Explosive device magazine — 14 person poem by shaun dolven

Incorporating poems by Maureen McLane, Dorothea von Moltke, Geoffrey Nutter, Rowan Ricardo Phillips, Sal Randolph, Mónica en Torre, and Monica Youn

Shaun Dolven, 14 Person Poem, June 4, 2017, included in Asad Raza’s Weekend Visitors for Root sequence. Native language, in the Whitney Museum of yankee Art. Photograph © Paula Court.

It takes place such as this: one enters the vibrant room around the west side from the sixth floor from the Whitney Museum of yankee Art. You’re among youthful trees, twenty-six of these, growing from wooden boxes elevated on casters, spaced out round the room the ground is red carpet, the sunshine a mixture of sun in the home windows along with a green glow in the bulbs around the ceiling. You might have a minute to go searching, or you might be contacted immediately by somebody that states: Look for a furrow inside your sleep. Or, The ridge. A ladder asleep against a home. Or, That went, It was our world, a past tense. Then your speaker moves directly on, and another person catches you through the elbow: through the night in when lower when pleasure lower oh when. Or, Because of the recent turn of occasions, it could have opposed blooming. You could begin to find these folks out, to collect more lines, before lengthy a chime sounds and also the readers, who’ve been circulating freely, form a circle in the heart of the area. You count 14, should you count. Out, they recite a poem—that’s exactly what the 14 lines equal to, description of how the have been in order, though are all still inside a different voice, moving gradually round the circle. Then your circle of 14 turns inward, and there’s the poem again, this time around read faster, as if the lines were the utterance of merely one speaker. Then once more, all at one time, the lines on the top of each other and so the circle dissolves. A readers approaches you again, with a brand new line from the new poem.

It happened such as this should you be within the Whitney around the first Sunday mid-day in June, 2017, and also you came into just Asad Raza’s Root Sequence. Native Language. The trees, the totem-objects placed in their bases, and also the caretakers who was simply tending them for 2 months—all were regulars, but Raza also asked an accumulation of weekend visitors to inhabit the area for any couple of hrs each. The 14 Person Poem required in the invitation, getting several poets and readers together for any collective experiment in discussing a poem in physical and social space. Eight poems were written for that occasion, a replacement for each quarter hour of these two hrs the big event lasted. The 14 readers within the room at any time understood merely a single type of each poem, and were billed with discussing it with as numerous visitors as you possibly can. The visitors met the poems as a number of personal encounters. Once an interval of mystery are they going to hear the entire put together, possibly still mysterious, but additionally already familiar.

Shaun Dolven, 14 Person Poem, June 4, 2017, included in Asad Raza’s Weekend Visitors for Root sequence. Native language, in the Whitney Museum of yankee Art. Photograph © Paula Court.

Poetry readings are commonly a hierarchical affair, with someone right in front from the room studying, everyone else listening, nobody moving an excessive amount of. The arrangement serves the skill well, but getting poems in to the social space of "Root Sequence. Native LanguageInch appeared to on a regular basis. The choreography from the 14 Person Poem activates potentials that ordinary readings have a tendency to neglect: combinatorial poetics, à la Raymond Queneau, reorganizing a poem quickly the pathos from the fragment, the poem scattered just like a Sappho lyric, retrieved only in pieces the non-public circulation of samizdat and possibly the peculiar, up-close closeness from the ancient mariner, with something unforgettable to express, you alone, and today. With that particular Sunday, watching the area from outdoors was like watching a text diffusing via a culture instantly. A lot of us who participated wondered afterward where else this type of distributed, communal studying might work: on the subway platform, inside a park, in the pub? The only lines are a hook, a means for that poem depict and to get at you before very long is really a poem. How about other lengths, longer or shorter compared to day’s sonnets and pseudo-sonnets? Poems more site-specific, or fewer? Would there be methods for turning listeners into readers, even around the place? There’s room for additional experiment, and poetry asks experiment.

At the time, nobody understood the poems whole until these were read aloud in the quarter hour, being an incantation, an all natural speech act, and lastly an acoustic palimpsest. These are reproduced beginning to end, but imagine them happening line by line, in unpredictable order. They respond variously to such reorganizations. Multiple people became a member of together on that day to create them in to the room: additionally towards the poets, there have been Ray Berger, D. Graham Burnett, Majel Connery, Pleasure Connolly, Martha Friedman, Brooke Holmes, Len Nalencz, Seph Rodney, David Scher, and Jennie Uleman Lola Harney in the Whitney looked after us as she’s for that caretakers and also the trees they are concerned for.

— Shaun Dolven

Shaun Dolven, 14 Person Poem, June 4, 2017, included in Asad Raza’s Weekend Visitors for Root sequence. Native language, in the Whitney Museum of yankee Art. Photograph by Lola Harney.

A sonnet’s good like a bucket for planting a stripling in—
The trees within their carceral containers but O the leaves of freedom!
You grown a tree i believe and rooted the tree within the ear.
Work is blossoming or dancing where
I gave my love a cherry which had nothing. I gave my love a cherry.
Do you consider caring will suffice?
You talk from the tree of existence why don’t you the tree of dying.
Don’t you want to capture an axe and hack the given world?
The term for world is forest. An entire forest of masts awaits us
within the up to now untimbered Siberian wood. Wood may be the word for world.
Without a doubt the specific earliest redwood in California—
Let’s set Asad’s name inside a songAnd is really nice to become here along with you along with a lion.
Bloodstream and bone and steel and glass the town the problem un-tied into ash.
Wild birds of paradise alight on any provisional tree.

— Maureen McLane

Forget, Mary, a garden rows.
Set aside your playthings
and appear within the orchard darkly
in which the weeping Higan waits
for news that City Hall has botched
its audit in our apiaries.
Your silver seeds, Mary, swallow.
Look for a furrow inside your sleep
or perhaps a fold inside your attention:
allow them to sprout rotate your heart.
Grow contrary, darling Mary.

You are able to thread a hive along an overall length of string:
the trade of bells for any colony of bees
is fair, counting pollen, honey, and also the sting.

— Dorothea von Moltke

Do you want to hear the storyline of Hansel and Gretel?
Orioles sang within the yellow trees meteors flared on the horizon.
Neither thought nor fear nor cyprian braches knotted fine as needlepoint.
The fronds within the shade from the seminal wall bent toward them, then away,
Sentient and warning that ghosts were near, just like a man dissecting a stingray.
You have to shatter, like water, to behold the sun’s rays or blue lichens shining on gemstones:
You’ve got to be a shattered person, vibrant as ocean-glass or even the roman candle:
Despite the fact that it’s a steel world, with wild birds of steel, and all sorts of flesh is grass (but grass is steel too),
Sunset finds three pale-eco-friendly eggs, streaked and spotted with crimson-red.
Progressively Night the Terrifier finds its way—
And peacefully mom Factor, obsidian within the blue verge, stands tall.
The trees and all sorts of things enter virginity, then from it: and get up.
And also the world is within its heyday, the numerous-colored tiles of the confectionary house.
And you’re a changeling, whose existence has exchanged you for another person.

— Geoffrey Nutter

Shaun Dolven, 14 Person Poem, June 4, 2017, included in Asad Raza’s Weekend Visitors for Root sequence. Native language, in the Whitney Museum of yankee Art. Photograph © Paula Court.

Nude Figure

A blue sleeveless blouse having a gold zipper
Voilàing lower the center of the leading
Such as the evening star that appears too supple
To maneuver in almost any direction other
Than south and north against night’s writhing silk,
My thoughts may be the last panther within the hillsides
Haunched on the steep rock, consuming for the reason that sky,
And all sorts of I remember when i understood around the globe now fills
With lies and fear and terror, flies past us
And dies while you lie back, the final sentence
Ever spoken within the lost tongue from the poets
That went, It was our world, a past tense,
Some us dot gerrymandered into fire,
Douse it with tequila, chase it with rye.

— Rowan Ricardo Phillips

such as this

such as this should you could towards the season of
many should you dry eventually wait vibrant eve
now’s every single day one another for who
can tell it granted is free of charge for where
or afraid again back onto many
where lost on the highway across to slow
leave my continues again funny as comes
in crime written on say none with someone
else how’s about whatsoever every day love
spent getting spare our sense
like believe recently anyway
am with the door why and wild in flash
while it is raining in can easily see with driving been
through the night in when lower when pleasure lower oh when

— Sal Randolph

Shaun Dolven, 14 Person Poem, June 4, 2017, included in Asad Raza’s Weekend Visitors for Root sequence. Native language, in the Whitney Museum of yankee Art. Photograph © Paula Court.

Boxed In

Transplanted to some controlled atmosphere in order to achieve a fullness worth display.
Manages, false buddies use familiarity as camouflage.
Talking about foliage, within the native language deciduous might be mistaken with indifference.
Nothing might be farther away from desidia compared to timed impermanence of leaves.
Yes, even forests participate in a kind of family planning.
We required the tree outdoors our window as a given until it unsuccessful to bud.
A Ginko, they work lower because the building next door started rising.
Since our view is restricted, we love to to assume the problem in the tree’s perspective.
Because of the recent turn of occasions, it could have opposed blooming.
It may be protesting its decorative use to improve property values.
Or possibly after millennia of honing lower its particulars, it declined the generic moniker, as with
"the special moment of tree-lined roads."
The concrete of sidewalks blocks these social beings’ use of yeast systems
prevents their roots from interconnecting.
Are you currently a reluctant loner such as the examples that surround us here today?
I think you’ll understand I do not mean to ruin the connection.

— Mónica en Torre

Within the forest, a seedling cries because of its rot-mother,
A berry serenades a sparrow, a carcass sighs to the spores,
Slow tremolo of fungi, the needle-whine of flies –
The living stitched towards the living stitched towards the dead.

The museum is really a quarantine of cultivated silence.
Our pale soliloquies coil in upon themselves, rootbound.
Twenty-six figures. An alphabet nobody speaks.
The kindly curators import props to lend us meaning.

The sun’s rays is really a glass wall with gradients of grey and gold.
Beginning is really a rouged irrelevance towards the east.
We no more worship heaven-dwelling pantheon.
Everyone owns our very own beam of green light.

Everyone subsists on the cubic yard of Miracle Gro.
Nothing must die to ensure that us to consume.

— Monica Youn

Shaun Dolven is really a poet and critic. Two new books, Be Mindful (Cabinet) and Senses of fashion (Chicago), are forthcoming this summer time and fall. He’s an editor-at-large at Cabinet magazine and teaches at Princeton College.





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Explosive device suspect: "…didn't mean to scare anybody and I'm sorry."