You must decide if bird cries are cries of ecstasy or cries of despair, by which you will know if you are a tragic or a lyric poet. -Lawrence FerlinghettiOne of the distinctions that I sometimes hear people making is “regular” Sf and “literary” SF, usually with some baggage about the literary SF being art. I say, if you’re making something you don’t really interact with for food, shelter, or clothing (and even then, in some cases), you are probably making art.
Word-wrangling is art, no matter whether it is used for the lowest purposes or the most exalted, and the artist who relaxes and enjoys it learns to use artful techniques for the entertainment or edification of her/his readers. And they may, in that process, create something lasting.
At the same time, a dose of art in whatever form — visual, music, verbal — can shake things loose in our heads to the point where better and more interesting words fall out. This is why you should read books like Poetry as Insurgent Art.
Here’s Ferlinghetti himself on the notion of rejecting poetry, aka all that artsy stuff.
Don’t let them tell you poetry is bullshit.
Don’t let them tell you poetry is for the birds.
Have a good laugh at those who tell you poets are misfits or potential terrorists and a danger to the state.
Don’t let them tell you poetry is a neurosis that some people never outgrow.
Laugh at those who tell you poetry is all written by the Holy Ghost and you’re just a ghost-writer.
Don’t ever believe poetry is irrelevant in dark times.
If you’ve ever been inside Ciy Lights Bookstore in San Francisco, you’ve walked the same floorboards as Ferlinghetti, who co-founded the store with Peter Martin in 1953. He and Shig Murao, the manager, were arrested in 1956 on obscenity charges for selling copies of Allan Ginsberg’s Howl.
Why should you read this? I tell you what. I’ll let Ferlinghetti speak for himself by quoting the beginning of Poetry as Insurgent Art.
I am signaling you through the flames.
The North Pole is not where it used to be.
Manifest Destiny is no longer manifest.
Civilization self-destructs.
Nemesis is knocking at the door.
What are poets for, in such an age? What is the use of poetry?
The state of the world calls out for poetry to save it. (A voice in the wilderness!)
If you would be a poet, create works capable of answering the challenge of apocalyptic times, even if this means sounding apocalyptic.
You are Whitman, you are Poe, you are Mark Twain, you are Emily Dickinson and Edna St. Vincent Millay, you are Neruda and Mayakovsky and Pasolini, you are an American or a non-American, you can conquer the conquerers with words.
If you would be a poet, write living newspapers. Be a reporter from outer space, filing dispatches to some supreme managing editor who believes in full disclosure and has a low tolerance for bullshit.
Ferlinghetti should be read as a subversive act:
The idea of poetry as an arm of class war disturbs the sleep of those who do not wish to be disturbed in the pursuit of happiness.
The poet by definition is the bearer of Eros and love and freedom and thus the natural-born non-violent enemy of any police state.
Read this for the sake of poetry, “the last lighthouse in rising seas.”
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"(On the writing F&SF workshop) Wanted to crow and say thanks: the first story I wrote after taking your class was my very first sale. Coincidence? nah….thanks so much."
~K. Richardson
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Raven
Raven, Emerging from a BoxAn early short story that originally appeared in Cat Tales in 2005.)
Ever since my husband installed a Vocobox â„¢ in our cat in a failed experiment, he (the cat, not my husband) stands outside the closed bedroom door in the mornings, calling. The intelligence update was partially successful, but the only word the cat has learned is its own name, Raven, which he uses to convey everything. I hear him when I wake up, the sound muted by the wooden door between us.
“Raven. Raven. Raven.”
Beside me, Lloyd murmurs something and turns over, tugging the sheet away, the cold whispering me further awake. When I go out to feed the cat, his voice lowers as he twines around my ankles, words lapsing into purrs. He butts against my legs with an insistent anxiousness, waiting for the dish to be filled. “Raven. Raven.” Kibble poured, I move to make our own breakfast, turning on the coffee maker and listening to its preparatory burble.
“I don’t know what I expected,” my husband mutters as he drinks his coffee in hasty gulps. “That cat was never very smart for a cat.” He glares at Raven as though blaming him for the failures of the world at large. The Vocobox is his own invention; his company hopes to market it this fall, and a promotion may hinge upon it. The last laurels my husband won are wearing thin; if the Vocobox is a success, he’ll be able to rest a while longer..
But when he first proposed installing it in the cat, he didn’t say it was still experimental. “The kids are gone, and you need some company,” he’d said. “The cat loves you best anyhow; now you can talk to him, and he’ll talk back.” He gave me a slight smirk and an eyebrow curve that implied that without him I’d be a dotty old cat lady, living in a studio apartment that smelled of pee and old newspapers.
“I’ll be late again tonight,” he tells me now. “And when I’m concentrating, I’ve found leaving my cell off helps. If you need something, just leave a message. Or call the service, that’s what we pay them for.” He’s out the front door before I can reply.
Every morning seems the same nowadays. My husband’s heels, exiting. The immaculate lawn outside. On Thursdays, the housekeeping service remotely activates the grass cutting robot. I see it out there, sweeping through the fresh spring grass that never grows high enough to hide it. A plastic sheep, six inches tall, sits atop its round metal case, someone’s idea of creative marketing. But the robot is done within the hour and then things are the same again. Back in the box.
I go into the living room, activate the wall viewer, and lose myself in reality television, where everyone has eventful lives. Soon Raven curls up on my lap. “Raven,” he murmurs, and begins to purr.
The mouths of the people on the screen move, but the words that come out are meaningless, so I hit the mute button. Now the figures collide and dance on the screen; every life is more interesting than my own.
At noon, I push the cat off my lap and have a sandwich; at dinner time a hot meal appears in the oven. I take it out myself, pour a glass of Chardonnay, take the bottle to the table with me. When did I become this boring person? At college, I studied music, was going to sing opera. I sang in a few productions, fell in love, became a trophy wife, and produced two perfect trophy children who are out there now, perpetuating the cycle. All those voice lessons wasted.
On the EBay channel that night I look for a hobby. There’s knitting, gardening, glass-blowing, quilling”¦ too many to choose from. I remember quilling from my daughter’s Bluebird days. We curled bits of paper, glued them down in decorative patterns on tiny wooden boxes. What was the point? I drink a little more wine before I go to sleep.
When he comes to bed, my husband snuggles up, strokes my arm. He murmurs something inaudible, the tone conveying affection. This only happens when he feels guilty. From the recently showered smell of him, I know what he feels guilty about. This must be an assistant I haven’t met yet.
When I don’t speak, he says “What’s the matter, cat got your voice box?” He chortles to himself at his clever joke before he lapses into sleep, not pursuing my silence. Out in the living room, I hear the cat wandering. “Raven.”
“You’re like a cliché,” my husband says at breakfast. “Desperate housewife. Can’t you find something to do?”
The cat’s attention swivels between us, his green eyes wide and pellucid with curiosity. “Raven?” he says in an interrogative tone.
I watch my husband’s heels, the door closing behind them, the deliberately good-humored but loud click, once again.
“Raven,” the cat says as it looks up at me, its voice shaded with defiance.
“Dora,” I say to the cat. I’m tired and sore as though I’d been beaten. The room wavers with warmth and weariness.
“Raven.”
“Dora.”
“Raven.”
“Dora.”
I can’t help but laugh as he watches my face, but he is not amused as I am; his tail lashes from side to side although every other inch of him is still.
Online, I look at the ads. Nannies, housekeepers, maids…I am a cliché. I embrace my inanity. Desperate housewife indeed, being cheated on by an aging husband who isn’t even clever enough to conceal it. This is my reality. But if I explain it, I start the avalanche down into divorce. I’ll end up living in a box on the street, while my husband will remarry, keep living in this expensive, well-tended compound. I’ve seen it happen to other women.
“Raven,” the cat says with tender grace, interposing himself in front of the monitor. Facing me, he puts his forehead against the top of my chest, pressing firmly. “Raven,” he whispers.
Sunday, while my husband’s out playing golf, the phone keeps ringing. “Caller’s name undisclosed,” the display says. And when I pick it up, there is only silence on the other end. The third time I say “He’s out playing golf and has his cell phone turned off, because it distracts him. Call back this evening.” and hang up.
He scuttles out in the evening after another of the calls, saying he needs to go into work, oversee a test run. Later that night, he curls against me, smelling of fresh soap. Outside the door, Raven is calling.
“Another cat would take the implant better,” my husband says. “I’ll get a kitten and we’ll try that.”
“No,” I tell him. “He’s too old to get used to a new kitten in the house. It will just upset him.”
“I’m trying to do something nice for you.”
“Buy the other woman a kitten,” I say, even as dire predictions scream through my mind, commanding me to silence. “Buy her dozens. I’m sticking with this one.”
He rolls over, stunned and quiet. For the rest of the night, I lie there. Outside, the night continues, limitless. I pass the time imagining what I will do. Nannying is, I hear, pleasant work. I’ll sing the babies lullabies.
He’s silent in the morning as well. In the light of day as we sit facing each other across the Formica table, I reach down to extend my hand to the cat, who arches his back and rubs against my fingertips.
“We need to talk,” Lloyd finally demands.
“Dora,” I say.
“What?”
“Dora. Dora, Dora.” I rise to my feet and stand glaring at him. If I had a tail, it would lash back and forth like an annoyed snake, but all my energy is focused on speaking to my husband.
“Is that supposed to be funny?”
“Dora. Dora. Dora.” I almost sob the words out, as emotions clutch at my throat with an insistent clutch, trying to mute me, but I force the words past the block, out into the open air. We stand like boxers, facing each other in the squareness of the ring.
Lloyd moves to the door, almost backing away. His eyes are fixed on my lips; every time I say my name,his expression flickers, as though the word has surprised him anew.
“We can talk about this later,” he says. The door closes behind him with a click of finality.
What can I do? I settle on the couch and the cat leaps up to claim my lap, butts his head against my chin. He lapses into loud purrs, so loud I can feel the vibration against my chest, quivering like unspoken words. He doesn’t say anything, but I know exactly what he means.
Final Version of the Near + Far Covers, plus a Sneak Peek at the Promo Items
Yay! Yesterday the publisher dropped by to bring me the proof version of Near + Far. It is GORGEOUS. Absolutely GORGEOUS, managing to look modern but still have a touch of that retro, Ace Double feel.
So here’s NEAR, with fabulous art by Sean Counley:
The Near side of Near + Far. That's fabulous art by Sean Counley, pulled from "The Mermaids Singing Each to Each". Cover design is by Tod McCoy.
And FAR, cover art by the same artist.
And here's the Far side, by the same artist, referencing the story "Amid the Words of War."
One of the things I’ve been doing in preparation for the launch party at WorldCon is making jewelry using the interior art by Mark Tripp. Here’s a little sample of that. If you’ve attending WorldCon and attend the party, you’ve got a decent chance of receiving one, but no matter what, stop by and you will get something. 😉
We've tried a couple of different approaches to this, using both the black and white images as well as versions printed on colored paper.
