Poetry Readings are Delightful
Tonight I hosted a reading by Richard Loranger from San Francisco, and now I am restless, torn between poetry and fiction. I am working on several short story projects, but I also have the poetry manuscript, A Sack of Words, calling for my attention.
And talking of words, Loranger's poetry uses them well. He treated us to the logic of teeth, seeing the world through all the teeth in one's mouth, each with its name and purpose in life, each acquiring human qualities, so that tooth number 32, for instance has a purpose that conflicts or complements that of tooth number 22. The teeth have names like "the rebel", "the addict" and so on, and when they tell their stories, life can just turn to something that grinds or is ground by beings that are more than teeth; chewing becomes a mastication of the truth, which should be chomped, ground, found, mauled, mailed...
Oh, don't forget that because they chew and they cut and they grind, these teeth process reason, but they can be villains, they can be heroes, or anti-heroes. And here is how things work: we enter life through the logic of teeth, and before long we are latching on to the chaos of life, which has its own teeth; we are talking about and seeing other things that help us understand ourselves and the life that we say we live, because we tear into the steak of it and we chew. But things get interesting when we do other things because we are not teeth really; we have teeth, for decoration, for perforation, and unchewed properly, some of the reality that guides us, or one which we guide, will not be properly digested....
Loranger specializes (if we can even use this word) in series poetry, so the book Poems for Teeth etches its niche through teeth, all the teeth in a human mouth, and each tooth tells a story, sings about life. Before long the poems cease to be about teeth. In some tooth logic the poems reach out and grapple with other realities--exhibitionism, absurdity, or the politics of nations, to pure entertainment, when the poet breaks into song.
The open mic session was fantastic too; I got to read a poem from my collection Forever Let Me Go, which is entitled "Service Unavailable". It deals with an email outage and the near-decimation of the persona's being because of email starvation.
But Loranger's poetry: wicked little things....
Photo by Barbara Landis
Richard Loranger is a writer, performer, and visual artist who wandered back to San Francisco last fall after fifteen years in less savory climes. He is the author of Poems for Teeth (We Press, 2005), which Bob Holman calls “one of the most extraordinary and virtuosic poetic feats since Francis Ponge took on Soap,” as well as The Orange Book and eight chapbooks, including Hello Poems and The Day Was Warm and Blue. He is a recent and very happy escapee from The Big Mean Dirty City ( New York ).
Sample poem from Poems for Teeth:
TOOTH OF MYTH
# 14 – UPPER LEFT 1ST MOLAR
I run into a friend on the subway.
“Your hair looks terrible,” she says.
“So what?” I say.
Deep in the pulp, a churning tide emits
a scent that sings of dynasties and shame,
of ruined soliloquies, of altars, and of love
that cannot be deciphered with a knife.
Come to the pit, and show me a remnant of human
nuance. Grasp my arm. Come show me hope.
Lie to me never,
never, never,
lie to me never
and always go home.
You cannot find your hands because
another timer has gone off. Beneath
the table waits the dog who whispers
to you late at night. An egg appears
between your feet to let you know
the guests are here.
Fifty-two teeth arrive in the air
and form a planchette that just hangs there
watching you eat. A discrete response
might be to smile, but you are without
wit, at least for a moment. They are impatient and swoop
at your face, and you are in a field
of burning butterflies.
Two kings ago you couldn’t get style like this.
Sing to me always,
always, always,
sing to me always
and never deny.
You find yourself joyless, as one does,
moving day to day through grey air,
unable to recognize your life.
You meet a mysterious woman with leaves in her hair,
and three months later find yourself
dancing naked on a rooftop in Albuquerque
with a saxophone and sixteen cats.
I run into an old friend who gives me
a handful of nails.
“Why nails?” I ask.
“You’re asking me?” he says.
We all have teeth, which is the best reason
to say hello. Hi. How are you?
Meet me in meadow,
meadow, meadow,
meet me in meadow
and show me your hand.
14 lies face down in the forest,
breathing in the mulch,
eating trees and defecating rain.
She has been happy as a
toadstool ever since she gave up her
desk job to pursue a position in
animism. Now she reads rivulets,
spider bellies, calla lilies, foxtails
for auguries of disintegration and joy.
She spends her every waking moment studying
granules, and her every sleeping moment studying
her every waking moment. It’s a full time job.
14 is an advertisement for dirt,
and you line up to buy it with your
last sense of purchase.
Leaves turn and tumble, tell a tale
again and again, unrecognizable each time
and each time thrilling. You are the inhabitant
of a virile world, and you eat teeth every day
and give yours to your friend at night.
This is just another turn of the pretty disc,
ardent, indefatigable, gleaming. Bon appetit.
And your hair, by the way, looks great.
Ring me with garlands,
garlands, garlands,
ring me with garlands
and take me away,
away.
And talking of words, Loranger's poetry uses them well. He treated us to the logic of teeth, seeing the world through all the teeth in one's mouth, each with its name and purpose in life, each acquiring human qualities, so that tooth number 32, for instance has a purpose that conflicts or complements that of tooth number 22. The teeth have names like "the rebel", "the addict" and so on, and when they tell their stories, life can just turn to something that grinds or is ground by beings that are more than teeth; chewing becomes a mastication of the truth, which should be chomped, ground, found, mauled, mailed...
Oh, don't forget that because they chew and they cut and they grind, these teeth process reason, but they can be villains, they can be heroes, or anti-heroes. And here is how things work: we enter life through the logic of teeth, and before long we are latching on to the chaos of life, which has its own teeth; we are talking about and seeing other things that help us understand ourselves and the life that we say we live, because we tear into the steak of it and we chew. But things get interesting when we do other things because we are not teeth really; we have teeth, for decoration, for perforation, and unchewed properly, some of the reality that guides us, or one which we guide, will not be properly digested....
Loranger specializes (if we can even use this word) in series poetry, so the book Poems for Teeth etches its niche through teeth, all the teeth in a human mouth, and each tooth tells a story, sings about life. Before long the poems cease to be about teeth. In some tooth logic the poems reach out and grapple with other realities--exhibitionism, absurdity, or the politics of nations, to pure entertainment, when the poet breaks into song.
The open mic session was fantastic too; I got to read a poem from my collection Forever Let Me Go, which is entitled "Service Unavailable". It deals with an email outage and the near-decimation of the persona's being because of email starvation.
But Loranger's poetry: wicked little things....
Photo by Barbara LandisRichard Loranger is a writer, performer, and visual artist who wandered back to San Francisco last fall after fifteen years in less savory climes. He is the author of Poems for Teeth (We Press, 2005), which Bob Holman calls “one of the most extraordinary and virtuosic poetic feats since Francis Ponge took on Soap,” as well as The Orange Book and eight chapbooks, including Hello Poems and The Day Was Warm and Blue. He is a recent and very happy escapee from The Big Mean Dirty City ( New York ).
Sample poem from Poems for Teeth:
TOOTH OF MYTH
# 14 – UPPER LEFT 1ST MOLAR
I run into a friend on the subway.
“Your hair looks terrible,” she says.
“So what?” I say.
Deep in the pulp, a churning tide emits
a scent that sings of dynasties and shame,
of ruined soliloquies, of altars, and of love
that cannot be deciphered with a knife.
Come to the pit, and show me a remnant of human
nuance. Grasp my arm. Come show me hope.
Lie to me never,
never, never,
lie to me never
and always go home.
You cannot find your hands because
another timer has gone off. Beneath
the table waits the dog who whispers
to you late at night. An egg appears
between your feet to let you know
the guests are here.
Fifty-two teeth arrive in the air
and form a planchette that just hangs there
watching you eat. A discrete response
might be to smile, but you are without
wit, at least for a moment. They are impatient and swoop
at your face, and you are in a field
of burning butterflies.
Two kings ago you couldn’t get style like this.
Sing to me always,
always, always,
sing to me always
and never deny.
You find yourself joyless, as one does,
moving day to day through grey air,
unable to recognize your life.
You meet a mysterious woman with leaves in her hair,
and three months later find yourself
dancing naked on a rooftop in Albuquerque
with a saxophone and sixteen cats.
I run into an old friend who gives me
a handful of nails.
“Why nails?” I ask.
“You’re asking me?” he says.
We all have teeth, which is the best reason
to say hello. Hi. How are you?
Meet me in meadow,
meadow, meadow,
meet me in meadow
and show me your hand.
14 lies face down in the forest,
breathing in the mulch,
eating trees and defecating rain.
She has been happy as a
toadstool ever since she gave up her
desk job to pursue a position in
animism. Now she reads rivulets,
spider bellies, calla lilies, foxtails
for auguries of disintegration and joy.
She spends her every waking moment studying
granules, and her every sleeping moment studying
her every waking moment. It’s a full time job.
14 is an advertisement for dirt,
and you line up to buy it with your
last sense of purchase.
Leaves turn and tumble, tell a tale
again and again, unrecognizable each time
and each time thrilling. You are the inhabitant
of a virile world, and you eat teeth every day
and give yours to your friend at night.
This is just another turn of the pretty disc,
ardent, indefatigable, gleaming. Bon appetit.
And your hair, by the way, looks great.
Ring me with garlands,
garlands, garlands,
ring me with garlands
and take me away,
away.
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