A Plea of “No Contest”: Introduction to Small Poems
My political—or civic-minded—street creds date back further than most, as any who have read my Requiem (or even earlier, select poems that were later included in Embodiment and Release) will recognize.
In my time, there was no place for the publishing of politically oriented poetry—nor for any poetry of serious mien whatsoever, as far as I could tell, but that was a different story—except here and there in journals of one slant or another which published doggerel meant to bolster causes espoused editorially. The nearest example, to what I would have written, would be the “Deadline Poet” offerings by Calvin Trillin printed weekly in The Nation; but then again, the focal point of his poems always seemed to evade the tough issues at the crux of things. Punches were invariably pulled, or, when they connected, had merely aimed at trivialities to begin with.
Seeing no place to publish, I took to foisting little missives here and there online pseudonymously, mostly in the comment section of various blogs dealing with some hot topic of the moment. Only later—with the adjurations of some of the hosts of targeted blogs, indeed—did I realize that such “drive-by” postings were a breach of internet etiquette, even of good manners I would say. In some cases the poems were welcome, but in others resented, if not misconstrued, unnoticed or ignored. In one case, my comment was deleted with the angry suggestion to start my own blog (which I later did, but that is another story).
The poems were not meant to be moderate, or temperate. They functioned more as a “vent” than as any kind of “agent for change”. But that, I have come to realize, is the status to which all poetry happens to get relegated in a society such as ours. Regardless, they have framed a window on certain events and happenings of their time, and as such, however wrongly received (or not), however mistaken in their intentions, they seemed worth fixing in form, for the good of posterity, or at least, to satisfy the curiosity of any such fans as my other poetry—poetry of “serious mien” as it may be—happened to garner.
The name for my alias was I.M. Small (or, variously, Ira or Irascible M. Small—in one case, even I.Q. Small), a phrase which, when googled, generates more hits for penis size than for political activism, but such lie the desserts for a nom-de-plume so obviously unoriginal.
Towards the end of my heavy spurt of I.M. Small outpourings, in 2007, I compiled what verses I had into a photocopied typescript, and mailed it out to selected recipients—not really sure with what aim in mind, other than providing vent to sentiments and ideas that otherwise had suffered the ubiquitous (moreover banal) neglect of the marketplace. The title I chose for that work, was “Not in My Name,” a popular cry of protest against the war in Iraq, though—those of us living shall recall—the war only became unpopular when it began to become clear that putative military and political objectives were failing to be met.
Subsequent to 2007, “I.M. Small” has, occasionally, sent out a poem—usually a piece of fleeting ephemera—in response to some hot topic of the day; however, true to my original intention, I have neglected to include those in this present publication (in such cases when I can even track what they are), with the exception, as an appendix, of the poem I did for Pvt. Bradley Manning, now under detention for allegedly treasonous acts. The poem—wrongly, as a commenter corrected me—presumes his guilt, which has by no means been ascertained by military or other tribunal. It is, however, for such actions that the young man is widely admired at home and worldwide—regardless the price he may have to pay for his intemperate actions, if he did them.
Lastly, a note: I searched hard for an adjective to modify the phrase “street creds” with which I began this essay. Of my efforts in other venues I have written elsewhere. Creds in “civic-mindedness” were the best I could come up with; for they were not, not exactly, in protest, and most certainly not “revolutionary”, except in the sense, Wildean as it may be, that the attempt to spur any original thought may be considered revolutionary.
My political slant, as with most, is a hodgepodge of contrary impulses, if not to say contrarian, which it is too at times, as these poems firmly evidence. A poet has such luxury, especially one willing to bear the hardships and vicissitudes of toiling in obscurity.
A popular movement of today, “#Occupy Wall Street,” styles itself “We are the 99%” as against the overriding 1% of the nation’s wealthiest, the oligarchic class. While sympathetic to their movement—which I got to witness firsthand on a visit to New York, though it has subsequently spread nationwide and even worldwide—I realized (or I should say, the point was driven home forcefully), that the revelers, or any such boisterous movement en masse, will likely never find a place for such unprepossessing poetic voices as my own.
Contrary to what a popular New York institution espouses, poetry “finds a place” only within the isolated, or sporadically interspersed specimen of, the individual human heart.
Nothing could be more radical.
As such, I invite their audience to enjoy them, but not to let themselves be incited to anger (either for a cause or against it) by these poems. They are relics of a time when passions ran high, though embroiled within a neglectful malaise, which only aggravated the intensity of passion.
Their value to a future age is doubtful; but the struggles of the age they represent everlasting. If but for the appeasement of a cursory curiosity, let them “go forth into the world” as fixed in the form of their birth. Though sired under the auspices of I.M. Small, yet these poems bear their telltale resemblances, and I do not deny their paternity.
DXN
2 November 2011
In my time, there was no place for the publishing of politically oriented poetry—nor for any poetry of serious mien whatsoever, as far as I could tell, but that was a different story—except here and there in journals of one slant or another which published doggerel meant to bolster causes espoused editorially. The nearest example, to what I would have written, would be the “Deadline Poet” offerings by Calvin Trillin printed weekly in The Nation; but then again, the focal point of his poems always seemed to evade the tough issues at the crux of things. Punches were invariably pulled, or, when they connected, had merely aimed at trivialities to begin with.
Seeing no place to publish, I took to foisting little missives here and there online pseudonymously, mostly in the comment section of various blogs dealing with some hot topic of the moment. Only later—with the adjurations of some of the hosts of targeted blogs, indeed—did I realize that such “drive-by” postings were a breach of internet etiquette, even of good manners I would say. In some cases the poems were welcome, but in others resented, if not misconstrued, unnoticed or ignored. In one case, my comment was deleted with the angry suggestion to start my own blog (which I later did, but that is another story).
The poems were not meant to be moderate, or temperate. They functioned more as a “vent” than as any kind of “agent for change”. But that, I have come to realize, is the status to which all poetry happens to get relegated in a society such as ours. Regardless, they have framed a window on certain events and happenings of their time, and as such, however wrongly received (or not), however mistaken in their intentions, they seemed worth fixing in form, for the good of posterity, or at least, to satisfy the curiosity of any such fans as my other poetry—poetry of “serious mien” as it may be—happened to garner.
The name for my alias was I.M. Small (or, variously, Ira or Irascible M. Small—in one case, even I.Q. Small), a phrase which, when googled, generates more hits for penis size than for political activism, but such lie the desserts for a nom-de-plume so obviously unoriginal.
Towards the end of my heavy spurt of I.M. Small outpourings, in 2007, I compiled what verses I had into a photocopied typescript, and mailed it out to selected recipients—not really sure with what aim in mind, other than providing vent to sentiments and ideas that otherwise had suffered the ubiquitous (moreover banal) neglect of the marketplace. The title I chose for that work, was “Not in My Name,” a popular cry of protest against the war in Iraq, though—those of us living shall recall—the war only became unpopular when it began to become clear that putative military and political objectives were failing to be met.
Subsequent to 2007, “I.M. Small” has, occasionally, sent out a poem—usually a piece of fleeting ephemera—in response to some hot topic of the day; however, true to my original intention, I have neglected to include those in this present publication (in such cases when I can even track what they are), with the exception, as an appendix, of the poem I did for Pvt. Bradley Manning, now under detention for allegedly treasonous acts. The poem—wrongly, as a commenter corrected me—presumes his guilt, which has by no means been ascertained by military or other tribunal. It is, however, for such actions that the young man is widely admired at home and worldwide—regardless the price he may have to pay for his intemperate actions, if he did them.
Lastly, a note: I searched hard for an adjective to modify the phrase “street creds” with which I began this essay. Of my efforts in other venues I have written elsewhere. Creds in “civic-mindedness” were the best I could come up with; for they were not, not exactly, in protest, and most certainly not “revolutionary”, except in the sense, Wildean as it may be, that the attempt to spur any original thought may be considered revolutionary.
My political slant, as with most, is a hodgepodge of contrary impulses, if not to say contrarian, which it is too at times, as these poems firmly evidence. A poet has such luxury, especially one willing to bear the hardships and vicissitudes of toiling in obscurity.
A popular movement of today, “#Occupy Wall Street,” styles itself “We are the 99%” as against the overriding 1% of the nation’s wealthiest, the oligarchic class. While sympathetic to their movement—which I got to witness firsthand on a visit to New York, though it has subsequently spread nationwide and even worldwide—I realized (or I should say, the point was driven home forcefully), that the revelers, or any such boisterous movement en masse, will likely never find a place for such unprepossessing poetic voices as my own.
Contrary to what a popular New York institution espouses, poetry “finds a place” only within the isolated, or sporadically interspersed specimen of, the individual human heart.
Nothing could be more radical.
As such, I invite their audience to enjoy them, but not to let themselves be incited to anger (either for a cause or against it) by these poems. They are relics of a time when passions ran high, though embroiled within a neglectful malaise, which only aggravated the intensity of passion.
Their value to a future age is doubtful; but the struggles of the age they represent everlasting. If but for the appeasement of a cursory curiosity, let them “go forth into the world” as fixed in the form of their birth. Though sired under the auspices of I.M. Small, yet these poems bear their telltale resemblances, and I do not deny their paternity.
DXN
2 November 2011