folio : (further) short takes on the prose poem
I’ve lately been thinking on translation, thought that has brought me to the work of Joyelle McSweeney and Johannes Göransson, who introduce the “deformation zone” in their chapbook by the same name. Sketching out, among other things, a theory of contamination in the translation project, McSweeney and Göransson propose a point in time and process (in writing/translating) during which the translation (the copy) contaminates the original by dint of error or simply by incredulous transposition.
I find this an exciting way to think of prose poetry, though I do not mean to suggest that prose poetry is merely the midpoint between a poem and a piece of prose. Rather, prose poetry is the point of contamination following an urge to discourse, and what comes after—its product—a sort of hoax.
In this framework, prose poetry is a deceptive and mischievous mode of thinking more than the thought itself, which instead appears to be nothing shy of “rational” or “logical” discourse by virtue of its prosaic appearance. Like a false path painted upon a wall.
Three Prose Poems from Nothing Happens Next and It Looks Like Us
I leaned to the person to whom I was closest and held them so tightly that he exploded and blood went everywhere. The person to whom the person to whom I was closest was closest before he became a pool of blood leaned to the person to whom she was closest and held them so tightly that they too exploded and blood went everywhere. Soon we were half as many and standing knee deep in blood. I leaned over to the person to whom I was now closest and held her so tightly. I wondered how it was that the person to whom we are closest is always closer to someone else.
***
Both the smoking earth and salve to it, I have to bash my own head in with something. I swim in the depths of time for recreation. I hold my breath and touch the bottom. I come up for air and even there, it is smoking. I smoke deeply in the deep and smoking waters. I enfold them in my breath. My inhalation is such a thing that rattles like a snake. I am such a thing. Love does not sound like a hiss. A rattle that sounds like love defeats the purpose of a rattle. In its hole, a pink rattlesnake sings a love song and I go to it. What happens is what is expected to happen. I hold no venom and make a sound like love. I venom my love. I venom, my love.
***
If there is an argument for walking as a mode of criticism, it would go something like this: an incessant motion implies the refusal to settle on any particular mode of thought, action, or belonging. It forces constant change, it is perpetually progressive despite its aimlessness.
I walk critically.
I walk toward the bookended sky. Should I describe myself? I have been abstract even in my own vision to this point. I feel that I have taken what I need. It is possible I will become any number of things at any given moment.
