat. Part voice. Part elephant.
Trying to forget, but you can’t do that.” (47)
The speaker isn’t only not reduced to one person, but to not even one type of thing. This can be tied into the idea of the orphan. The speaker isn’t reduced to the child of a specific person or thing but is the parentless being. Does this show the weakness or insignificance that Meg was speaking of?
It’s interesting that while the speaker talks about this, they counter it with references to family, to parents and grandparents. They seem to ground themselves with these concrete references.
“I’m the folk, no one; Daddy, that’s who I am.” (51)
While the speaker uses these concrete familial images, they undercut them with the idea of a plural folk, or Rachel’s idea of the plural “no one”. I think that the speaker is trying to show the idea of plurality in a concrete world.
Ah Mandy...you stepped on my thunder. Stole my toes. Curse my laziness in response.
ReplyDeleteI too was captivated by Notley's invocation of song throughout, beginning foremost with the titular piece as being "In the Pines" or "Black Girl (Gal)" by various artists since the early 20th century. What I hadn't considered was the way in which that particular song in its forms sets up a sort of frame for the poem to function. I was missing on the possibility that so much of this was dialogic--being continually caught on the idea that Rachel pointed out about the speaker being "not One" (my emphasis). To me, this speaker 'contains multitudes,' which complicates my attempts to dilineate whether or not this is a call and response format between two separate speakers or a complex internal monologue. Regardless, the accusatory voice in the song is traditionally (invariably) male, and the respondent, the girl, is accounting for a certain experience. Although I am not sure how to elaborate on this point, I feel that there may be something worthwhile brewing in a comparison of the structures of both works.
Further, to add to Mandy's song list above, I noticed countless references to Townes van Zandt's "Poncho and Lefty," (especially page 6) another song to add to the litmus of betrayal (although, ostensibly, both characters in this song are male...don't know what that does to the trope that you had established above).
Quite frankly, I'm baffled by this. And I think that is good--it comes off to me as a visceral, static experience. I see many instances in the poems where Notley seems to be consciously subverting many post-enlightenment practices (the mind/body dichotomy inherited from Christian humanism, one that subverts the female to the realm of the earthly and base), and maybe in keeping with this theme is a resistance on my part to classify and dissect. This might seem like a cop-out, but until I get further backing of some sort, I really have little to push off from.
Joel Brouwer, in a New York Times review of In the Pines, makes an interesting assessment: “[Notley] seeks to establish or continue no tradition except one that literally can’t exist — the celebration of the singular thought sung at a particular instant in a unique voice — and it seems she’s getting closer to it all the time.” I wonder how much weight Brouwer intended to place on the verb “sung” here, because the musical quality of In the Pines seems to work only intermittently in its lyrical interludes. The rest, to me, reads like a prose poem. That is, most of it isn’t especially musical.
ReplyDeleteOn a macro scale, though, the lyrical segments seem to lend the whole piece a songlike structure: they offer a chorus-like counterpoint to the narratively ambiguous prosaic language that makes up the rest of the piece (and I’m talking specifically about the first section here). This relationship develops what I read as something of a verse-chorus-verse rhythm that oscillates between the simple and the complex, both in terms of content and syntax. There’s a good example of this on page 11: (starting within a songlike “chorus” section) “… I never wanted / to sing this song. But now it’s mine.” Then onto a prosaic section: “That was me, I was sick. No, he lay there. His eyes were small circles of flame.” The prosaic section, (ironically) taking the role of “verse,” elaborates on the concrete statement of emotion from the “chorus” section, complicating the narrative and offering (maybe?) multiple narrators in a single line. This, I think, is a more extreme version of how many actual songs work, where the chorus grounds the song and the verse gets some room to meander.