#! by NICK MONTFORT (2)

EILEEN TABIOS Engages

#! by Nick Montfort

(Counterpath, Denver, 2014)

The poems in Nick Montort’s #! (apparently pronounced as “shebang”—how cool is that!) are, to quote the poet, “of computer programs followed by output from running these programs. Some of them use randomness (strictly speaking, pseudorandomness) and in one case a program’s output depends on the current time. In these cases, running the program yourself will very likely produce different results. The programs are in Python (Guido van Rossum, 1991), Ruby (Yukihiro Matsumoto, 1995), and Perl (Larry Wall, 1987).”

First, one must praise the design of the book (no book designer is identified but, nonetheless, kudos to that Anonymous).  The programs are presented on black pages.  The poems are presented (as usual) as black text against white pages.  It’s effective in delineation and exemplifies an inviting format.

Nonetheless, how does one “review” such a project?  As it turns out, easier than I anticipated.  An ease facilitated by the poet’s underlying wit. Montfort’s wit, indeed, is a strong undergirding for the project.  For example, here is the poem “I AM THAT I AM” (Click on all images to enlarge):

I assume that the result presents all possible permutations of the order of the five vowels a, e, i, o, u.  The combination with title that presents a narrative context and the manifested permutations serves to present an effective koan.  And it is also a visual koan in that the result is presented into a rectangular block (rather than, say, a list); such evokes a body (and not just a thought), which is certainly relevant to the am-ness of an “I.”

The wit, as you can see, is often manifested in the titling of the poems (and I wish there was more information about how the poems came to be titled).  In addition to “I AM THAT I AM,” there is also the poem “All the names of God.”  Here’s the beginning page featuring this poem before it goes on in similar vein for another 12 pages in the book:

But though the poem required 13 pages to present, the poem is not presented in its entirety; it ends with an ellipsis to hearken continuation.  I confess I would not have appreciated (as much) “All the names of God” were it not for Craig Dworkin’s very useful Foreword.  He wrote, in part,

“From a new twist on nature poetry to austerely patterned visual poetry to a hilarious riff on conceptual writing (Claude Closky’s First Thousand Numbers Classified in Alphabetical Order remediated for Roman numerals), Nick Montfort’s #! leverages elegantly minimal code into expansive literary creations. With rules and constrains informed by the OuLiPo, #! presents the linguistic potential and its literary permutations enface, but this instant classic of creative computing sets itself apart from most soi-distant “digital poetry” by the degree to which it implicitly interrogates the processor capabilities, memory limits, and computational specifics of the machines required to move from its abstract engines to their particular outputs.

Moreover, Montfort folds these technical contingencies back into the thematics of his poems with brilliant wit. In the environment of the console, for example, “All the Names of God” will crash long before completing its task—with unavoidable theological implications.”

“RUBY YACHT,” on the other hand, seems to be an occasional poem—a poem created for some collection entitled “The Ill-Tempered Rubyist.”  No need to comprehend the references here.  Go directly to the poem which begins

amid the care

and lose your air

better be wing

another there

a distant care

a loaf of ne’er

by logic dust

and by the dare

a ruby there

an empty air

blaspheme the cup

and out of hair

and you see a poem that’s an effective sound poem, albeit with pleasing notes of sentimentality and nostalgia.

In the Acknowledgments, Montfort explains that for some of the programs, "a program’s output depends on the current time. In these cases, running the program yourself will very likely produce different results.”  As a result, I sought to further engage with this project in a different way than the more typical review.  The poem “THROUGH THE PARK” initially grabbed me more than any of the other poems because the computer program information presented the 25 lines which were to be the raw material for a generated poem.  When you consider the title and the various lines, one can see a narrative clarity as to how the various lines connect to the theme as presented in the title.  Some lines, for example, are

The girl sets off through the park.

A wolf whistle sounds.

The muscular man paces the girl.

Chatter and compliments cajole

and one can easily imagine such described events to be what happens when a girl strolls through a park. The program just did various rearrangements of its raw material of 25 lines to create a poem.  Thus, the first two of the eight sections are

[1]

The girl grins and grabs a granola bar…. The girl puts on a slutty dress…. The girl turns to smile and wink…. The man makes a fist behind his back…. A snatch of song reminds the girl of her grandmother…. Laughter booms…. The man’s breathing quickens…. Pigeons scatter…. The girl runs…. Things are forgotten in carelessness…. The girl’s bag lies open.

[2]

The girl grins and grabs a granola bar…. The girl turns to smile and wink…. A giggle weaves through the air…. The man’s breathing quickens…. Pigeons scatter…. The man’s there first…. Things are forgotten in carelessness…. The park’s green is gray…. A patrol car’s siren chirps.

By coincidence or synchronicity, what I read as the approach in “THROUGH THE PARK” is similar to one of my ongoing projects and a manuscript-in-progress AMNESIA: Somebody’s Memoir.  AMNESIA is a book generated by my “MURDER, DEATH AND RESURRECTION” project which is comprised of 1,146 lines; its claim is that any combination of these lines, beginning with couplets to a poem with the maximum 1,146 lines, is an effective poem.

For Montfort’s “THROUGH THE PARK,” I could conceive any combination of its 25 lines to work in creating an effective poem.  But that’s because the narrative in all 25 lines discernibly can be related to the poem’s idea of “through the park.” (Ironically, I would consider the overt narratives’ links to the theme to be its weakness.  The challenge of randomness as applies to the 25 lines would seem to be bigger—if not more interesting—if some of the lines didn’t actually relate (from an overt narrative standpoint) to the topic as identified in the title.  Nonetheless, the poem is effective for the basis it presents.)

Because of the approach of “THROUGH THE PARK”, I thought to go my AMNESIA manuscript to see if there happens to be a poem with 25 lines.  If such existed, I thought to recombine those lines in the same way as was combined by Montfort’s poem.  As it turned out, I found such a 25-line poem, my “I Forgot the Language of Scars.”

So, first, I decoded Montfort’s poem by numbering the raw material of 25 lines, and then determining the order for each of the poem’s eight sections.  The resulting constraint looks like this:

I taped the page against the lamp post next to my desk, like so:

At this point, I should note that I am chortling to myself, loving the comparison of my handwritten make-shift code on scratch paper with the more impressive-looking code created by Montfort: 

Anyway, I re-ordered my poem along the order of Montfort’s poem and the result is this new poem I would title “THROUGH THE LANGUAGE OF SCARS.” The title obviously heakens—and pays homage to—Montfort’s poem.

My original poem had utilized the format of each line being its own stanza.  Thus, my “THROUGH THE LANGUAGE OF SCARS” is as follows below.  But what I also noticed in Montfort’s poem is its use of the prose poem paragraph and the ellipsis to divide between phrases (see above excerpt).  Thus, I decided to see what happens if I reconfigured my poem from single-line stanzas to the prose poem format (a format which I happen to love). 

I ended up preferring the prose poem format to the single-line stanzas.  I preferred the prose poem because, among other things, (1) I thought the elongated spacing of the single-line stanza format slowed down the read of the poem to a pace I’d rather was more quick, and (2) visually, I found the compressed prose poem paragraph more immediate in grabbing my attention as reader. You, dear Reader, can decide for yourself which format you prefer as I present both versions below.  What I can also share is that going through this process made me reconsider the entirety of the AMNESIA manuscript—specifically, how not all of its poems may best be suited by the single-line stanza format.  For this result, I deeply thank Nick Montfort.

Among the many good reasons for a poem is to spur engaged, creative thought.  By that high standard, #! deserves mucho shebangs!  But what's going on here, of course, is more than linguistic creativity.  That Montfort can create a poem the way he does, and that I can create the poems below as I do, interrogate the very soul of language: What Who is meaning?

**********

THROUGH THE LANGUAGE OF SCARS

—for Nick Montfort who generated the root inspiration, “THROUGH THE PARK”

[1]

I forgot releasing breath to describe milk transformed by your scent.

I forgot the taste of your mouth was song of licorice.

I forgot part of mortality’s significance is that wars end.

I forgot the damp eyes were mine.

I forgot the tea leaves I brought back from a tiny stall in Kathmandu.

I forgot the starving Arab boy who wove a rug now hanging above the Spanish Queen’s bed.

I forgot popcorn spilt on the floor of a darkened movie theater—when butter gleamed, the dispensable became nuggets of gold.

I forgot lurking forever in a red telephone booth to look up at rain and your window.

I forgot my son flinging his leather jacket over a puddle intersecting with my path across Bluemner Street.

I forgot my sympathy for tender hours.

I forgot losing the language of scars—we shook lanterns to bestow frankincense and myrrh.

[2]

I forgot releasing breath to describe milk transformed by your scent.

I forgot part of mortality’s significance is that wars end.

I forgot that, sometimes, the world should be veiled.

I forgot popcorn spilt on the floor of a darkened movie theater—when butter gleamed, the dispensable became nuggets of gold.

I forgot lurking forever in a red telephone booth to look up at rain and your window.

I forgot the neighbor hiding behind a curtain as he wrote a haiku about a thief tangoing with his shadow when the moon appeared.

I forgot my sympathy for tender hours.

I forgot the Jessamine wafting over the paddock.

I forgot the joy of eliding the vocabulary found in margins.

[3]

I forgot to be human is to be forgiven.

I forgot the pillow still shielding a stray tooth because someone believed in a fairy tale.

I forgot the damp eyes were mine.

I forgot the charm bracelet that required only one charm.

I forgot the boy grinning as he folded silver foil into an eagle.

I forgot the neighbor hiding behind a curtain as he wrote a haiku about a thief tangoing with his shadow when the moon appeared.

I forgot my sympathy for tender hours.

I forgot losing the language of scars—we shook lanterns to bestow frankincense and myrrh.

I forgot the Jessamine wafting over the paddock.

[4]

I forgot the charm bracelet that required only one charm.

I forgot the boy grinning as he folded silver foil into an eagle.

I forgot popcorn spilt on the floor of a darkened movie theater—when butter gleamed, the dispensable became nuggets of gold.

I forgot dew lingering on a carnation corsage left on a bench.

I forgot the “Ideal Violet” whose petals blush during the lemonade days of summer.

I forgot lurking forever in a red telephone booth to look up at rain and your window.

I forgot my son flinging his leather jacket over a puddle intersecting with my path across Bluemner Street.

I forgot losing the language of scars—we shook lanterns to bestow frankincense and myrrh.

I forgot the Jessamine wafting over the paddock.

[5]

I forgot releasing breath to describe milk transformed by your scent.

I forgot the taste of your mouth was song of licorice.

I forgot to be human is to be forgiven.

I forgot part of mortality’s significance is that wars end.

I forgot that if you call an island “Isla Mujeres,” half of the population will be anguished.

I forgot the damp eyes were mine.

I forgot the tea leaves I brought back from a tiny stall in Kathmandu.

I forgot saying things I’d never said before.

I forgot the starving Arab boy who wove a rug now hanging above the Spanish Queen’s bed.

I forgot popcorn spilt on the floor of a darkened movie theater—when butter gleamed, the dispensable became nuggets of gold.

[6]

I forgot a snowfall of daisies whose mottles under moonlight twinkled like a saddhu’s eyes.

I forgot to be human is to be forgiven.

I forgot part of mortality’s significance is that wars end.

I forgot the pillow still shielding a stray tooth because someone believed in a fairy tale.

I forgot the charm bracelet that required only one charm.

I forgot saying things I’d never said before.

I forgot the starving Arab boy who wove a rug now hanging above the Spanish Queen’s bed.

I forgot that, sometimes, the world should be veiled.

I forgot the “Ideal Violet” whose petals blush during the lemonade days of summer.

I forgot lurking forever in a red telephone booth to look up at rain and your window.

I forgot my sympathy for tender hours.

[7]

I forgot the taste of your mouth was song of licorice.

I forgot to be human is to be forgiven.

I forgot the pillow still shielding a stray tooth because someone believed in a fairy tale.

I forgot that if you call an island “Isla Mujeres,” half of the population will be anguished.

I forgot the tea leaves I brought back from a tiny stall in Kathmandu.

I forgot the starving Arab boy who wove a rug now hanging above the Spanish Queen’s bed.

I forgot the “Ideal Violet” whose petals blush during the lemonade days of summer.

I forgot the neighbor hiding behind a curtain as he wrote a haiku about a thief tangoing with his shadow when the moon appeared.

I forgot my sympathy for tender hours.

I forgot you spilling vermouth on the sky.

[8]

I forgot the taste of your mouth was song of licorice.

I forgot the charm bracelet that required only one charm.

I forgot the tea leaves I brought back from a tiny stall in Kathmandu.

I forgot saying things I’d never said before.

I forgot that, sometimes, the world should be veiled.

I forgot popcorn spilt on the floor of a darkened movie theater—when butter gleamed, the dispensable became nuggets of gold.

I forgot my son flinging his leather jacket over a puddle intersecting with my path across Bluemner Street.

I forgot my sympathy for tender hours.

**********

Here is the prose poem version, which I prefer: 

THROUGH THE LANGUAGE OF SCARS

—for Nick Montfort who generated the root inspiration, “THROUGH THE PARK”

[1]

I forgot releasing breath to describe milk transformed by your scent…. I forgot the taste of your mouth was song of licorice…. I forgot part of mortality’s significance is that wars end…. I forgot the damp eyes were mine…. I forgot the tea leaves I brought back from a tiny stall in Kathmandu…. I forgot the starving Arab boy who wove a rug now hanging above the Spanish Queen’s bed…. I forgot popcorn spilt on the floor of a darkened movie theater—when butter gleamed, the dispensable became nuggets of gold…. I forgot lurking forever in a red telephone booth to look up at rain and your window…. I forgot my son flinging his leather jacket over a puddle intersecting with my path across Bluemner Street…. I forgot my sympathy for tender hours…. I forgot losing the language of scars—we shook lanterns to bestow frankincense and myrrh.

[2]

I forgot releasing breath to describe milk transformed by your scent…. I forgot part of mortality’s significance is that wars end…. I forgot that, sometimes, the world should be veiled…. I forgot popcorn spilt on the floor of a darkened movie theater—when butter gleamed, the dispensable became nuggets of gold…. I forgot lurking forever in a red telephone booth to look up at rain and your window…. I forgot the neighbor hiding behind a curtain as he wrote a haiku about a thief tangoing with his shadow when the moon appeared…. I forgot my sympathy for tender hours…. I forgot the Jessamine wafting over the paddock…. I forgot the joy of eliding the vocabulary found in margins.

[3]

I forgot to be human is to be forgiven…. I forgot the pillow still shielding a stray tooth because someone believed in a fairy tale…. I forgot the damp eyes were mine…. I forgot the charm bracelet that required only one charm…. I forgot the boy grinning as he folded silver foil into an eagle…. I forgot the neighbor hiding behind a curtain as he wrote a haiku about a thief tangoing with his shadow when the moon appeared…. I forgot my sympathy for tender hours…. I forgot losing the language of scars—we shook lanterns to bestow frankincense and myrrh…. I forgot the Jessamine wafting over the paddock.

[4]

I forgot the charm bracelet that required only one charm…. I forgot the boy grinning as he folded silver foil into an eagle…. I forgot popcorn spilt on the floor of a darkened movie theater—when butter gleamed, the dispensable became nuggets of gold…. I forgot dew lingering on a carnation corsage left on a bench…. I forgot the “Ideal Violet” whose petals blush during the lemonade days of summer…. I forgot lurking forever in a red telephone booth to look up at rain and your window…. I forgot my son flinging his leather jacket over a puddle intersecting with my path across Bluemner Street…. I forgot losing the language of scars—we shook lanterns to bestow frankincense and myrrh…. I forgot the Jessamine wafting over the paddock.

[5]

I forgot releasing breath to describe milk transformed by your scent…. I forgot the taste of your mouth was song of licorice…. I forgot to be human is to be forgiven…. I forgot part of mortality’s significance is that wars end…. I forgot that if you call an island “Isla Mujeres,” half of the population will be anguished…. I forgot the damp eyes were mine…. I forgot the tea leaves I brought back from a tiny stall in Kathmandu…. I forgot saying things I’d never said before…. I forgot the starving Arab boy who wove a rug now hanging above the Spanish Queen’s bed…. I forgot popcorn spilt on the floor of a darkened movie theater—when butter gleamed, the dispensable became nuggets of gold.

[6]

I forgot a snowfall of daisies whose mottles under moonlight twinkled like a saddhu’s eyes…. I forgot to be human is to be forgiven…. I forgot part of mortality’s significance is that wars end…. I forgot the pillow still shielding a stray tooth because someone believed in a fairy tale…. I forgot the charm bracelet that required only one charm…. I forgot saying things I’d never said before…. I forgot the starving Arab boy who wove a rug now hanging above the Spanish Queen’s bed…. I forgot that, sometimes, the world should be veiled…. I forgot the “Ideal Violet” whose petals blush during the lemonade days of summer…. I forgot lurking forever in a red telephone booth to look up at rain and your window…. I forgot my sympathy for tender hours.

[7]

I forgot the taste of your mouth was song of licorice…. I forgot to be human is to be forgiven…. I forgot the pillow still shielding a stray tooth because someone believed in a fairy tale…. I forgot that if you call an island “Isla Mujeres,” half of the population will be anguished…. I forgot the tea leaves I brought back from a tiny stall in Kathmandu…. I forgot the starving Arab boy who wove a rug now hanging above the Spanish Queen’s bed…. I forgot the “Ideal Violet” whose petals blush during the lemonade days of summer…. I forgot the neighbor hiding behind a curtain as he wrote a haiku about a thief tangoing with his shadow when the moon appeared…. I forgot my sympathy for tender hours…. I forgot you spilling vermouth on the sky.

[8]

I forgot the taste of your mouth was song of licorice…. I forgot the charm bracelet that required only one charm…. I forgot the tea leaves I brought back from a tiny stall in Kathmandu…. I forgot saying things I’d never said before…. I forgot that, sometimes, the world should be veiled…. I forgot popcorn spilt on the floor of a darkened movie theater—when butter gleamed, the dispensable became nuggets of gold…. I forgot my son flinging his leather jacket over a puddle intersecting with my path across Bluemner Street…. I forgot my sympathy for tender hours.

*****

Eileen Tabios reveals something about herself in ARDUITY'S interview about what's hard about her poetry.  Her just-released poetry collection, SUN STIGMATA (Sculpture Poems), received a review by Amazon Hall of Famer reviewer Grady Harp.  Due out in 2015 will be her second "Collected Poems" project; while her first THE THORN ROSARY was focused on the prose poem form, her forthcoming INVEN(S)TORY will focus on the list or catalog poem form.  More information at http://eileenrtabios.com