Jack Wiler: one more time, maybe not the last time, here's Jack

A few of the good people of New Jersey organized a tribute to Jack Wiler here in New York City this afternoon. I just got back from it and will describe while my feet unthaw (see this morning's blog on cold weather--and walking).

I was prepared to take notes on names and memories, but the bar at Le Poisson Rogue on Bleecker was too dark to deal with a notebook, and anyway, who wants to spend three hours with great people while jotting particulars. I had a beer instead and enjoyed the background noise of a Bowie tribute band rehearsing next door.

Poet Jack Wiler, author of three books, Fun Being Me and Divina Is Divina (the latter forthcoming) from CavanKerry Press, and I Have No Clue from Longshot, was memorable in flesh and word. Most everyone at today's event knew him better than I did and it would feel presumptuous to resurrect their tales of Jack, but there was a theme or two I'll share. His poetry is precise, freighted, accessible and real deal. His work wasn't enough known and sometimes he regretted that, and sometimes didn't have enough ego to believe in himself.

Hemingway's "bullshit detector" had been installed in Jack at an early age and functioned well. As is the case with those who detect even a smudge or two here or there, let alone the ubiquitous abundant steaming piles Jack freely expressed his distaste-to-anger, something I very much appreciate, as that's my chore-to-gift (access to free expression). My turn at the mic I read his poem "The Names of God" which I mention in my other Jack Wiler posting.*

He was a salesman for an extermination business off-and-on for over twenty years. I'd be interested knowing how he came to that, but have a theory why he stuck with it. His boss, the pres. of Acme Exterminating Corp., had to be one of the good pieces of fortune of Jack's life. Robert Stien knew Jack was a poet, sometimes went with Jack to his readings or the Geraldine Dodge poetry festival in Jersey. One time an extermination biz colleague worried, "Extermination is not Jack's number one priority, poetry is." Stien laughed. We all laughed.

There was only one tribute that bothered me, from a poet who suggested Jack's accessibility was the result of a reader not having to plow through mythological or Biblical references. I don't think that comment would have made Jack happy. He wrote about what he wrote about. He read tons and was raised by a reader -- his mother. References weren't his calling in poetry, but I doubt he had an aversion.

He had a rich, full life. He had a tenderly open mind. He was loved by many. He will continue to be read by many and very likely for a long time.

My previous post on Jack:

*http://my3000lovingarms.blogspot.com/2009/10/rip-jack-wiler-fun-being-him.html

///Thanks to Danny Shot, Joan Handler and many others for today.

Make It New?

Make it new.

Someone said that. Oh, okay, it was Ezra Pound. He said a lot of things and wrote a lot of things, some of them in English. The English stuff was often a silk ribbon seeking your ear and soft against your soul. He was pretty good.

Intimidated as I was by Cantos well-fortressed in discouraging the insecure with their (Cantos) hefty walls of Latin and turreted Greek, I didn't tackle them until recently. Tackling friends, however, is a lifelong interest.

My Cantos tackling was enabled by the reading aloud group that meets at the Bowery Poetry Club. What this group does is to read aloud. Further elaboration involves mention of tomato paste tins and Bloody Mary mix, among which the group sits, pale but not loitering in a basement storeroom every Tuesday, late afternoon. The "club" isn't too clubby which suits me. Thank you, Bob Holman.

Getting laid off also enabled Cantos tackling. By the way, the Cantos were slightly doomed because the book as a whole does not quite come together, many have said, though its parts are mighty mighty (lettin' it all hang out). Yes, the Cantos are a brick house.

Make It New is from Confucius, translated by Pound. I may have heard it early on - I'm relatively new to poetry, but a lifelong English major - but the saying, which I later realized was often quoted - must have fallen like bricks from scaffolding while I was in another state.

I remember walking in Pioneer Square in Seattle with an artist and he said it, I want to Make It New. He meant art. I understood that much. And was abashed, shamed, appalled, startled, scared, curious. I'd been writing fiction by then, but had no idea how I was going to start to make anything new. And I raised the usual storefront objections about nothing is new under the Sun.

Blame it on Magdalena Zurawski's blog, Minor American. On June 12, 2009 she wrote of a reviewer who challenged her for not making it new when, she says, that wasn't her intention. What she writes make sense. Minor American is one of my blogs listed, to the right.

So how innovative am I? Not until I was in my forties did I even begin to reckon with the phrase. The trajectory of my life, much stupidity and wasted time for many years, and now a scramble (casual scramble) to catch up, is opposite of Pound's.

What can I make new? A turn of phrase? A simile? Dialog? I can try.

http://thecontaminated.com/famous-in-lego-world/